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Chapter 37

One Way Track

Springs and bolts skip along in Ephrial's wake, littering the ground as he carves his way through gun-wielding techmaturgy. Sharp eyes mark the barrels of the firearms, mapping the trajectory of projectiles before they even begin their path. Flashes of steel and fire break through the ranks of another cluster of enemies, and the sight of a locomotive is cleared.

Steam puffs in the air with yet another loud whistle, and the linked wheels begin churning over the rails. Bearing the immense amount of weight between all the coaches attached, the engine starts off slow, and the train begins gradually picking up speed.

The mercenary-knight takes a detour, leaping through a window that leads into a tunneled passageway. He rushes up the stairs of a sheltered catwalk, nimbly stepping between the collage of lost possessions and fallen cybernetic operatives of Piltover. The heads of most of them have been blown clean off, and several nets pin a few metal bodies together. This is clearly the work of Caitlyn, a clever sheriff bottlenecking the rampant COPS, sharpshooting through the crowd of fleeing citizens.

A large gap appears ahead, where an explosion must have been triggered to stop the pursuing enemies from catching up during the evacuation. Singed metal and concrete slabs twist and crumble along the edges, creating unstable footing along a divide, over twenty feet across.

Racing against time, and unwilling to yield to a simple obstacle, the swordsman snags a net off a decommissioned robot, mid-step. He targets a metal beam that offshoots from the ceiling of the other side, stretching out above. Swinging the net by one of the spherical weights, he builds momentum with the others as they wind up into a blur. The ground beneath his feet begins giving way as he charges the opening, and he springs himself forward over a pitfall of fresh destruction.

Ephrial launches the net ahead like a bola, and it catches onto the piece of jutting steel. Holding onto his end, he swings his legs forward, clearing the gap. As soon as he lands, his footing begins to cave under, and he bounds from one disintegrating separation to the next. One last leap off of gravity's pull, and he finds himself dashing down the steps that lead to the train station. A few more hurdles, and he lands onto the tracks, with the steaming locomotive straight ahead.

Bullets begin peppering the gravel by his feet, and the mercenary-knight glances behind himself. A small mob of cybernetic units lay fire from a distance, marching together with a stiff uniformity. Severely out-ranged, he ignores them, turning his sights on the target ahead. Sheathing his blade, he propels himself forward in a full-on sprint.

The ground beneath quakes with the massive heft of the roaring steam engine and its cargo. Ionian training keeps his breath at a steady, even pace, and a relentless soul inches his way closer and closer. Ephrial extends a hand out in front of him, reaching for the railing on the back of the freight. Slowly, the gap closes, and in an all-or-nothing gamble, he lunges forward. The man of resolve grabs onto the rail, and lands his dress shoes on an iron panel next to the unlatched connector.

While he pulls himself up, sparks from hextech bullets sputter around him as the pursuing COPS fall out of range. At the lack of an accessible door, the swordsman begins ascending an adjacent ladder. As he reaches the top, the wind pushes back, and his hair flutters wildly. He begins stepping forward as the train accelerates, and a distant view of the center of Piltover appears in a dazzling glory of lights. An almost poetic scene unfolds, where past, present, and future converge; a swordsman rides a steam-powered locomotive into the heart of the city's progressing industry of boundless technological advancements.

With a voice hazed in static, Caitlyn reaches through the earpiece. "Is that you, Ephrial?" hearing shuffling and rushing wind on her end.

"Yeah. Seems I've made it just in time. I take it the passengers are okay?"

"For the time being. We should arrive at Inventor's square in approximately ten minutes."

"I see."

"I'm currently in the fourth car from the back."

"Almost there."

Explosions and gunfire echo out from the far distance, the sky igniting a nocturne warzone. Spotlights beam desperately in the air, amidst artillery shells and flaming skyscrapers. Ephrial crosses over a few freight cars, and reaches a passenger caboose. He dips down into the space between the link, and slides open a door. Eyes filled with fear and uncertainty glance at him as he passes through. Many of the passengers huddle with their families on the seats, parents comforting their children. Officers and citizens alike aid the wounded with what they can improvise onboard, and shell-shocked faces stare out the window at their falling city.

