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Chapter 36
Waltz of Blades and Bullets
"Sophia is rather quick at making arrangements. I was expecting word being passed along to allow us to select an outfit, not have them chosen for us," Ephrial readjusts an ornate cufflink on a white tuxedo.
Rich material covers his body in the bright style of Piltover's latest fashion. The creases on his slacks are brand new, and the finely stitched fabrics of his coat are sewn to perfection. A masterful yordle puts on the final touch, climbing a ladder to place a red pocket triangle in the front compartment the jacket, and then steps down to admire his work.
"This is absurd," Riven's voice comes from behind the door of an adjacent changing room.
"Come on, it can't be that bad," stepping down from the tailor's fitting platform.
The Exile turns the knob, and lets the door slowly swing open by itself. She stands straight, looking slightly irritated. A long, flowing garb of shining crimson cloaks her in an almost metallic radiance, down to a pair of matching high heels. A white sash wraps around her waist, forming a large bow behind her. The ribbons at the end change from a solid color, to a thin, transparent, decorative lace that drapes down the length of the skirt.
"I find this…uncomfortable. These layers will just get in the way in combat!"
"Be that as it may, we should do these nice couturiers a favor and try not mess up their outfits, should it come to—" his words fade as he turns to see Riven come out of the doorway.
As her gaze rises from her dress, she returns the look with the same hesitance, both hardly recognizing each other. A moment passes, and they both break, snapping back to themselves.
"Our ride should be here soon," he says, twisting the other cufflink in place.
"Right."
They both start toward the door, side by side, until they are halted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. The two turn around, and look down to see the master tailor and his wife holding up a pair of adornments; a solitary red rose, and a corsage of a white rose surrounded by pink cherry blossoms, respectively.
"It's tradition for you to exchange these before embarking to the ball," the master craftsman explains as they present the accessories up to them.
"Tradition, huh?" Ephrial says, picking up the corsage.
Riven receives the vermillion flower, and the pair look at each other with lost expressions. Neither of them have ever known, nor taken part, in such customs that did not involve a brawl of some fashion. To them, it's an entirely new experience in a realm outside of their acquaintance.
The Exile feels an object prod her wrist upward, and she looks down to see a tiny woman guiding her with a measuring stick. Confused, she silently goes along with it. Riven takes her arm back, raising it in front of herself, presenting it to the Blazing Swordsman.
A quick examination of the flowery decoration, and Ephrial puts his best guess to work. He takes her by the hand, and begins carefully wrapping the ornament around his partner's wrist. A silky knot forms and slides into place, and he lets go.
Riven turns her hand over, getting a full view of a piece of tradition from a nation apart from her own. She flexes her fingers, feeling odd that her large gauntlet has been replaced by such a fragile sentiment. Looking down, she realizes the rose in her other grasp, raising it up in further confusion. She switches to the yordle assistant by her side, hoping for a hint of some sort. A nod and smile is all she receives, and Riven recalls the tailor explaining that this was an exchange.
Seeing her in a helpless state of bemusement, the mercenary-knight discreetly points to a tiny hole in his tuxedo's coat. Hesitating a moment, she begins to reach the stem of the rose out to him. Both turn their heads away, awkwardly avoiding eye-contact, and slowly, she plants the flower into its setting.
"I know dresses aren't your thing, but…you look quite nice," a bold mercenary attempts to ease the situation by avoiding an extended silence.
"You're looking rather…debonair yourself," she returns the compliment.
As if on cue, the distinct sound of one of Piltover's unique methods of transportation makes itself heard with a modest honking noise. The two turn their attention toward the door, seeing the silhouette of a vehicle outside.
"Seems our driver is rather punctual," Ephrial takes a step toward the door.
"Agreed."
The swordsmen thank the yordles for their services, and exit the shop. A long, midnight limousine awaits them at the curb. A simple, sleek design, and some very heavily tinted windows, paint the image of luxury transportation.
"Not very subtle, is it?" opening the door for the ex-soldier.
He follows her inside, and they instantly notice a set of small, round devices resting on the seat. Two heavily decorated masks lie next to them, boasting colorful feathers and glittering studs of synthetic, but convincing jewelry. The scenery outside begins to move, and they find themselves on their way to Piltover's annual masquerade.
"What did they do with our weapons?" Riven inquires.
"Caitlyn said Vi will drop them in when we need them."
"I see. …Do you really think there's a connection between Kalamanda and these attacks on Piltover? Everything seems so convoluted. When we arrived, we were searching for answers with Heimerdinger, and within a few days, we're playing undercover police at a special event."
"Things have sure changed quite a bit, haven't they? So far, we've just been chasing disaster after disaster. It can't be a pure coincidence that we located a lead that directed us here, where they are facing their own string of unexplained incidents."
"Do you remember what the summoner had said to us when we rescued him? About the Institute wishing to keep things quiet in order to prevent instability between political agreements amongst the city-states?"
"Yeah. It seems they've been doing a good job in keeping the true state of the League hush-hush, even after all this while."
"What if their aim is to cause exactly that—cause political instability, only one nation at a time?"
Ephrial ponders at the thought. "…You mean the reason whomever is behind the attack on the Institute is purposely taking their time to gradually weaken the city-states? The only ambition in which creating such instability would have a purpose in is an invasion—War."
"Exactly."
The mercenary-knight considers his encounter with Summoner High Councilor Vessaria. She had stated that the newly-promoted Grieve was the one that issued the order to check the nexuses at Kalamanda. That means he was likely to have also sent the summoner Riven has just mentioned to urge them to travel there. If he really is at fault for such a trap, then as an extremely high-ranking infiltrator, he is poised to take hold of the dangerous artifacts in the Arcanum Vault. Weapons such as those could surely bring a divided Runeterra to its knees. However, Vessaria seems to have control of the Vault, biding time. Yet, can she herself be trusted? Perhaps, in light of everything altogether, there's a possibility that there is actually more than one group vying for control of the Institute… Perhaps some with ambitions that spread wider than others.
