It was raining hard, the sky dark and the air thick. No one was supposed to go out in such weather. It mattered little, to back away from their duty was a mark of cowardice, and they were anything but cowards.
It was with this in mind that they headed for the streets, chasing shadows.
….
….
….
"You shouldn't be here." He whispered, and his voice was just as dark as his gaze, but twice as intrusive.
"Neither should you, technically." Bracing herself, her fingers started to tap on the wooden table, finding a monotone rhythm to follow.
She told herself to breath- breath, just breath- because to show weakness in his presence was damn straight suicidal, and they couldn't afford waste-they were at conflict, weren't they? Soldiers and spies were valuable commodity those days. Carefully, she sipped her tea, but she was sure her movements were far too shaky.
He snored, a sound that caught her attention, but could have easily been lost in the dim created outside by the water –that fell, hit, split, and drove her mad incisively- and in many ways he was just like that sound. Easily lost in the background, but controlled, precise and full of intent.
Without meaning to, without any effort, she forgot that tempo of her tapping.
"You demacians care so much for technicalities." He took the seat beside her in a moment, his fully covered body - never not covered- real and still against her side. He was warm, and she was unable to understand why she'd noticed. It was wrong, wrong on so many levels, and she could have only tried then to guess how many rules she'd broken that night, how many mistakes she'd made by getting so close.
He was not to know of her mistakes, or she was doomed. Only fools botched, and those were always the first to go.
He despised fools.
"That is what makes you weaker." His words were a hiss, soft, drawled, and threatening. She only then realised he'd actually been expecting a response. Her lungs burned with the musk of rotten wood and cheap alcohol, her head hurt from the effort to keep herself together, and she scanned her surroundings with a trained eye. It was something useful to do while she made up her mind. More useful than remembering that rhythm. That was already lost.
Careful not to let her face betray anything she didn't want it to, she frowned.
It wasn't like a chat wouldn't hurt- it would, it certainly would- but maybe it wouldn't kill her.
One could only hope…
He wanted an answer, so she delivered, and held on to her pretence at confidence with claw-like nails. She was a bird of prey at all times, since even before she got her wings; but she was cornered, and she knew it. Running would have made her a deserter, and that she'd swore she'd never be.
Wearily, she commenced a dance with the devil.
"There is nothing weak about discipline." That she was certain. She thought she'd made a good point, but his ensuing rumble of agreement was nothing reassuring. Nothing ever was anymore, not there, not then, never with him.
"A convenient misconception to hide behind, I would say." He smirked, but the movement was so subtle she almost missed it. In the dimly lit room, it was hard to watch him as closely as he deserved- needed- to be watched if she wanted not to give herself away. How she hoped her guard was set high enough. His icy fingers wrapped around a glass filled with a brown, unclear liquid, which she did not notice before. She chimed herself for it. "Tell me, when this discipline is enforced, when power is worshipped on both sides, are we really that different? Are you any better than us?"
She paused, took a moment to think under the presumption of drinking more of her tea. It was bitter and cold, but she dared not cringe. Silently, she'd told herself she'd had worse. "Our goals and principles are fundamentally different. We are not bloodthirsty or unscrupulous. The demacian life style values justice and honour above all, not simply power." She murmured a text-book answer, an answer that was her only option. Not a smart enough one, nevertheless. You could never be too clever around someone like him.
He was sharper than a blade, more subtle than it. He was its shadow, after all. Talon, the Blade's Shadow, such a telling, fitting title.
His gloved hand moved, dexterously closing in around the thickness of her rigid wrist, and something cold ran over the length of an exposed palm. A dagger, of course... How had she been so unprepared for it? The woman reminded herself to breath, chanting orders and all sorts of recommended approach tactics inside her head.
Real battle would have been easier than this; she supposed that was why he wouldn't allow it.
