She can hear him laughing. That childish giggle which grates down her spine worse than the screech of tearing metal or nails on a chalkboard.
That, more than anything, is what inspires the Enforcer to leave off pummeling a purple-side Wraith and turn towards mid lane. Well, it's her mental back-and-forth with her Summoner that allows her to do anything here in the Rift, but the one she's got today is nearly as impetuous as she is. Together they've spent half an hour knocking heads and generally causing a ruckus all over the map, and she's felt like she's been let off the leash for once.
She likes this Summoner; never does she get to roam with such abandon, face-checking and kill-stealing to her heart's content. It's the sort of high risk, high reward play that most Summoners shy away from, but today anything goes. Like right now, mid lane's pushed up to the purple inhibitor, sure, but the rest of her team is either skirmishing near their own inner turrets or dashing out from the fountain to rejoin the fight. She's all on her own up here, jogging with the wave of blue-caped minions towards the sound of pipsqueak guffaws.
The ganks and the jungle have taken their toll, she really isn't in the best shape for this, but she couldn't care less. If it were another Summoner, one with more restraint, she'd already be back at the shop healing up and grabbing a Locket for the team. But the Ravenous Hydra she picked up first feels pretty damn good, so she keeps going, feeling her health tick up a fraction every second. She'll be fine.
. . . is what she's thinking as she trashes a wave of enemy minions, darting through them to the end of the line, wrecking everything in her path. She spins on the ball of her foot and smashes her fist into the head of the one closest, her gauntlet erupting with a hextech blast that unbinds the magic of the summoning. The entire wave collapses into the dirt and fades, the conjuration magic fracturing apart into its lesser energies.
That's what happens to them, the Champions, as well; nobody ever really sets foot in any of the Fields of Justice. Right this moment, Vi is back in Piltover, plugged into some lousy-ass stone chair covered in faded runes and stones that pulse with mumbo-jumbo auras. It's really uncomfortable. But her awareness of that life is drowned out by the Summoner accessing her mind, her abilities – and in a heartbeat, a fresh version of her is conjured out on the Rift to live and die on borrowed time. Then it's all fun and games and punching faces for half an hour, which more than makes up for the bumpy seat.
She feels an unpleasant sting as a dart gets her right in the leg. She hisses, swiveling around to face up lane, feeling a bit woozy as the poison makes its way into her magically constructed bloodstream. Teemo laughs, tipping his hat, and scurries away as the blue minions veer off course to chase him down. They're sure as hell not fast enough for that little rodent, so she shakes off the double vision and gets to work.
She dashes again up through her own wave, which of course takes no notice of the ability. They've already lost Teemo's trail, the mindless drones, even though he's standing in plain sight a few meters away. Instead, they've set in with much enthusiasm to whacking away at the smoking inhibitor. Bless their little empty heads.
She catches up just in time to see Teemo plop a mushroom down to the left of the device, but she's wise to his game; she hangs right so the oncoming minions will follow her to that side. They walk right up to her and bash their little lances against her legs, her Sunfire Cape deflecting most of the damage as well as burning them where they stand. The blue minions take note of their arrival and the front line shifts targets to protect their Champion.
The minions are the least of her problems, and besides, they're rapidly running out. Teemo's been busily firing darts at hers, and it'll be another thirty seconds before another wave arrives. She could stand here tanking the barrage, beating the inhibitor into scrap, and flee with a shred of life once the objective had been secured. Or she could get payback for the dozens of invisible mushrooms that had welcomed her to every patch of brush in the jungle.
Through their mental link, she asks her Summoner to check on the match information. While invisible to those that duke it out here on the ground, every aspect of the summoning is codified and quantified. She has a mental image that the Summoners see all the Champions with little health bars floating above their heads, the way they do in the grainy video games the good ol' eggheads are developing back home.
She gets an affirmative from her Summoner – you can take him. It feels like it's only her own will that sends her blasting off towards the smiling Yordle, they're that much in tune. The runt sees her coming and sends a salvo of darts her way, but ain't nothing gonna stop her now. As the last of the minions drop and fade, Vi reaches her target and clamps her mitts around the furball, leaping with him straight up into the air so that she can dunk him face first into the pavement.
"Boom, baby!" she shouts, feeling the satisfying crack as Teemo flattens between her fist and the ground. He emits a hamster-like groan and goes down, his conjuring fading to black like the rest. The forceful (and somehow sexy) voice announces the kill, and Vi turns, smirk in place, ready to give this unguarded inhibitor what-for.
The ground explodes under her feet, a noxious cloud of burning gas billowing up around her. Damn, they forgot about the mushroom. Again. Coming from beyond the grave, she imagines she can hear his disgusting laughter. Stumbling forward, she hefts her fists and begins to pound at the crystal covered device, but her strength is quickly ebbing away. There isn't much a Sunfire can do against poison. Even the feeble regen from the Hydra is laughable, what with the magic damage ripping chunks out of her on every tick.
Show's over, the jig's up, it's curtains for her. Her limp gauntlets just sort of knock into the inhibitor as she falls to her knees. But that seems to do it, because right in front of her face the whole thing goes up in a dramatic burst of glass and purple smoke. It's the last thing she sees before she dies.
Forty-seven seconds later, Vi wakes up. Not on the fountain, rip-roaring and ready to go. Not even in the stupid old chair that looks like it belonged to some crazy old aunt of Taric's. No, she wakes to the head-spinning sensation of being pulled to her feet – and right into the arms of her partner in anti-crime, the Sheriff of Piltover.
"You could have waited for us," Caitlyn sighs with a soft smile, holding her close, "We were storming up the lane right behind you."
"No guts, no glory," Vi returns, putting on a cocky grin for Cait's benefit, though the familiar embrace soothes her psyche more than she can say. The memory of the prickling poison swamping her veins fades, a bad dream banished by a warm sunrise. There's also no trace of the Summoner lurking in the depths of her mind; it's just the pair of them shrouded in the quiet darkness.
She blinks at the heavy curtains on the walls, at the semi-circle of rune-inscribed chairs set around a low stone table. The low hum of both magical and techmaturgical currents coursing under the floor reminds her that this is Piltover. "Oh. So that was it?"
"Yes, sweetie," Caitlyn laughs, stepping away to straighten her skirt, "that was it. You're home." She lifts her hat from the center table and sets it squarely on her head, ready to go.
A wild sort of grin crosses Vi's face, hearing the laugh she loves so much. Rich, warm, and beautiful, she could die listening to that laugh, and die happy.
"Worth."