"…Ephrial?"
"Apologies," snapping himself out of thought.
"You know of something else, don't you…?" eyeing him.
"Nothing that makes sense just yet. If the aim is to destabilize the nations of Runeterra to incite a war, or domination, the essence of that plan would be to rid themselves of those that can oppose them, right? So why scatter all of us and then destroy the nexuses instead of summon us all at once, killing us all then and there? Why make it so unnecessarily elaborate, setting traps for us?" Ephrial brings his hand to his chin, narrowing his eyes in a grave expression. "Unless those traps weren't actually meant for us."
"They could have been meant for misleading and destroying armies, thinning out the biggest military resistances," the ex-soldier pitches.
"If that were true, then the incident with the Master Nexus teleporting everyone away was unintentional. These traps would then actually be their 'Plan B', and that's why there hasn't been any follow-up to the assault as of yet. They have to improvise their way through a major setback."
A small sound emits from the tiny spheres lying beside them, and Ephrial curiously picks one up. He raises it to his ear, and a familiar voice reaches him from the other side.
"You there? Hey, can either of you hear me?" Piltover's Enforcer calls out.
"Vi…?"
"Speak into the cufflinks Cait gave you."
"Where are you?" raising his wrist to his mouth.
"Moving into position. Did you give Tough Girl the corsage?"
"I can hear you just fine," Riven picks up the second diminutive orb.
"Good. Now listen up! The devices you're holding are heavily modified yawpers I fixed up myself. Put them in your ears so they remain hidden. They work like the radio on the police cycles, but have a far shorter range. There are microphones located in your cufflinks and corsage, so speak into them so we can hear you better."
The mercenary-knight follows her instructions. "Understood."
"This is boriiing!" Jinx complains in the background of the yawper communications.
"No one asked you, Pipsqueak!" Vi yells.
A crackle comes into the audio, and another voice enters the conversation.
"What's your position?" the Sheriff of Piltover asks.
"Getting set up on the roof," her partner replies.
"Excellent. What of the other two?"
"Arriving casually late, as requested," Ephrial speaks into his wrist.
"Good. You will be responsible for infiltrating the crowd, as well as the upper level of the building."
"The police have this area wrapped up tightly," looking out the window as they pull up to the front of a large palace.
"It's what they don't have access to that I am concerned about," Caitlyn's wariness of the city's nobility.
"See you inside," the vigilante responds as the limousine comes to a halt.
The two don their provided masks, and a valet opens the door, exposing them to the sound of an excited crowd and flashing cameras. Reporters speak to crystal lenses, broadcasting on spinning wires all over the city of Progress. The press appears to be guessing who the guests are as they appear, shouting various names of worth amongst themselves. Ephrial steps out of the vehicle, offering his hand to Riven.
"I can get out fine by myself," agitated at his notion.
"Believe me, I know you're quite capable of handling your own. However, we're here to maintain a guise, and we'll have to play the part."
With a reluctant sigh, she takes his hand and climbs out of the seat. They both proceed down a red carpet, side by side, arms locked. Security keeps the tenacious men and women of the paparazzi at bay as the two enter Progress Palace.
"This is certainly quite a crowd out here. If a certain entity wished to issue a threatening message, this would definitely be the place to do it," he comments.
"Why go through such great lengths to keep things quiet only to announce them in such a public setting?"
"Perhaps because they are getting desperate. Jinx was blamed for the recent attacks, so whomever was actually responsible for them should have been in the clear. It would have made an ideal cover for whatever they had going on. Yet, we were directly attacked out in the open, and with no shortage of commotion. Something must have not gone according to their plans, and they know we're on to them. It would come as no surprise if there are some moles in Piltover's police department, especially if they knew when and where to assault us. Caitlyn is wittingly sticking her head out in their crosshairs tonight."
Ornate halls echo with the muffled sounds of socialization and refined celebration. A poster on the wall apologizes for the absence of the 'Maven of the Strings', advertising a local band as her replacement for the evening's entertainment. As the pair approach the doors, two uniformed men of House Arvino open the way for them. Walking through, they see a vast room with extravagant decorations and an eye for detail. Tables of hors d'oeuvres stacked in an elegant presentation create a colorful palette of appetizing variety. The space is illuminated by two prodigious chandeliers of gold and intricately cut crystals, with bountiful rows of candles.
Many men and women of wealth and status cover the room, greeting each other and making conversation. Though the scene is mixed, there is a clear division to be noticed by a keen eye. Some of the crowd takes an interest in the murals and paintings that decorate the ballroom, and competing inventors brag amongst each other of their research and latest creations. Despite the premise of this annual 'Peace Through Progress', it is quite certain that there are some that are only concerned with the progress of their own profits.
"There's a lot of security here," Riven notes the various groups of bodyguards sticking close to their respective noblemen.
"We're in," the mercenary-knight begins to weave through the crowd, cautiously speaking into the cufflink.
"Look up," Vi responds.
The duo takes a glance above, between the spaces of the chandeliers, where a small dome of windows forms a skylight. A pink-haired figure gives them a quick salute with a giant hand through the glass. Beside her, a dolled-up version of the Loose Cannon sticks her tongue out at them.
"Alright, Jinx…what are we looking for?"
"A button to blow everything up?" a sarcastic answer reaches his ear.
"Start being serious, or I'll seriously beat you!" the Enforcer yields no patience for her antics.
