DISCLAIMERS

This chapter is the second of Act IV in the The Unofficial Acts series. It is option, yet advised, you have read the previous chapter (They're Calling it the Hi-Jinx) before proceeding.

While being fanfiction, each chapter was formatted as if it were a 'scene' of a whole episode which is this work, as part of a hypothetical season which is the The Unofficial Acts (TUA) series.

This, once again emphasized here, is a HYPOTHETICAL SCENARIO and UNOFFICIAL, established far before the release of the teaser trailer in June 2024, so it shouldn't be taken with severe scrutiny. Care was taken to approach this work as close to the canon element as possible, but there are no guarantees of non-discrepancy, especially in regards to added elements that are introduced here. Some other elements from the original LoL universe (especially but not limited to origin stories) have been altered in as much a sense as they were originally in the series.

The elements depicted here contain multiple SPOILERS from Arcane: League of Legends Season 01. This is a warning to those whom have not completely watched the entire series, prior to start reading this fanfiction.

Elements of graphical violence, angst, psychosis and paranoia might be included across not only this chapter, but also the series. You were warned.

Based on Arcane: League of Legends by Netflix and Fortiche Studios. League of Legends universe and characters by Riot Games.

IN MEDIAS RES

It always begins with a simple phrase - 'It's for the best'. Often twisted into 'I had the best of intentions'. Or 'I thought it'd make things better'. Or 'I just wanted to help'.

The large, cerulean, eye-patched vendor within the house was mostly lonely, the tight space inhabitable to a very minimum, and was on his day off when he heard the bumps on his door, heading to check out.

The problem really lies in the deeds. The things done in secrecy, the secrets kept or the crossing of moral thresholds. Or even the things that are not done.

He opens the peephole to see, outside his place, by the alley, a pink headed girl and a girl besides her, clearly Piltovan despite the Zaunite clothes.

They call his name for aid. No doubt to let them in from the wrath of the outside. They know him. As he knows them as well. They ate at his place but days ago.

He should help them. They were nice to him, after all.

And still he doesn't. He knows what they did. And what would bring if they were to be let in.

The things we turn an eye away from, repeating the intent, like a mantra, until it goes away.

He shuts the peephole.

But it doesn't. The formless weight remains. As do the cold expressions around you, even if there are none. And where you walk or stay suddenly doesn't feel like home.

The bumps at the door continues. The vendor's name continues to be shouted, until it's shouted no more. They're gone.

It's a conundrum, really. When this phrase is spoken, two questions come along with it.

He closes his eyes in shame, but he knew what he had to do.

How far are you willing to go? And at which point do you say 'Enough is enough'?

He walks back to the room, to preparing the next batch for when his store opens. Obviously, he's not expecting them to visit him anytime soon. How would they, now, after that?

Jericho tried his best to forget that. It was for his best. That's what he kept saying to himself, in his language, over and over.

Both form an equation. One that will calculate your level of regrets.

ACT IV

THERE'S DIRTY WAR, AND THERE'S DIRTY WAR

THE MISTRESS AND THE LADY

Metrics.

Chronology.

When working within that place, one was to be aware of these two things like if their lives mattered. Such was with the house mistress, Laine, as she performed, or attempted to perform her best in accordance to the expectations and demands of the lady of the house, as if the impeccability of the place wasn't a daunting task enough as it was. And a large one place at that.

And, of course, it brought a needless pressure Laine had to bring to bear over the remainder of the staff, stressed already with not just having to keep up with the strict, calculated times, but also having to rework the already urgent breakfast omelet if a single deviation were to be spotted. Be it the distribution of the ingredients, from the amount of vegetables, to egg count or milk quantity, and even the mounting of the omelet itself, from positioning of the ingredients to the distribution of the spices, to even the distance between the edge of the omelet and the fold.

THAT explained to a modicum why, out of all and every kitchen across Piltover, even in the fine estates of the Kiramman, Medarda or Arvino, it was the kitchen of the Ferros' estate the only one to have a clock in each of it's four walls as well as rulers.