"You are either delusional or a great hypocrite. I fail to determine which is worse." The assassin smirked this time, amused, and under the cheap light she was able to make out the shadows playing onto the hard planes of his face, a feat not much could have claimed to have achieved. It made sense, she supposed; those that stared death in the eye seldom retained the ability to move, let alone tell the story.
She wondered if she would be the case, too, but remembered herself before the thought could have destroyed her. She was Demacia's Wings, she was destined to soar, not plummet. He would not be the one to shot her down, she would not allow it.
"Perhaps I am neither." She countered, holding a tight grip on her maddening pulse.
He let go of his glass and the sleek metal of his blade was pressed flat against the stretched skin of her wrist. "Or perhaps you are both." He murmured, his voice holding something sinister in its essence. "Not that'll matter in the end." She flinched, and he smiled.
Carefully, his gaze dissected her much like she was sure his blades have done to countless others. "Heh, it seems even eagles are weak when bound." There was something akin to disapproval in his tone, and she blinked in surprise, for she had expected only disgust and smugness. A moment more he pressed the dagger into her skin, with only enough force to bruise, not to draw blood, and then he simply moved it away. She ventured not move for the short while it took him to do it, and refused to show any relief once it was done.
"Why are you here?" It was a trick question, of course, and she tried her best to disarm it; to disarm him. It was never that simple.
"That holds little relevance. My reasons are mine to know; last I checked, you had no real claim over Bilgewater." There was no need to clarify whom she'd referred to. He chuckled, and she tenses at hearing such a foreign sound leave his mouth. A second later any trace of mirth was lost from his expression, and she secretly wondered if he was putting on a little show for her, probing to see what worked better to distress her. He was not a merciful killer; she should know.
"You are surprisingly uncouth for someone that had been shown the extent of her vulnerabilities mere seconds ago." Nonchalantly, the noxian turned to face her fully. Quinn was almost tempted to take pride in the fact that she had managed to capture his interest enough for him to do so.
"Your actions are not all that upright tonight, from what I see." His voice was carefully monotone and disturbing. "You hide your face and the signs of your alliances, and then you follow me here, in the pits of the city's slums." With the utmost precision, his eyes cut her open- stared her down until she thought she must have been transparent. "What message does that sends?"
"That is of no consequence. I have offered myself into the service of my country." Gathering her courage, she hardened her gaze and lifted her chin. A few unruly strands of silky blue hair fell over her shoulders, as out-of-place against the dirty leather of her disguise as her bravery was in the eyes of the elite Noxian assassin. "I shall do all that is necessary to serve the greater good-" Suddenly and forcefully, the dagger she'd been made acquaintance with earlier was impaled into the table's bleached wood.
"Spare me your piety; it takes two to start a war." The man's eyes flickered dangerously her way.
"If your cause is so righteous and good, why do you hide, why do you spy and kill like I do? With what right do you proclaim we are nothing alike?" She saw the inflexibility and mad interest in his narrowed eyes -she didn't like it, not one bit- and in that very moment it became hard to breathe again.
"I…I am…"
She would never admit he was right, she couldn't. It looked like she was going to die for it.
Almost unable to contain her alarm, her eyes moved swiftly around, scanning all her possible escape routes. The tavern was eerily empty, and she knew in a heartbeat no help would come from inside the sad, noxian-occupied place. She clasped her right hand around her shaking left one and prayed Valor was ready to go after reinforces at the first sign of danger.
Talon's grin was predatory. "What's the matter, cat got your tongue?" It almost sounded like something told in jest, and it might have been, if he had been anyone but the man in front of her. The woman could only stare dumbly at him, a storm brewing inside her head. She had been so foolish.
She should have known this would go horribly, horribly bad; why hadn't she seen it coming? It was she, after all, who knew him better than any other Demacian; it was Quinn who had been assigned to this case, despise many voices that brought up her inexperience, her vulnerabilities.
No, it wasn't about that, her mistake hadn't been caused by her inexperience, something much more shameful have brought her where she was, in the company of one of few men skilled enough to disarm her and end her life.