"Hang on, Vi. That's actually not a bad start. Tell me, Jinx…if you were to blow this place up with a hidden device, where would you place it?"
"Ooh! Ooh!" she lights up with a spark of excitement. "I've always wanted to blow up a party like this with a bomb in the big cake they bring out!"
"Is this even that kind of celebration?" Riven, unfamiliar with formal ceremonies.
"It's not a party without cake. Caitlyn, are you there?"
A moment passes, and a delayed reply comes though. "Barely. No one's letting me out of their sight for even a moment."
"Do you know of this event hosting a large, celebratory cake at some point?"
"Of course. The most prestigious culinarians are always hired to do a ten-layer cake. Talks of confections aside, I think now would be a good time to mention that I spotted the head of the Cadwalder family leaving through the West exit. It's a little too soon to be leaving the festivities. It might be worth looking into."
"Well, we have our first two suspects," Ephrial turns to his undercover partner. "Which do you want to take?"
"I'll handle Cadwalder," she starts her way, eager to leave the crowd of dresses and perfume.
"Very well. Quality control duty it is," he begins moving through the crowd, making his way toward the kitchen.
Keen eyes observe his surroundings with every step. Men and women from all over Piltover have rallied together for a supposed annual call for peace. Having placed himself in the middle of many feuds of various kinds, he knows better. It takes more than a buffet and pretty words to incite the following of an ideal.
Surrounding him are glittering jewels and precious metals, flashing from the attire of the vast majority of attendants. Though it is normal for a formal occasion as such, it is still a mere display of wealth; a message to everyone else there. Ambitious motives and fake smiles make it difficult to discern who might be responsible for the recent attacks.
Ephrial spots the corner where the waiters race back and forth, carrying trays of appetizing foods. He comes to the realization that, even though he is not dressed too differently from the servers, he is still lacking an element that would provide a convincing guise that separates him from the party guests. A clumsy-looking butler emerges from the swinging doors, nearly tripping over himself as he steps out onto the ballroom floor.
Closing in on his target, the mercenary-knight flanks from the side, blending in with the crowd. He takes his mask off, tucking it into his jacket, and in a seamless transition, he trips the accident-prone young man, grasping the platter of cheeses into his own hand. Taking his place, Ephrial leaves the confused server to scramble to his feet, desperately trying to recover a phantom mess of spilled hors d'oeuvres. The small commotion doubles as a bonus to keep the attention away from a white tuxedo entering the kitchen.
As he draws closer, he dumps the toothpicks of appetizers into the nearby pot of a large plant, then walks through the doors. Holding a now empty platter on his fingertips, acting as if he belongs there, he passes through several more servers. One of the men takes a look at the empty tray, surprised at the swift rate they all keep rotating.
"Where are they putting all this stuff?"
"Tell me about it. It's almost like they're just throwing them away," Ephrial quips to the unwitting host as they brush past each other.
The mercenary-knight arrives at the engine of the party's food supply. Equipped with hextech burners and stoves, the room hums lively with the movement of man and machine at work. An organized chaos presses for time as orders are shouted back and forth between chefs. Steam and mixed aromas of gourmet creations in-the-making swim through the air, and busy utensils chopping and slicing mix with the clamor.
There are no signs of desserts just yet, so Ephrial proceeds deeper into the establishment. His steps keep at a pace of urgency as to match that of the staff, avoiding attention to himself by not lingering in one spot. Like a ghost, the vigilante slips through another set of doors in the very back, entering an entirely different scene of delectable concoctions. Techmaturgy at work spins and whirrs all around him, mixing bowls of puddings, dough, and batter.
"Alright…if I were a giant cake meant to feed an entire ballroom of people, where would I be…?" thinking aloud to himself.
"Hey, you're not supposed to be in here!" a voice calls from the side.
The swordsman turns, spotting two men in uniform speeding up to him. Their attire is formal and tan colored, identical to Sophia's guards. With caution, one of the private security officers reaches for a hextech pistol tucked in his belt as he approaches the intruder.
"Who are you!?" the second guard demands.
Not giving them a chance to properly react or draw their weapons, Ephrial slings the platter toward the closest one. The reflexes of the guard trigger him to abandon his holster, devoting both hands to catch the saucer in front of his face. A swift mercenary rushes forward, and lands a wheel kick on the adjacent sentry. Before the first can lower the silver platter from his face, a powerful fist launches into it from the other side, sending the plate spinning into the air. As the other guard recovers from a heavy kick to the jaw, Ephrial catches the salver, and hurls it at his head. Both guards surrender to an abrupt unconsciousness.
"I'm the health inspector," straightening his jacket.
Hard-forged skills and strength make short work of Pilties spoiled with firearms, taking care of the situation with minimal effort and noise. Generations of advancement through technology has worn away the roots of combat in the City of Progress, especially hand-to-hand engagements. While minds and tools worked away to create weapons, he worked to create himself to be a weapon.
"Everything okay down there?" Vi cracks on the modified yawper.
"Nothing to worry about. I'm closing in on our possible threat."
"Good to hear. Your girlfriend is making quite a ruckus over at the West wing."
"She isn't my—"
"You two will need to speed things up. Sophia plans on giving her speech soon," Caitlyn chimes in.
Ephrial steps into another room, where the ceiling rises much higher. Resting on a very wide rack is his objective. Clad in white icing and standing over ten feet tall, an oversized, luxurious cake boasts thick layers of sugary glory. The wheels of the cart are locked in place, awaiting the effort of several people to roll it out carefully at the appointed time. On the side is a tall ladder, carefully placed so that the finishing touches can be fixed at the very top.
"Well, I've found our cake."