Piltover's citizens have become so at ease in their daily lives, spoiled by the splendors of technology, that they've lost touch with just how dangerous Runterra truly is. Irony proves a harsh teacher as their very security is now their cause of terror.

"I'm surprised you made it in time, Vigilante," the Sheriff brushes past a few officers, approaching Ephrial.

"You're not just going to say that and throw me off because I don't have a ticket, are you?"

"Very amusing," a stiff, posh voice responds.

"Tell me, how firm is this stronghold at Inventor's Square?"

"'Stronghold' would be a generous term…but it should suffice, due to the prototype techmaturgy presence there."

"It remains to be seen if more hextech involved in this is a good thing."

A sudden shock rocks the train, causing it to rattle back and forth on the rails. Screams of panic fill the car, and a torrent of bullets begin tearing away at the windows, scattering shards of glass all about. The two veterans of intense combat dive for the floor, and avoid the crossfire as two aerial drones sweep the flanks.

Piltover's uniformed police begin answering the flyby with their own weapons, while some tend to the freshly wounded.

"Are you alright?" Ephrial raises his head off the littered floor.

"Just another day on the job," Caitlyn answers, picking herself up, and brushing off her formal dress.

"We have to draw their fire away from the crowd," starting toward the sliding door at the end.

"You'll be a sitting duck out there!"

"Well, I guess it's a good thing I have a sniper watching my back," unhesitating steps reach the ladder from which he had come.

With the train now running at full speed, the wind, much fiercer than before, beats down on Ephrial as he pulls himself onto the roof of the caboose. He stands up slowly, keeping his balance against the airy resistance. A pair of choppers pursue the locomotive along the sides, forming up for another barrage.

Ahead, a zeppelin hovers above the tracks, with ropes dropping below. As the train rushes underneath, corrupted units zip down them, descending on the various cars being hauled. Heavy metal feet slam down onto the roofs as each of them land, creating large dents in their wake. Batons unfold from their forearms, and begin sparking lively with lethal voltage. Targeting the first person they see, they begin rushing and leaping their way over towards the sharply-dressed swordsman.

"This technology is ridiculously advanced…" inquisitive thoughts about the funding behind these creations murmur in the swordsman's mind.

The coat of his tuxedo flaps violently in the turbulence as he charges forth, blade poised to be drawn out in a flash. Tri-barreled Gatling guns begin rotating, and a winding sound introduces a spray of projectiles at the rushing Ephrial. Trails of sparks fly and scatter behind, tracing his path over the thick plates just barely able to withstand being breached.

Flames launch outward at the release of the fervor-charged sword, splitting two corrupted security units in half. Keeping ahead of the array of bullets, he weaves seamlessly around the furious swipes of electrical weapons, letting the helicopters' friendly fire dissolve them away into mangled scraps. The steady mercenary-knight blazes through the last of the troop, racing the high-caliber rounds biting at his heels.

Ephrial's eyes are fixed on the gap in between cars, just ahead. Sheathing his blade, he hurls himself forward, feet-first. As he slides across the roof of the caboose, an explosion rings out from behind him. Diving down to safety, combusting particles and debris flurry in the air above, followed by a second explosion, and a subsequent silence. Pulling himself back up using a service ladder, he raises his head to take a peek.

Flaming chassis of the perusing aircrafts fall into the distance, crashing into a burning waste. He sees Caitlyn at the opposite end of the car, tipping a much smaller, glamorized version of her tophat. Even when dolled up for a formal event, the Sheriff of Piltover is never far from her choice of headwear.

The swordsman responds with a nod, and drops back down to the transitioning doors in between train cars. A loud popping sound rings out, and the shrill screeching of grinding metal pierces the air. Ephrial leans over the railing, looking out to the side of the locomotive, toward the origin of the distress. A large blanket of sparks sputters viciously out from beneath, and the entire cabin begins to shake.

"Do you feel that? One of the wheels has been badly damaged, and at this speed, the car won't last!" Caitlyn speaks over the communication device. "Get these civilians out of here, and into the next one over!"

"I'm on it. What about you?"

"I'll hold them off before they can do any more damage," she says over paced gunfire, calculating her sights on new targets.