Laine looked at the clock by the window as the morning lights shined against the kitchen and the harried staff. 05:47. The lady was close to being done with her... morning exercise and cleanup routine. And the omelet wasn't even done. One of the staff, supposed to have delivered those fresh vegetables, including belt pepper and tomatoes, delayed. And an omelet had to be remade, as it was slightly whiter than usual.

"Service!", spoke aloud the lead cook, Tasya, bringing the new omelette, served in a silver platter and built as practically the most exemplar omelet of all, with sprinkled finely chopped parsley and a tomato slice at the top.

Laine wasted no time in grabbing the closest ruler and start measuring it as if it were a person, trying to control her breath, scrutinizing the dish in a far more thorough manner than an Enforcer scrutinizing suspects on the events of Progress Day.

Metrics, metrics, metrics.

The same devilish concept that had Laine look up to Tasya in a worried, stressed manner.

"Remake it.", she ordered.

"It'll come late, mistress.", Tasya warned.

"Edge is two inches away from the fold.", Laine explained.

"Just press it, Laine, she won't notice.", a cook at the back, Zella, whined.

"Watch your mouth!", Laine warned, looking at at the kitchen's walls and then at Zella. "Hurry!"

And so the omelet was again remade.

05:57.

Laine's heart raced, yet she tried keeping her composure, when the omelet was brought in before her, starting her measurements all over again, the mind stressed to be able to make it in time.

The measurements were done. Parsley and tomato distribution were exemplar. The color was golden and perfect. A pass.

Laine wasted no time in putting on a lid at the silver platter and then carrying it with two hands across the majestic halls of the manor and towards upstairs.

Towards the office. Towards her lady.

05:59.

Less than a minute left and she reached the doubled doors to the office. She's sipping her tea, now, in an almost delicate manner, just waiting for the prized food to arrive prior to opening and reading the Daily Pilt.

Chronology, chronology.

Laine knocks thrice three times at the door, each interval between every triad of knocks calculated in a second.

A second passes before two rings are heard. Laine may enter, and thus she did.

The office was quite a spacious and elegantly decorated one, with a large table where the Lady sat behind it in a chair almost akin to a throne. At the right lateral wall was either the stored files and a small desk, as well as a large map covering the metropolitan area of Piltover hanging on the wall. To the left, a wooden panel with stapled notes, pictures, etcetera, as well as a map covering another metropolitan area, though this one representing the fissures of Zaun.

The Lady herself finished taking her sip and rested both teacup and it's plate on the table, staring at Laine with her unnatural blue eyes, her greyed-out hair and unnaturally preserved elder face, almost like a porcelain doll, in an expression of serenity, grace and intimidation all at once.

"Miss Laine...", the Gray Lady started, checking her left, black hand holding a pocket watch, as she spoke the words in a heavily accented tone, each word like a delicacy, though slightly distorted by some mechanism. "Three minutes and eleven seconds of delay. You may defend yourself."

Laine's heart raced. It didn't make sense, she couldn't be that late.

"The... omelet had to be reworked twice, Lady Camille.", she started.

"And clearly the kitchen's clocks need more fine-tuning.", Camille remarked. "These variations are becoming quite a savanna."

"Miss Tasya faltered a bit with the fold measures.", Laine started. "She-"

"She performs as she is instructed, as she is tuned.", Camille cut, in a calm to shudder Miss Laine's vain attempts at an excuse.

Miss Laine lowered her head. She should've known better.

"That self-made women need to be more prevalent, that is a fact. But do you know what is the true element behind leadership, Miss Laine?", Camille asked. "Positions. The position of one's self, the position of those around him or her. And the position of blames. The blade doesn't blame it's edge for being dull, but rather the lack of commitment from the whetstone."

Miss Laine gulped.

"These words uttered...", Camille continued. "Miss Tasya has rather instead shown an improvement in comparison to her last service. The last omelet, it's edge, it was distanced over 3 inches and a half, rather than two. With my judgement of it being rewarded now at the same measure countered as to how it was scrutinized."