"Any signs it's been tampered with?"
"None that I can see."
"You'll have to dig through it to locate any possible explosives within."
He examines the colossal baked good. "I figured as much. I'm just wondering how I'll go about that without ruining the thing, for Sophia's sake... Jinx, how big of a device are we looking for?" reaching out for expertise on things of volatile nature.
"Hmm…" a dark, unpredictable mind ponders. "If I wanted to blow up only half of these people, I'd saaaay…at least the size of Fathands here."
"Are you saying what I think you're saying!?" a vexed Enforcer tenses.
"Hahaha!" Jinx finds amusement in provoking her keeper.
"A bomb as big as a person…? Or at least a giant gauntlet…" taking Jinx's words with a grain of salt. "If that's the case, then a single cut will do," the mercenary-knight circles the enormous load of frosting.
He looks around the room for some manner of implement to serve his cause. A very long measuring stick, covered in icing, lies jutting out of a basin filled with bowls and beaters. A basic, but precise tool appears to have proven necessary to fill such an immense order. Gladly taking the instrument in his hands, he brings it over to the cake, and ascends the ladder.
With precision and care, he begins using the slender tool as a cutting device, starting from the very center. Slowly, he descends, step by step, making sure not to agitate any possible bomb by hitting it the wrong way.
"How's the situation coming along?" Vi speaks over the sound of a struggling Jinx trying to get her hair back.
"It's going well so far… I haven't blown up yet."
"Better pick up the pace in there. Looks like they're setting up for part of the event."
"Almost done."
As the mercenary-knight reaches the bottom, and feels a slight change in pressure on the other end of the measuring stick. His hand freezes, and he looks intently at the slim crevice he has carved.
"Oh…fudge."
"What happened? Did you find an explosive!?" the Enforcer shouts through the communication device.
"Ooh! Is there a timer on it? Is it ready to blow!?" a quite different type of enthusiasm pours through.
"No, I mean actual fudge. I think the only thing this cake is rigged to explode with is chocolate," pulling out a measuring stick covered in rich, gooey sauce.
Sighs of both relief and disappointment reach his ear through the yawper.
"Alright, Fancypants. Start making your way back to the ballroom."
Using the other side of the stick, Ephrial smooths out the icing he had ruined, covering the exposed bits of cake from the long dissection. "I'll be out there soon. How are things on Riven's end?"
"I'll let you know once the yelling stops. I don't think the Cadwalders have anything to do with the attacks, but by the sound of it, this girl packs a punch!" approving the Exile's brutality.
"What's next on our agenda?"
"You two are to attend Sophia's speech, keeping an eye out for suspicious activity," Caitlyn responds.
"What of you?"
"I've managed to lose some prying eyes for the time being. I will be investigating a man I've been watching circle the room. He seemed in a hurry to leave once the guards began closing the doors and drinks were being passed out."
Ephrial begins making his way back when he sees the two men he has left unconscious, both lying out in the open. He locates a nearby pantry, with plenty of room to spare after much of the stock has been exhausted for the night. Quietly, the mercenary-knight drags the two guards inside, and closes the doors on them. Looking around for a suitable object to bar them inside, he finds a javelin on the broom rack.
"What's a spear doing in a bakery…?" finding it somehow oddly familiar.
Sliding the sturdy weapon through the handles of the pantry doors, he departs in the same way he had previously entered. He slips his mask back on as he pushes past the swinging doors. The cool air of the ballroom greets him as he strides back, once more blending in with the crowd.
Everyone's attention becomes pulled by the entrance of Sophia Arvino, walking to the overhanging balcony. All eyes turn upward toward the sound of a voice empowered by a sound-amplifying crystal on the podium.
"Thank you, one and all, for coming to this banquet! For those unfamiliar with me, I am Lady Sophia Caroline Arvino, daughter of Magnus Arvino. As many of you know, I have been filling in for my father's duty, taking my place as Baroness of the Arvino clan for a long time…and what a trying time it has been…for all of us," looking at the crowd with sincere eyes.
She takes a deep breath, and her tone becomes firmer with confidence. "Ever since I was a child, I would constantly be asked how I viewed things. My father would ask what I saw when I looked at the city of Piltover. What I saw when I looked at its people. I would never really have an answer for him, but he would always tell me his. He told me he saw the future—a bright and wondrous light that illuminates the dark path ahead as we venture into the unknown. Progress at its finest…its boldest."
Faces in the crowd begin to smile, familiar with her father's bright vision.
"As a child, it is hard to grasp the concept of the future. They always live in the here-and-now, unconcerned with what lies tomorrow. Yet, perhaps it is that innocence with the notion of 'tomorrow will always come' that the founders of our fine city lived by. Tomorrow is always a new day, but what we do today can make it a great day. All things, progress included, come with time. With time, comes thoughts, and those thoughts grow into ideas. In Piltover, ideas become reality, shaping the future into possibilities only limited by our unbridled imagination."
Charmed by her words, the crowd silently nods in agreement. Piltovans, along with some investors from other city-states, become moved with pride in how far they have advanced in the name of progress. As the undercover swordsman keep an eye out, they find no shortage of attention span directed at the speaker.
"I think now, after all this time, I finally have an answer for my father if he were to ask me what I see in Piltover… I see brilliance in the minds and talents of our people; a clockwork heart formed by the strong desire and hard labor of those brave enough to envision the future, and take it upon their own hands to mold the world around them into what they themselves see. The uniqueness of each and every one of us is a gear that spins and grinds on with the same drive. This very day is set to remind us that when we work together, everything fits into place, and all gears function to the same cause. United, we form an unstoppable machine, paving the way for all to follow—a shining beacon for peace! Peace through Progress!"