The vigilante slides open the door to a crowd of panicking Piltovans. With the floor rumbling beneath their feet due to the compromised integrity of the transportation, everyone stumbles and trips over each other. Ephrial begins to work swiftly, directing people out of the caboose.

"On your feet! We have to move, now!"

He steps in, picking people up and aiding citizens and officers in getting through the transition doors to safety. Working together, the wounded are supported by helping hands and supportive shoulders, limping with urgency. Ephrial makes several rounds back and forth along the length of the car, making sure it's empty of all passengers. Another explosion shatters the remaining stability, violently rocking the transportation. Grabbing hold of the adjacent seat, the mercenary-knight keeps his balance as the compartment tilts sharply at an angle. A fountain of sparks begins to cascade just outside the window, and the screeching of twisted metal grinding against the track slices through the air.

Looking past the window of the rear door, Ephrial spots the Sheriff leap down from the roof, and slide the barrier open. Before she can set foot inside, bullets begin raining down through the weakened roof above them, tearing a trail of holes in its wake. Another wheel gives way, and the cart is now virtually being dragged on the ground by the pulling link. The combined weight of the cargo freights being hauled behind it forms a tumultuous situation for the two, knocking them down over themselves.

Another barrage from the side, above their heads, and the plates of steel and iron around them burst to pieces. Slabs and torn sheets of metal open into large flaps, and the remaining roof begins peeling off with the locomotive's velocity. Spotlights belonging to the enemy choppers shine down on them, slowly steading themselves for a follow-up assault.

The two champions of the League lift up their heads from the broken glass and debris of splintered wooden seating. An exchange of looks, and they both race to their feet, making a mad dash for the next caboose over. As they approach the transition, the struggling frame of the car gives way, and half of the compartment tears off. The steel flooring collapses beneath them, slanting steeply as the end batters against the wooden planks of the track, and the edges skim across the rails. Scarcely remaining attached, the platform manages to remain fastened, tripping the two into a ramp that slides into a blender of metal and gravel.

Ephrial clutches the seat closest to the doorway as they fall, and his other hand grasps Caitlyn from descending into a messy demise. A drone hovers down in front of them, shining the bright light directly at the two. Without hesitation, the Sheriff of Piltover clicks something on the side of her rifle, using an ornate heel beneath her dress. Aiming the barrel of her trusty sniper down toward the tracks, a shot at a forty-five-degree angle launches a heavy net outward. The abundant force of the recoil propels her into the vigilante, in turn, knocking them both into the next car.

The sound of another attack rings out, and the remaining portion of the caboose rips off in a dramatic flip, taking the wall of this one along with it. Recovering from an unorthodox, improvised landing, the two look up to see that pursing light pour down on them once more, leveling itself out with the newfound opening.

Both the swordsman and sharpshooter snap their gazes to the next exit, and scramble to collect themselves from the ground. The persisting panic and gunfire has caused the evacuating passengers to continue forward into the next cars, leaving the current one abandoned with the exception of some loose possessions in the process. Without wasting a single step, the two dash forward, side-by-side, barely keeping ahead of a machine gun as it peppers down upon them. The propellers of the COP adjust, allowing it to chase them through the inside of the caboose, plowing through the seats as it presses forward on its targets.

Forcefully sliding the door open, they manage to outrun the bombardment, and turn around at the door leading into the adjacent car. A torrent of bullets still persists, and Ephrial swings his blade out of its sheathe. Turning his attention to the heavily reinforced links that now connect them and their foe, he lets out a heavy slash at the thick steel. The blade slices clean, leaving a molten orange glow on the severed locking mechanism, and the train begins pulling away from the loose car.

A miscalculation with the change of environmental speeds, and the corrupted unit's propellers collide with the caboose, causing it to spin itself into the side. The drone wildly tumbles over inside the parted cabin, and the heat of a fiery explosion reaches the champions as they cover themselves from the hail of chaff and wreckage. A faint barrier of orange shields them from any direct impact.

Lowering their arms, they see yet more incoming COPS in the air, fast approaching. They turn over their shoulders, looking through the glass of the transition door behind them. The car is highly saturated with people, well-over the suggested capacity. All of the ongoing danger has the passengers pushed back in as far as they can go, pressing together like sardines in a can.

