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Chapter 31

Unscrewing the Tension

The sword-bearing duo walks through the blast doors of the workshop belonging to the Revered Inventor. Traveling towards the noise of a soldering tool at work, they approach a heavily-focused yordle.

"Special delivery," Ephrial lays an odd device down on the workbench in front of Heimerdinger.

A stream of sparks comes to a pause, and a tiny hand picks up the implement to examine it. Gray plates form the cylindrical body, like an oversized pen, with a thin metal rod extending out of it. At the head of the gadget is a set of tiny prongs which conform to the shape of any screw's indentations, similar to how a pin impressions toy works. With a press of a button, four rods spring out from the base, stretching out to surround the head, poised to clamp down on the sides of a screw's head to introduce a magnetic force.

"Yes, this will suffice quite nicely," he turns the item in his hand. "It seems your errand did not go as smoothly as anticipated," switching his gaze over to them.

"What gave it away?" noting the rough condition the two are in.

Heimerdinger responds by turning up the volume on the nearby spinning wire display. Broadcasting is a female reporter covering a story on the damage caused during the night in two separate locations.

"We are currently waiting for the chief of police to make an announcement regarding the destruction that took place earlier in these late hours, responsible for cutting off power to a quarter of the city. Panic in the streets have died down, and there have been reports of a major arrest being made in the involvement of the terror attacks occurring all throughout Piltover. Many eager ears and worried citizens have gathered here in anticipation for the words we have been waiting to hear."

The crowd around her begins to escalate at the sight of an approaching figure, taking his place at a podium in front of the police station.

Continuing to report, "The chief has just emerged and is preparing to issue a statement!"

With a flicker, the images change to that of a burly man with a mechanical replacement for his left hand. His blue uniform is neat and pressed, decorated with an array of medals and ribbons over a long career of service. Gray streaks of hair tell of experience, and a stern face of discipline looks into the crowd. Accompanying him are two familiar figures, dressed in police in uniforms, far from standard-issue, and a bit questionable.

"Citizens of Piltover, you have heard the phrase 'the night is darkest just before the dawn'. Through the tireless efforts and valiant actions of our most daring, I am pleased to make the announcement of a critical arrest that will mark a time of peace for the City of Progress. The terrorist and villain known as Jinx has been placed into custody, and is being scheduled for immediate incarceration in the highest security facility at our disposal."

A roar erupts within the crowd. Cheers of jubilation spread through the city at the news everyone had been hoping to receive for a long time. Police lights from nearby cruisers and drones light up the sky in a flashing of blue and red. The sirens nearly startle the crowd, invoking another silence for the chief to continue.

"It is with great honor that I award these two heroes with the credit they deserve for their distinguished service. These brave women are truly Piltover's Finest."

He steps from the podium, approaching the adjacent figures to pin medals on their uniforms. Standing at attention, the familiar faces of a sheriff and enforcer receive their accommodations with dignity. Stepping back, the chief salutes them, then joins in the applause, and the night air begins to strobe rapidly with photography. Unable to hold a façade of austere mannerisms, the hextech-clad hands of the pink-haired enforcer break into the mood. One giant hand rests over her partner's shoulder, and the other shoots the cameras an oversized thumbs-up. The more serious face under the shade of a pair of aviators surrenders to the toothpick-bearing Cheshire grin of her partner, and strikes a pose with her scoped rifle. The light of the sun peaks over the horizon, painting the sky with the bright orangey-pink of dawn.

"There you have it," the reporter chimes back in. "The news all of Piltover has been anxiously hoping for! Jinx, the Loose Cannon, has been arrested! How this will affect the city's relations with the Institute of War is anybody's guess, but we can all rest easier tonight knowing that the city is safe from the blue braids of havoc!"

"An intriguing development, but we had no part in this," Ephrial turns back to Heimerdinger.

"Then what else, may I ask, could have dispensed such inimical strain on you?"

"It would be better not to ask," Riven speaks.

"…She's right. It's unrelated, and we've brought what you had asked for."

"Yes, yes, I will get started right away," the Revered Inventor begins to meddle with the circuit board.

The two hover behind him, awaiting the reveal of their next clue. To think that such a small, fragile article of technology could hold valuable information to a huge scandal makes them realize how closely they must pay attention to detail. Advanced hextech, a plot successful in devastating the Institute of War, and dark ambitions lurking in the shadows tell of an enemy that will not be so easily pinpointed. Along the way, events seemingly dredge up their histories, as if the past yearns to take hold of their present and future with tendrils, stalking them wherever they go.

With a very faint buzzing, the conforming head of the hextool twists, and the last helix screw winds out. The yordle begins to pry the cover off of the diode, and the little piece of black paneling surrenders with a tiny snap. All three lean closer to the layers of magnifying glasses fixed on its position. They share a focused squint, with a look of question writing itself across their faces.

"…That is our lead?" Riven scoffs.

Ephrial, determined to make their strenuous efforts mean something, "There has to be more…"

"Hm…this is highly unsatisfactory," a white mustache twitches.

Inside of the casing is a simple letter, stamped with care, mocking them; 'C'. Though the definition of minimalistic, there is an eloquence in the style and setting of it, as if designed for deliberate discovery.

"What's your take on this, Heimerdinger?" the mercenary-knight scrutinizes every detail of their find.