Sophia raises a glass of champagne, and the crowd follows suit. Applause thunders through the ballroom, and men, women, and yordle alike cheer at this year's host for Piltover's annual masquerade.
The band begins filling the room with music, playing a mixture of classic instruments, each with a twist of hextech in them. Glowing strings vibrate with an elegance, humming with a pitch of techmaturgy for peak perfection.
Pairing up, the members of the crowd soon take a spot on the vast floor, and begin to take part in the dance. Ephrial turns to see Riven standing behind him. They exchange looks, and realize, with the exception of the security guards, they are the only ones not participating.
"A—Are we supposed to…?" the Exile hesitates.
Ever cool and collected, Ephrial extends his hand out. "It couldn't hurt… Not as much as it did Cadwalder."
"I—if I must…" with an odd mix of frustration and a feigning, weary reluctance, Riven gives into a charming grin. She steps forward, and places her hand in his, avoiding direct eye-contact.
Caught off-guard by another hand gently placing itself on her side, she stiffens tensely, giving Ephrial a hard glare. Slowly, they start moving, and she once more averts her eyes. Noticing how everyone else is dancing, she slowly raises her other hand to Ephrial's shoulder with uncertainty. The Exile examines herself, a warrior of Noxus, fierce and renown, now wearing a dress and dancing in a Piltover ball. Never has wandering alone taken her through such provoking experiences.
"T—the Cadwalders didn't have a hand in the recent events," focusing back on the mission.
"Going by how Vi commented on the situation, I doubt they'll be involved in any future schemes as well."
"It was…just a misunderstanding," she says guiltily. "How did your objective go?"
"It was…a piece of cake," that roguish grin appears again, lightening her up with wordplay.
Riven shakes her head, exhaling while suppressing a smile. Her eyes meet his, and she begins finding herself oddly relaxed. Though caught in a vastly unfamiliar setting, and circumstances she considers uncomfortable, she finds solace in not being alone. Of course, a piece of her will always be isolated in her time of sin and regret… Yet, for now, a calm blue distracts her.
"…How do you know how to dance? From your last trip here in Piltover?" she inquires.
"Just now, really."
"What do you mean 'just now'…?" confused.
"I merely took note of how some of the others were dancing. In a manner of sorts, it's kind of like combat. The same way I recognize and adapt to the patterns of my enemies, or learn new styles of bladework, I just…do."
"That fast?"
"Well, this is just a dance, not a whole new sword technique. I believe this is called a 'waltz'. A slow one."
Suddenly feeling clueless again, she looks down at her feet. "Am I doing this correctly...?"
"You're doing fine; don't dwell on that. Just go along with it, and you'll see how easy it is."
"G-got it…" Noxian pride setting itself aside.
Melodious music floats in the air, and an arrangement of colorful outfits swirl all around them. The blend of harmony and atmosphere paint them in a scene of elegance and refinement in motion. A thought pops in the mercenary's head.
"I have a question for you, if you don't mind."
"What is it?"
"Well, you've been walking around, fighting, and now dancing without the slightest sign of tripping over yourself…"
"What's your point?"
Ephrial arches his eyebrow slightly, "When did you learn to move so well in heels?"
Her face flushes with embarrassment, and she turns away. "I-I don't want to talk about it…!"
"I see. My apologies for prying."
"It's fine—It's just…a long story."
"Another time, perhaps?"
"Am I going to have to wear a dress again?" she looks back, returning the lightheartedness from earlier.
The mercenary-knight titters lightly. "That would depend, I suppose."
"On what?"
"Is this just an excuse to go to another ball?"
"Careful. I already threw you out of a window once," sharing in a smile.
A moment passes in a comfortable silence as they begin to dwell upon the events that have lead them here. The set of various decisions of both have brought them together and split them apart, several times.
"…It hasn't been very long, but it seems like we've been at this for an eternity," Riven's smile fades.
"Yeah…" the mercenary-knight's grin dissolves, thinking about a road that has even partially repeated itself with a detour through time itself.
"…When you sought me out, I was…less than kind to your proposition."
"Don't worry about it."
"That's not it… You said you would follow me, even when I protested. Yet, I have been the one following you this entire time. Even at this very moment, you're leading me through the steps of something I've never known about, nor would have ever thought I'd find myself doing."
Ephrial holds his silence.
"Who are you…? Then again, maybe I don't even know myself. I used to be a leader… Now, I'm just…" doubt begins to cloud her.
"You are a leader. It is because of your decisions that I chose to follow you. You planned on waging a war all on your own, regardless of the cost. In the face of massive opposition, you made it your choice to stand for what you believe in…alone. You decided that yourself, even if that meant turning your own beloved nation against you. Your example is something many have surely noted when watching you on the Rift."
"Then in what way are you following me?"
"Well, in order to have your back, I have to be standing behind you, right?" a sly command of the figurative and literal paints a smirk again.
Riven lets out a small, breathy chuckle at the suave antics of a cunning wordsmith, shaking her head slightly. She takes the rose from his tuxedo and places the stem in the mercenary's mouth.
"There. That should hold your tongue," putting her hand back on his shoulder with a devious, but thankful half-smile.
A wordless minute passes by as they continue to step forward, backward, and around each other in a growing harmony. Their surroundings dissipate around them, and only the music seeps through. As the symphonic strings stretch to a fade, so, too, does their waltz. Gazes locked, they slowly reach for their masks, sliding them off without breaking eye-contact.
The crowd around them claps for the band, as well as the gigantic cake being rolled out. Following the tradition of the masquerade, everyone removes their decorative guises, and the celebration begins to reach its final stage.