"Milady, I can explain-", Miss Laine rushed.

"Seek my attention at your peril.", Camille interrupted. Laine herself stopped right there. "Clearly you may have started believing these variations, of time and metrics, are acceptable. Just a second or two. Just a millimeter or two. So does the mason as he is finished with his labor, ignoring the tiny crack at the ivory column. It's merely so small, what much damage can it do? And then it's left. And the column is left unwatched. Days pass. Weeks, months, years. Decades. And then, as the mason returns, it finds the tiny crack has rather grown a cortex, enough to bear a personality crisis - it believed it was an oak seed and grew. And now the whole column aspires collapse."

Laine remained silent, though hints of nervousness were leaking across. Camille wanted to savor it, but she knew better and needed to get her point across at once.

"When one is born in a place known as the 'City of Progress', steep expectations are already laid upon.", Camille continued. "This alone disproves that the once primitive laws of nature that dominated us are gone. It has survived, because it has adapted to our advancements. And thus for one to still survive, he or she must still adapt. Progress may demand sacrifice, hence the motto of my beloved House..."

"For family, I will give.", Laine spoke, then.

This is when Camille rose from her chair, revealing that sight that was always as unnerving to Laine as to every other on her employ but the butler. The sight of those mechanical thighs, unnaturally large for her bodily frame, and legs shaped like blades, which inexplicably kept all of the body on it's feet.

"Yet, it is diligence and precision that turn loose the locks to the doors of life.", Camille continued, turning around and walking to the outside window. "Not loyalty, or accumulations of material or prestige. Diligence and precision. And one whom can at best upkeep such values and reduce such wild variations, such as of those of recent days... might have a future in this estate. Might have a future in Piltover. Might have a future in the fissures. Might have a future anywhere in Valoran..."

Camille then turned around and stared at Laine with a cold, dead serious expression.

"I think the both of us are at an understanding now, aren't we, Miss Laine?", she asked, in an unnerving politeness.

"Yes. Yes, Lady Camille.", Laine nodded.

"I expect so.", Camille continued, returning to the desk and sitting back down. "A cleaver can do as much well a work for one whom knows precision as well as a scalpel. Precision is the difference between a butcher and a surgeon."

Out of nowhere, another triad of triple knocks were heard at the doors. Camille ringed the bell twice, and the doors opened to reveal her trusted butler, arriving with today's Daily Pilt print. The butler closed the door and remained stationed at the back.

"And on a final note, Miss Laine...", Camille glanced on a moment at the butler, Malt, then back at Laine herself. "I think we can both agree that Miss Zella will be well and on her very way from this day forward. You may leave now to see to it."

Laine nodded and then turned around to leave, passing by Malt and opening the doors, passing by them and closing them.

"Were it only that the organic could be as easily set up with a determinant as the mechanical...", Camille noted to her butler. "I trust there are no more complications other than the errands I have to look after today, Malt?"

"I'm afraid there are more, m'lady.", Malt answered straightforward, stepping forward. "An informant reported an unusual sighting in the fissures. A Noxian."

Camille glanced at him, not surprised at all. "Ambessa Medarda's delegation is still present, the cougar doubtlessly making a brothel of where ever she goes.", she remarked coldly. "Eventually a soldier or two gets bored of all the coupling."

"Bored enough to go deep into the Lanes?", Malt asked, showing a small piece of paper.

Camille's attention was caught as Malt stepped forward, delivering the paper, which Camille unfolded and started reading the contents within.

"The shopkeeper noticed the official colors underneath the cloak, but still made the sale.", Malt added.

"As well as she should.", Camille replied, folding the paper back. "You had chores as well, correct?"

Malt nodded.

"Not anymore, today.", Camille replied, in a strict to business tone. "The equation has altered, to the point two polar distances cannot be covered at once. Your sole chore today will be one of a courier."

"Downstairs?", Malt asked, using the term Camille knows well what both are talking about.

"Downstairs.", Camille repeated in answer.