"It is not out of the ordinary an inventor would brand their creation in some way, marking it as their own for others to see."

"You mean it's some kind of signature?" Riven conjectures.

"Precisely."

Ephrial turns away, crossing his arms, and taking a few steps with his head down in contemplation.

"What is it?" the Exile inquires a discerning mind.

"It must have taken some special kind of pride to leave us a breadcrumb like this, no matter how small."

"You're saying they want us to find out who did it?"

"I believe it to be a form of challenge for us to find out."

The Revered Inventor further inspects the insignia. "In order for this presumption to be plausible, the creator would have had to plant this symbol in nearly every diode and transistor for at least one to survive the trauma described to me."

"Perhaps it is a longshot, but it's the only explanation we have at the moment. Why else would they have gone through such efforts to conceal it with a trap? This couldn't have been intended for just anyone, though. There has to be another connection."

"Is there anyone you know that adorns their inventions with such a marking?" Riven asks the yordle.

"No. I'm afraid my usefulness in your search ends here. The only thing left for me to offer you is a wish of good probability in your endeavor."

"You're not going to help us any further?"

"I have my own affairs I must contend with. When I am free of my obligations, I shall make my own move onto this changing battlefield." Heimerdinger begins to walk over to a set of blueprints, muttering to himself various calculations and scientific terms.

"Well, I guess that's all we're getting out of him for now," Ephrial gives a slight shrug.

"What's next?"

"We visit our friends down at the police station."

"Are you crazy? They'll apprehend us after what we did at the courier depot!" Riven objects.

"Doubt it. We may have inadvertently done them a favor," holding up the invoice they had found after defeating Slater Thatermauge.

The two turn, and begin their way out of the legendary inventor's workshop.

"What does that have to do with this?" Riven looks at the fragment of advanced technology in her hand.

"Maybe something, maybe nothing. If it holds any value at all, a certain detective may be more willing to lend us a hand with our own investigation."

"I see… Your aim is an exchange of information with Piltover's sheriff."

"More or less. After all, with Noxus getting along with this city's rival, it would help if we did not come empty-handed."

The Exile insinuates her past, "You mean, because of me."

"Because nothing's ever free," deflecting her assertion with a truthful statement.

"That's exactly what a mercenary would say. Tell me, then…what is it you seek in return for helping me?"

"Heh," admiring ex-soldier's keenness in conversation. "Would I be allowed to call myself an exception?"

"They are your own words, 'mercenary-knight'. You must be pursuing some personal benefit in all of this. Tell me."

"My intentions were never to ask, nor receive anything from you like you are suggesting. However, if you insist that I charge you…"

"What…? That is not what I—!"

"How about a story?"

"…A…story...?"

"Why not? I've indulged you in a couple of tales. Surely you have some of your own to share."

Riven pauses, hit with an unexpected request. Ever since her name had reemerged from the dead, everyone looked at her as if they knew everything they had already needed to know…and perhaps they were right. So many eyes of distrust, chastisement…and hatred. The very summoners she had shared her mind with had held many reservations of their own, no matter how sympathetic some of their voices were. It's hard to sift through the memories of a slaughterer of families, and see them without the slightest bit of ire burning inside.

"I…I don't have any stories to share…" her eyes begin to smolder with battle and regret.

"We both know that isn't true. You've traveled around Runeterra for nearly as long as I have. Come on…there must something worth remembrance in this odd world that never sits still."

The Exile exhales, shaking her head. She shuts her eyes and thinks back, looking for some scrap of an anecdote during her travels after Ionia. "I don't have anything…I'm sorry…"

Those last two words seem to weigh like an anchor in a deep abyss of dark memories. Ephrial realizes he has accidentally diverted things in the direction opposite of intended, glancing at her with a burgeoning sense of concern.

"…Then, I am honored," flashing a grin, his eyes fixing forward.

Lifting her head back up, confusion taking the place of brooding. "What…?"

"I get to be the first to take part in your stories. Those that have passed, like the packs of animals that surrounded us, that encounter with a giant hydra of doom, and even a police unit made for excessive enforcement," sneaking a play on words in the mix. "Then, there are those yet to come, just ahead. …We're going to have to work on some accounts that don't end in '—and that's how we almost died'."

Riven sighs deeply at the mix of a roguish and boyish charm; a balance of mature and jovial conduct that has a way of provoking a response, even from a recluse such as herself. A small chuckle erupts to a small, short-lived laughter as she raises her head. Her eyes open again, the embers of conflict taking a backseat for the moment. The recollection of a very recent occurrence comes forward, along with the sentiments she imagines is common in his own tales.

"…There is one thing that happened."

"Oh? What might that be?" intrigued by the unprecedented laughter.

"Just before I arrived in view of Piltover, I found a little girl named Cecilia…"

The partners continue down the corridors, adding quips about various details as the account unfolds, and setting off in a chain of back and forth laughter. A rare moment of respite takes its place between the two in the form of light fun. If only for a short while, the air around them settles without the ongoing complexity of emotions caused by the burdens they bear.

A diminutive clue opens further progression in their endeavors, and a little banter advances a developing amity. Even the smallest of moments can hold the largest potential for great change. Piltover knows this better than any other nation. When it comes to catching the smallest details, no one tops the hat of the city's esteemed sheriff.

Together, two adventurers journey into the reach of the long arms of the law.