Before either can say a word, an energetic blur of white approaches from the side. Sophia takes Ephrial's arm into both of hers, and she tugs him away.
"You don't mind if I borrow him for this next dance, do you?" she says with an innocent smile of excitement.
The instruments begin to play again, more upbeat than the last. Ephrial takes another glance at Riven, as she becomes dissolved into the crowd of aristocratic attire. He finds himself entwined with the baroness of House Arvino, who looks at him with a youthful glee. She abandons the formality in her speech, and becomes a candid version of herself.
"Finally, I have a chance to talk with you!" she smiles, taking the rose from Ephrial's mouth, and placing it back into his tuxedo's jacket.
"We were talking just last night."
"I know, but that was under pressing matters! This is different. I haven't seen you since you saved me. That is, until I discovered you had joined the League of Legends."
"I didn't think that was your kind of thing."
"I was very sheltered, remember? Most of the time was spent staring at a crystal or spinning wire."
"Even so."
"Come on, everything else is boring. Besides, people watch it for inspiration. That's something the world could use a lot of right about now."
"Inspiration can be a very dangerous thing," having reservations about the Institute.
"That's why they need more people like you to show them the way."
"Like me?"
"The League is filled with the most dangerous monsters and otherworldly beasts that can paralyze the average man with a mere glance. Yet, you face them all with such conviction. No matter how bleak things look, your spirit never fades. You are an example of what a single man can do, making even the most hopeless situations turn against the tide. Everyone loves a comeback story; an underdog. …A hero."
"I'm not a hero."
"That's exactly what a hero would say," pressing her admiration with a tap on his nose.
"What have you been up to all this time?" changing the focus.
"Work, mostly. With my father unable to resume his position over the family assets, and my mother's passing, it has fallen to me to assume all duties."
"I'm sorry you've had to deal with so much."
She shakes her head with a smile, "Don't be. Because of you, I am alive to experience things I would have otherwise never had a chance to. Even now, I have you to protect me if things go awry. Speaking of which, have you turned anything up yet?"
"Nothing so far, though I should apologize to a couple of your guards in the bakery."
A short giggle, "I'm more than certain they are willing to forgive the mix-up. This is the beginning of a brighter future for each of us, after all."
"I hope you know what you're doing. Revolutions always come at a price."
"Yes, they do. As time goes on, I find myself learning more and more that with privilege comes sacrifice… Tell me, what did you think of my speech?"
"Inspiring. However, as I have said just before, inspiration can be dangerous. The other side of it is that those with dark ambitions may view it as…weakness," offering a Noxian perspective. "You might find yourself a target soon again."
"What of you? Are you not going to stick around?"
"Only as long as I need to. I'm here on…business," he uses the term she can best appreciate.
"Oh? Rescuing damsels in distress again?"
"Not quite."
"What is with the serious look on your face? You seem…distracted, even."
"There is much going on, and the more we find out, the less we seem to know. With everything being so ambiguous, there are not many people we can trust."
"You trust me, don't you…?" Sophia tilts her head inquisitively.
"If I trusted every single person I've saved, I would long be dead by now."
"Harsh…but, I understand. I, too, know what it is like to be alone. There are still times that I can't even trust my own shadow. But I do trust you, and I think that's been enough to keep me company all this while."
"...zzzt…mpromised….zzzt…evacu…zzzzzzzt…much time!" the Sheriff's voice cracks through a line heavily saturated by static.
"Caitlyn?"
Sophia, puzzled, "…Who? And why are you talking to your wrist…?"
Muffled sounds of popping begin to echo into the ballroom, just beyond the doors. The crowd becomes curious, and the music stumbles to a halt. The explosive cracking becomes more rapid, and grows closer with every burst.
"Is that…?" the young baroness finds the sound familiar.
Before the room's attention can be fully diverted, an explosion rings out from above. Shattering glass rains down, and one of the large chandeliers begins to plummet from the ceiling.
Ephrial yanks Sophia off to the side, narrowly avoiding the edge of the jagged crystals as they crash into the floor. The Piltover noble lifts her head, wide eyes looking upon the devastation of the misfortunate souls caught underneath the collapse.
Screams of terror and anguish fill the room, and people begin to run for their lives. Bodies of fallen Arvino security burst through the doors, and bullets begin flying. Chaos and fear take over the ambience, and death forces itself in as an uninvited guest.
"Get to cover!" the mercenary-knight pulls Sophia up, leading her out behind an overturned table.
Hextech bullets trace their path, and those caught in the way become torn with vicious projectiles.
"Stay down!" Ephrial holds her head as he peeks his own above the improvised shielding.
Through the confusion, he spots the sources of the massacre. Piltover's own COPS unit spread gunfire into the crowd without prejudice. The cold, lifeless gaze of their optic sensors stare without any form of humanity. They do not so much as flinch at the splatters of crimson over their own metal bodies. Once programmed for the safety and service of Piltover's citizens, these machines are now set to murder them.
"Who's attacking us!? Is it the Thatermauges!?" Sophia panics.
"Worse," Ephrial glares at the machines, finding the scene all too familiar during the attack on the Institute.
Two private security guards rush to Sophia, urging her to come with them.
"Lady Arvino, we have to get you out of here immediately! Come with us!"
"Wait! Ephrial—!" she protests.
"Go with them." The mercenary-knight, limited on options, switches to the officers in tan uniforms, "Take her to your most secure location. Don't trust anyone."
The men nod, and begin forcefully escorting her through a nearby hallway.
Ephrial springs to action, jumping over the fallen table, and dashes through the crowd. Doing what he can, he shoves the adjacent people around his path out of the line of fire. A glint from the ground catches his eye; a fairly large knife from the buffet tables meant for carving cheese.