"This isn't good," the Sheriff, concerned for the citizens of Piltover.

"We can't let them come close. These people are easier targets than Fizz in a barrel."

"There are too many for me to take out in time before they open fire on us."

"…I have an idea," a cerulean gaze narrows.

A feeling of worry washes over her, a reaction common with those that are the slightest bit familiar with the mercenary-knight's improvisations. However, with so many innocents at stake, she is willing to try anything.

Ephrial begins climbing the ladder to the roof, and Caitlyn follows suit. Fighting against the wind, they lower themselves to minimize air resistance as they rush to the front of the train. A continuous cloud of steam and smoke puffs overhead, getting thicker as they move onward.

The city approaches steadfast as their rural outskirts begins to run short. The tracks, kept somewhat distant for safety reasons, are nearing the end, and Inventor's Square comes into view. Low on time, the marksman becomes anxious.

"What is it you're up to, Vigilante?"

"We're going to separate the engine from the rest of the train."

"That'll just slow us down, really making us sitting ducks!"

"Not if we speed up first."

She arches an eyebrow, piqued at the idea of accelerating the train so close to the city. They begin nearing the front, now able to see the tracks ahead at a fair distance.

"That's your only target," Ephrial points ahead.

Sharp eyes scan towards his direction, spotting a railroad switch as far as her eye can see.

"I'm going to give the engine a boost, pulling us away from those tailing machines," he continues. "Just before we reach that switch, I'll sever the link to the rest of the train."

"And that's when you want me to shoot the switch, changing the tracks so we and the passengers are sent toward Inventor's Square for safety," Caitlyn completes his idea with deductive reasoning.

"Right."

"Exchanging several targets for one in a high-risk exchange. Bold…but efficient."

The Sheriff, onboard with the plan, takes a knee, and adjusts her scope ahead, poising to hit the switch to set it off course. Ephrial dips down from the caboose, and enters the engine. A pocket watch, lying open with a picture of a family inside, and the absence of a conductor, tells of a sacrifice to get the train moving in a time of desperation.

A shot rings out from overhead, signaling the first adjustment of the tracks, now set to lead away from the city. A steadfast mercenary takes it as his cue to speed the engine up. The steam core is one of Piltover's oldest designs, so it still runs on coal to produce the heat necessary for operation. An ardent blade plunges itself into the furnace, and the combination of Noxian grit and Ionian tenacity sends the flames into a blaze of fury.

Steam floods out of the top of the engine, and the connectors of the wheels begin to rattle. Fueled by a fiery resolve, the train pulls ahead, gaining a distance from the following set of state-of-the-art security drones.

Caitlyn drops down from the roof, and Ephrial withdraws his blade from the furnace, joining her on the cabin's platform. A quick swipe at the iron pin holding them to the steam engine, and a gap begins to widen. The sharp eyes of a sniper concentrate with all their might, accounting for wind, velocity, and an extra-narrow target after taking off a chunk of it with her first shot. The rumbling of the tracks puts more pressure on her, sweat beading on her forehead.

Ephrial kneels down with her, offering his shoulder as a support in place of a bipod. Caitlyn accepts, resting the barrel of her weapon for a steadier shot. The wind becomes ruthless as the shade of the steam engine pulls further away, fully exposing them to the tempestuous air.

The Sheriff shuts one eye, and peers through her scope with the other. A blurred image adjusts itself as the rifle calibrates the proximity of the target. Timing is everything, as she must hit it perfectly in order to keep the engine going forward, and send themselves on the curve that leads into the city. The switch will be extremely close at the appointed time, but hitting anything other than the extremely attenuated lever will produce no results. Pushing all the disciplines of a patient sniper to the limits, Caitlyn breathes through the process of setting her sights. Gritting her teeth, she begins to squeeze the trigger, and a loud pop blasts out.

A sound of metal receiving a sharp impact replies as they whizz right by the railroad controller, and the switch becomes nothing but the briefest of blurs. They jerk to the side, grasping hold of the railing as the cabin takes a sharp turn to the right. With their velocity well above the legal limits, the carts lift off the tracks to one side, and narrowly fall back onto the railing. Screams of panic emit from beyond the door behind the two, as the passengers are taken by an abrupt turbulence.

