Forward, but Never Forget (XOXO)

by Lullabyes

Zaun is free—and must grow into its unfamiliar new dimensions. So must Silco and Jinx. A what-if that diverges midway through the events of episode 8. Found family and fluff, politics and power, smut and slice-of-life, villainy and vengeance.

28. Future Perfect

This revolution baby
proves who you work for lately
Who do you work for baby
and does it work for you lately

~ "Future Foe Scenarios" – Silversun Pickups

---

DREAMSIDE RIVER WALK, PILTOVER

(AP)—

A devastating explosion has shocked our fair city, and sparked heated dialogue about the future of responsible chemical-waste management.

The disaster took place early in the afternoon. The private yacht, SS Helios, was navigating off the coast of Zaun to Piltover. Midway to its destination, the ship went up in flames. The debris scattered along the stretch of coastline, with wreckage floating as far as Zaun's Black Reefs.

The destruction is being described as 'absolute.' The Wardens have begun a full-scale inquest, though early evidence seems to point to a misfiring of the Helios' fuel tank due to atmospheric pollutants.

"It was like a volcano," states one eye-witness, sailing in a skiff nearby. "A column of fire, blasting up from the ocean. Then the ship went down, and the next thing we knew, the whole bay seemed on fire."

Aboard the yacht was the Noxian consul, Draven Du Couteau, as well as his retinue of twelve staff. It is believed they perished instantly. Survivors of the explosion include the security detail who traveled ahead by speedboat. All are said to be unharmed.

A spokesperson for the Council stated: "We are devastated by the loss of such a distinguished figure. He will be missed, and our thoughts are with his family, and all those who worked with him."

Draven Du Couteau is survived by his sister, the esteemed general of the Grand Army, and his wife, a prominent military leader and former consul-candidate. He is also survived by his two sons, who have inherited his seat, and carry on the legacy of his vision.

In the face of the tragedy, the Council has announced a three-day mourning period, with services at Bluewind Court. Councilor Mel Medarda, who is said to be personally acquainted with the Du Couteau family, stated, "The consul was a man of conviction, and a dear friend. His loss is a blow to us all."

As a show of solidarity, Zaun's Cabinet has issued a public condolence to the consul's family, and the people of Noxus. Zaun's blackguards are also cooperating with Enforcers in investigating the accident.

The wreckage has been cordoned off by the city's authorities. Due to toxic chemicals from Zaun's Gnashers—chemical storms common to the region—it is not safe for civilians to approach the site.

"The afternoon's tragedy," states a press release from the Council, "is a somber reminder of our toxic legacy. The pollutants in the Fissures have been birthed by our industrial works. As Zaun and Piltover move forward, we must strive to be more responsible, and do better for our shared environment."

In other news, the Peacekeeper Exchange Initiative has received the full backing of Zaun's Cabinet and Piltover's Council. A contingent of six Peacekeepers is expected to descend to the Fissures within the fortnight, and will be stationed near the Piltovan embassy in the Promenade.

"We are confident," says Councilor Mel Medarda, "that today's tragedy will not deter the people of Zaun and Piltover from continuing to work together for a more prosperous and perfect future."

---

First Chancellor Silco,

I will be brief. I have given some thought to our conversation at the gala. After much deliberation, I have chosen to accept your offer, if it is still available.

Sincerely,

Viktor.

---

Viktor,

The offer stands, and it will stand. We are eager to have your expertise enriching Zaun's firmament.

If, however, I may ask: What precipitated the change of heart?

Sincerely,

S—

P.S.

You need not justify your choice. It is merely a matter of curiosity.

My discretion is, of course, guaranteed.

---

First Chancellor Silco,

The reasons for my decision are personal, but they are not secret.

Or, rather, they will not be secret for long.

Suffice it to say, I am currently under private investigation by the Wardens. Once the case is made public, my work will suffer greatly. Dean Heimerdinger, had he been aware, would certainly have terminated my position as his assistant. However, the Dean has been missing for several months, and is presumed dead. Heimerdinger was a respected scholar and a brilliant scientist. His shoes—such as they are—will be difficult to fill. The loss has been a great blow to Piltover's scientific community.

I must continue to pursue my research, in memory of his good works. However, I must do so from a place of strength.

My present position in Piltover is untenable. And the consequences of my past choices are dire. If I remain, then Hextech's promise will die—and my chance to redeem the harm I have done will die with it.