Rolling under a set of burst fire aiming for his head, he scoops up the blade, and hurls it at the red lens of the cybernetic officer just feet away. Sparks and currents of electricity begin to sputter wildly, and the gun in its hands begins to fire upward as the robotic officer falls back.
With a quick yank before it hits the ground, the mercenary-knight pulls the knife out, and uses it to sever a large portion of wires from the neck of another. Twisting the metal body around, he grabs hold of the arm, pointing the gun at a cluster of COP units. He holds the firearm steadily, riddling the killer products of techmaturgy with bullets, using the one in his grasp as a shield.
Riven rushes to his side, plowing through a handful of Piltover's compromised security bots with a large flagpole bearing the Peace through Progress banner. Security belonging to every baron present at the party begin making an entrance, guns blazing as they fight their way into the ballroom.
"Caitlyn! Vi! Are you still there!?" Ephrial yells over the sounds of battle.
A voice yells back through the static. "Heads up, rookies!"
The two look above to see a pair of mechanical hands break the skylight, and drop their swords through. They make a break for the middle of the floor, running over the bodies of the fallen, and avoid getting caught in the crossfire. Before the blades can touch the ground, they snatch them from gravity's control, taking flighted steps into the fray.
Despite their disadvantage in range of attack, the efforts by the barons' guards create a suitable distraction for the pair of swords to close in. Metal shreds, and bullets ricochet amidst the shouting of battlecries and fleeing citizens.
"Give me a gun! I can help, too!" an excitable Jinx starts to get hyper from the chaos.
"No way in hell!" sounds of the Enforcer's fists at work reach through the communications as she speaks.
"Aw, c'mooon…what's the worst that can happen!?"
Even without a visual of the scene on the roof, the swordsmen can feel Vi staring callously at her.
"Point taken!"
A blast of static, and a high-pitched tone rings in their ears. Caitlyn's voice crackles through, "Can anyone read me?!"
Ephrial kicks up a gentleman's cane into an enemy's gun, disrupting its aim, and allowing him to step in for a heavy slash. "Caitlyn, what's going on?"
"Someone has taken over the COPS network! They have turned on our own officers, and are causing havoc on the city!"
"So much for the idea of concealing their endeavors…"
"I just spotted Sophia's limousine exit the premises. It's being chased by drones!"
Turning to his partner, "Riven, we have to move—!"
With a thunderous burst, the majority of the ceiling crashes in on the far side of the room, and Vi meteors over a COP prototype with her oversized fist.
"Come on! Show me what you've got, tin can!" Vi continues to throw denting punches into the hull of the machine.
Jinx, with a stroke of luck, falls through the caving roof, and lands on the cake. A few short breaths later, and her head bursts out of the side, covered in a sugary mess.
"Ugh! Well, at least it made for a sweet landing, hahaha!" licking her lips.
A machine just like one from the delivery depot flails on the ground. Its railgun begins shooting wildly as it attempts to shake off the Enforcer's barrage of blows.
Ducking underneath a wave of extreme water pressure from the prototype's cannon, the two wanderers lurch forward. With no time to waste, they athletically weave through the erratic streams of bullets and laser-like jets of water. Almost like another dance, they cross and leap around each other. Within moments, they arrive at the fallen machine, and split up.
A fiery cleave severs the hydraulic cannon, and Ephrial moves to tackle the triple-barreled machine guns mounted on the arms. The Exile hops on top of the titan, joining Vi in the attempt of breaking into the cockpit. She jams the tip of her sword in a small gap between the frame and heavily reinforced glass. Using the broken blade as a lever, she pries the windshield enough for Vi to slip her mechanical fingers under. With a combined effort, they force the hinges open, and the glass shatters with the opposing resistance.
Vi winds up her arm, slowly drawing it back. The plates of her gauntlets begin to expand, charging with energy.
"Here comes the punchline!"
With all of her might, she launches her fist into the control panels, causing a small eruption. The two jump out of the thick cloud of black smoke, landing by Ephrial. A firefight still rages on around them, and they crouch by the foot of the destroyed mech for cover.
"We'll leave the clean-up here to the private security forces. Do we have any transportation we can use to follow Sophia?" the mercenary-knight asks.
"Make your way out back to me. I had our hexcycles brought over in case of such an event."
"The hallways are bound to be full of these rampant machines…" Ephrial starts contemplating an efficient strategy.
"Hah! Finally, we get to do things my way!" Vi charges forward.
The Exile and mercenary-knight follow after her, not entirely certain of her plan. They take a straight path to the wall, and a mechanical hand grabs Jinx by the hair, pulling her out of the massive confection along the way. Another charged fist primes itself, and she releases the gauntlet, allowing herself to fly forward with the momentum.
"Sometimes, you gotta make a door!"
The one-girl wrecking crew smashes a large hole in the wall, opening the way to another room of the palace. Dust begins to settle, and they see a large number of COPS stand over the bodies of fallen police officers and private security detail. Red lenses turn toward the League's champions, adjusting the focus of their optics with a combined zipping sound. One by one, batons spring out of their arms, each wrapped in vicious currents of electricity, amped up to a lethal voltage.
"We don't have time for all of them. Rush through!" Ephrial begins slashing away, aiming for the set of breached doors at the very back.
Blades and fists combat the automated movements of an enemy that does not know hesitation, fear, nor reason. Experience in overwhelming combat has the group break the ranks of the former police units, diving in without missing a beat. They have an objective ahead of them, and their unique skills plow through circuits and wires, leaving almost as much devastation behind as when the hijacked COPS themselves introduced with their assault.