It was simple, really. She'd been overconfident, prideful, not near careful enough. It wasn't her orders that failed her, but she who failed to follow them.
…because, while they haven't specifically warned her about the risks, she had known that she was never supposed to talk to him, and yet she did.
Her instructions had been simple, or as simple as they could ever be: follow, observe, report. Those were the technicalities of her missions, but they seemed useless suddenly. She understood it was too late for that. For her own sanity, the woman refused to attribute the feeling of powerlessness to the assassin's influence.
"Tell me, little bird, what did you think you'll accomplish, walking into the lion's den like this?" His breath fanned her cheek and his blades tickled her chin.
"I did not such thing. I know better." The demacian would have terribly liked that to be true, but she wasn't just in the lion's den, she was in its jaws.
In the name of all things righteous, she thought, why hadn't she run? Maybe she really was suicidal…
"You know better, you say? And still, here you are, between my body and my blades. I'll say we have a difference of opinion here." His hot breath grazed her face aggressively, suddenly; it was difficult for her to fully comprehend the position she'd gotten into.
The assassin chuckled sinisterly, mouth hovering over her ear. "Where's your amour now?"
She jerked away, overwhelmed by the closeness. She never expected to touch him in her life, not unless she was needed to carry his dead body away by her commander. 'Not like this, never like this.'-she chanted, but it was already happening.
"I left it home. I had no need of it." She closed her eyes, preparing for the worse, but she managed to stop her voice from quivering. Her stubborn nature screamed that she wasn't supposed to play along, to indulge his curiosity, how she should not respond to his inquiries so willingly. The woman ignored it. In the process of doing something she was bound to regret, Quinn paused only briefly to listen to reason. -'It seems we are breaking all rules tonight.' Her thoughts were too accurate for her own liking.
She needed out of there; out of his sight, out of his arms, out his reach. Ruthlessly, she aimed for his side without warning or restrain.
Her right elbow never actually made contact with anything of importance, and neither did her left fist, which was easily stopped by Talon's inhumanly quick reflexes. In a flash, she was pressed forcefully against the bar, the old wood digging painfully in her gut, just under her ribs.
If only she could have staggered him for a moment, she would have been able to run, she though bitterly. A moment of rest was all she'd have needed; not even Talon could have kept up with her speed: she was a scout by nature, not a shadow, like him, therefore unrestricted by a need to stay hidden. It was that mind-set that dragged her in her in troubles too many and too serious to ignore.
"You know, you've made a very stupid move just now; there's a reason you're an elite ranger of Demacia. You are hopelessly inefficient in close combat." The noxian's tone scolded her mockingly, tearing at her pride in the worst of ways.
He was close, too close. The man was killing her with proximity, how very poetic. Quietly, in utter sobriety, she cast her eyes down and turned her face away from his intimidating glower. "Let me go. I'll tell you nothing." Her valiant proclamation was worthless to him.
The assassin laughed darkly and firmly took a hold of her waist, crushing the stiff fabric of her shirt. "We'll see about that." He murmured pleasantly against her shoulder, his blade already slid comfortably under her cape; it managed to hide under the thick cloth, to rest against her racing pulse. It was only then that both champions finally realised Talon wasn't going to let her go. Not that night, not for far too long for her comfort.
He'd decided that from the moment he saw the shimmer in her golden eyes.
She hadn't thought of that, hadn't considered the possibility. The realisation was more than just alarming, just like his gaze was more than just wicked.
Well, I hope that wasn't too dull, I haven't played League of Legends in some time, but I always wanted to write something about Quinn, and this is the result. The reason I put Talon in this is because my brother loves this champion, and he fit the role of someone interesting for Quinn to interact with quite well. I haven't realised until after I started writing, but I think they could even make an interesting couple! Ha, that's not a bad idea. Anyway, thank you for reading, if you made it this far! :)