Now resuming a straight course, the remaining cabooses of the locomotive race ahead. Behind them, the steam engine explodes into a fiery inferno, into the trainyard just beyond a patch of tall trees. The two allies lift themselves up, and the officer looks out from the side of the rail.

"They're still chasing us!"

"I wouldn't worry about them. Should they continue, they'll be taken care of by your forces. If Inventor's Square really is a garrison of sorts, they must have some anti-air defenses," Ephrial surmises from the explosions in the air around the skyscrapers.

He aids the sheriff up a worn ladder and follows after, climbing back up to the roof. They cross over to the rear of the last cabin, keeping low with the rushing wind at their backs.

"I wonder how the others are doing. That partner of yours has quite a temper," Caitlyn states flatly.

"She isn't so bad. Then again, you should know all about that kind of thing," he notes her undisciplined enforcer.

"A valid point. Although, I wonder how she puts up with your…unpredictability," comparing and contrasting the differences in their respective partnerships and dispositions.

"Well, I don't exactly have an answer for that yet. Though, if I had to guess, she's probably wondering the same thing."

They both leap down to the shallow platform below, facing the retreating end of the tracks as everything in view becomes more distant.

"Then, that brings me to my next question… How do we stop?"

"…We hold on."

A weary sigh. "Ugh… There should be a law against you having any ideas…" she crouches and braces herself with the safety railing.

The train station appears around a bend, coming a little too quickly for comfort.

Ephrial seats himself on the opposite end, casually wrapping his arm around one of the bars.

"You look rather calm, all things considered," Caitlyn notes, squeezing the bars tightly.

"I suppose I'm only as excitable as I allow myself to be," he caters his answer, seeing through her mindful deductions between his level-headedness and the fervor he displays in battle.

The debonair guest of Piltover reaches into his formal jacket, pulling out a very small, frilly top hat. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses it onto the barrel of a resting rifle. A posh owner watches as it spins around on the tip of her gun, and, as if in anger, spares a hand to snatch it. She places her favorite form of accessory back onto her head, holding it in place through the speeding gale.

"…You really are some sort of middle-ground of two unlike nations, aren't you? Seemingly reckless and forceful at first glance…yet calculated and selfless, even for those of whom you have no stake. Perhaps I've misjudged you, Vigilante. …Thank you," letting down her stern demeanor for a moment.

"Heh," he titters a grin. "Coming from an officer of the law, I'll take that as a compliment." A fading smile, "…I should thank you, in turn."

"What for?"

"For calling me a 'vigilante'. Though many people know what I truly stand for, there are still many more that can only see me as just another bloodthirsty Noxian. At least the term 'vigilante' acknowledges actions rather than mere heritage."

"Hm. I didn't take you as one to get easily offended by names."

"I'm not. There are just…certain stereotypes I need to clear. It's an ongoing endeavor on behalf of someone else…"

"…Your sister, I presume?" having done her research, and being naturally skilled at deducing situations and intentions.

The mercenary-knight gives a slight nod.

"I see. If it's any consolation, I have no doubt you will continue to change the way people think about you, and Noxian-Ionians in general. At least, once they see just what kind of crazy stunts you pull off. Don't get me wrong — you're still a criminal in the eyes of the law! But, you're my kind of criminal," finding herself reminded of the dangerous potential she would normally lock behind bars, Vi being that first exception.

The two share a short, light laughter.

Ephrial maintains a grin, leaning his head back up against the railing, and closes his eyes. The officer and vigilante streak toward their destination without control, relying only on friction to slow them down. Hurdling toward an impending crash, they find themselves strangely at ease. Perhaps due to the intensity of all the chaos, as well as the brand of extremity that the League introduces in battle, Caitlyn, too, finds a calm in the part of a storm they can do nothing but be still in.

"Does this mean I'm exempt from all the destruction I've been involved with in Piltover, or will I just have to pay a fine?"

Caitlyn tilts her head down and brings the rim of her hat over her eyes with a smirk, trying to match his level of relaxed demeanor in the face of explicit danger.

"Hm. Remind me to think about it later… If we live, that is."