The night air greets them as they reach the outside through a dilapidated exit. Lights and sirens illuminate the sky, and the sleepless city cries with the sound of unprecedented mayhem. In front of them is a row of several police bikes, more than enough for the group to each have one.
"Now this is what I call a party!" the Loose Cannon looks all around with wide-eyes, and a smile brimming with wonder.
A rough Enforcer throws her onto the seat of a hexcycle by her dyed ponytail. "Enjoy it while you can. After tonight, the only sights you'll see are behind bars!"
"Ow! Hey – take it easy! If you keep yanking my hair like that, I'll end up looking like you," mocking Vi's half-buzz hairstyle.
"Caitlyn, where are you?" Ephrial raises a cufflink to his mouth.
A static-filled response crackles through before fading completely. "…zzzt...Heading North…zzz…tzzz—ventor's Square…zzzt..."
"Where?"
"Inventor's Square, at the center of the city. It's a place dedicated to the founders of Piltover and their history, or somethin' like that," Vi mounts and revs up her motorcycle. "Come on, let's go smash some heads already!"
Riven and Ephrial hop aboard their own cycles, powering them up, and twist the handlebars for full-throttle. Rubber shrieks along the ground, creating a trailing cloud of dust and skid marks.
The streets teem with floundering traffic and gunfire, and drones zip around zeppelins in the sky. Police forces, both human and synthetic, wage war in the air and on the ground, with all of Piltover as the battlefield. Panicking citizens run for cover, making mad dashes for shelter inside buildings, or behind vehicles.
An unlikely group of misfits steers through an urban no man's land, racing past obstacles and various hazards. The clockwork city-state begins to puff with smoke of artillery and combat, finding its gears grinding with tension and fear as the destruction rapidly spreads. Spotlights and combusting aircrafts ignite the darkness above, and thunderous explosions echo throughout the streets and alleyways.
Ahead, the top of a skyscraper crumbles beneath the massive heft of a police zeppelin plowing into it. The titanic fireball begins to plummet in their direction, accelerating at the speed of gravity. Glass and rubble begin to shower down, and the airborne inferno nears the end of its collision course, right on the heads of the hot pursuit.
"Split!" the mercenary-knight veers to the left, leaning the vehicle into a sharp, skidding turn.
The others navigate into the opposite direction, cutting through a backroad. A powerful shockwave of the impact ripples along the ground, tearing up the pavement into fissures of uneven, exposed terrain. Underground pipes break, spewing steam into the air, creating a burning haze of vapor and flames from the wreckage.
A part of the ground juts out from underneath Ephrial's hexbike, flinging him off into the windshield of a parked shipping truck. The glass shatters under the force of his body, creating an indentation of himself in the metal of the frame and hood.
He begins to shake off the daze from the impact, and a relentless spirit peels himself off of the vehicle. Falling back to the ground, he catches himself on his feet and a supporting hand. A totaled police bike sputters and whirrs next to him, powering down into an inoperable mess. Rising back upright with each step forward, Ephrial begins to approach the flaming disaster that divides him from sight of the others. His formal attire torn and frayed, and a smudge of soot smeared across his cheek, he cups his hands over his mouth and calls out to the other side.
"RIVEN! VI!"
His only response is the crackling flames of the lively wall of flame before him. A moment passes without any word, and he prepares to shout again.
"We're fine! Quit yelling in my ear!" the Enforcer crackles over the communication.
The mercenary-knight turns his attention to a scratched cufflink. Placing a hand over his earpiece to hear better, he listens through a weakening connection.
"We're going to continue heading toward Inventor's Square. Just keep heading North, and we'll meet you…tzzz…tzzt—" her words fade and cut short.
A determined gaze of cerulean looks to his side, spotting a path that cuts through crumbling constructions of clockwork and stone. Nimbly crossing the obstructions in the way, he leaps through an opening, and begins darting down a lonely alleyway.
"This isn't good. I can't keep up on foot like this…" thinking aloud to himself. "There must be another—" a loud, deep whistle blows in an area relatively close by.
Ephrial's snaps to the direction of the sound, recognizing its signature steam-powered bellowing.
"The train…? Perfect. Something that important has to pass near, or even through the Square!"
Not even the stiff form of dress shoes slows the swordmaster down. Swift steps exit the shade of the alley, and he sees a large puff of steam rise from the rooftops of the shorter buildings. Bounding over the aftermath of a car collision, he begins taking the road leading toward the origin of the locomotive's beacon.
Like a sizzling sound, a dull pitch grows louder in his ear. Ten yards forward, and syllables become audible tell-tale signs of words. Ephrial hears a familiar voice in the midst of static-clad clamor, trying to focus on one voice in what sounds like a tight crowd of people.
"Caitlyn, is that you?"
"zzzzt…Ephrial? Good, you must…zzt…close."
"Not close enough to where I need to be," the train's whistle rings out again.
"Follow that sound! I'll need all the help I can get to evacuate these people!" the Sherriff says over the much louder echoing of the steam blast from her end.
"What happened to Sophia's limousine?"
"I lost contact with her when those blasted machines ran me off the street, and shot my bike to pieces. She was taking the bridge, the last I saw. This locomotive will take us to her, and we can save these people at the same time!"
"Are you certain this train will take us right where we need to be?" he swings around a corner, and a mob of corrupted COPS turn their cold stares toward him.
"Absolutely. I've been informed the police have created a perimeter around Inventor's Square, and that's where we're taking these people. The train is set to move soon! Hurry!"
The Blazing Swordsman unsheathes his blade, brimming with a focused fervor. A cerulean gaze meets the red lenses of machines turned against their very purpose. Deft footwork of determination brings a sword closer to a gunfight with each stride.
"I'm on my way."