My reasons are not a matter of guilt or pride, but duty. I must return to the Fissures. That is my calling.

Regards,

Viktor

P.S.

As a show of faith, you may find the accompanying documents intriguing. It is only a fraction of my research. There is more where that came from.

---

Viktor,

To label the documents intriguing is to understate their worth. I cannot begin to describe what the schematics will mean for Zaun.

Your candor is appreciated, as is the trust you have placed in my office.

Be assured, our resources are at your disposal. I will see that the necessary arrangements are made re: your laboratory. In the meantime, I would advise you to lay low, and make no public statements. It would not do for the press to become interested in your case.

As for the matter of the Wardens: the charges against you will be dealt with discreetly. You are a citizen of Zaun, and a valued scientist. Your talents cannot be allowed to go to waste.

Further instructions will follow in due course. Until then, you have my word: no harm will come to you, or your life's work.

S—

P.S.

I would advise packing light. There will be no going back.

---

In Zaun's subterranean depths, water is a recurring motif, a sensory haze, a constant threat.

It bubbles up from every nook and cranny of the city—snaking through drainage canals like arteries; seeping up from cracks in the pavements like blood; clogging the pipes in the pumping stations like ulcers. The air carries its potent scent—a faint whiff on the breath, shot through with things dying and birthing themselves beneath one's feet. Or it lingers in the sky, a chill of translucent rime, coating everything with an oily sheen. Sometimes it is neither scent nor sensation, but sound: a liquid susurrus that fills the sensorium, like the ghosts of travelers calling out.

When Silco was a child, the sound resembled his father's voice. Now, it's a ticklish whisper that reminds him of Vander's.

Sometimes, it soothes him. Other times, he wants nothing more than to strangle it.

Sevika cries out.

The harsh sound travels through the misty air, hits the walls of cracked Shuriman murals, and echoes back at Silco. The private steam-bath is in a wing off the main atrium, remote from the spartan public pools and unadorned changing rooms. Two walls are made of mirrored mosaic, reflecting through the milky haze a raised pool, inlaid in chipped green marble and luminous with lanterns.

Compared to the carnivalesque modernity of Entresol, the bath-house is quaint, almost rustic. It hides in the shadow of Bridgewaltz, signaling its presence only with a hand-painted sign showing a rotund cherub above the moniker, Baby's Bathwater.

Bathhouses in the Undercity were once a social institution and a hygienic necessity—especially in the days of no modern plumbing. This one was built in the days of Oshra Va'Zaun. Yet it features all the charms that once made such venues popular with Fissurefolk—mineral pools that bubble up directly from bedrock, hot and cold water fountains, steam rooms for aromatherapy, and saunas for sweating away the sins.

It is divided into two sections: singles and families. In the main atrium, there is a courtyard with an open fire that blazes in wintertime, surrounded by benches where bathers can relax between dips and socialize. A massive marble fountain sits at its center: a naked nymph with a lance, water spouting from her ample teats. At the fountain's base, flaking and faded with age, is an inscription in the old Va-Nox text:

Die Präzision eines Zauberers

Die Entschlossenheit eines Meisters

Und so atmet die Stadt noch etwas länger.

Silco has visited here since childhood. In the early days, he was accompanied by his father, who would briskly scrub him down, then douse him in hot water, gradually upping its temperature until Silco's small body became acclimated to the scalding heat and he could slide into the simmering pools as easily as a trout.

As a young man, he'd sometimes come with Vander, the two of them pooling their money together to luxuriate for an hour in the sluice of soap and lather. As a kingpin, he'd purchased the entire bathhouse. Jinx was gifted her own little chamber: a private suite, with a lockbox, after that nasty little voyeur found his way inside—and lost his eyeballs. Sadly, she seldom uses it, preferring the utilitarian shower in the Aerie, if she bothers to shower at all.

Jinx is many things. A soap aficionada isn't among them.

Silco's guests of late aren't squeaky-clean either. Once upon a time, honest Fissurefolk came here to wash away their sins. Now, disreputable chem-barons come here to play dirty. Shrouded in steam, they shed their skins as they shed their clothes, indulging in a spot of depravity and a spice of danger. Deals are struck in the pools, terms negotiated under the watchful eyes of crumbling marble statues. Murders are committed in the milky steam, screams muffled by bubbling wellsprings. And when the sun sets, the place comes alive, a hotbed of orgiastic revelry.

They keep Baby's Bathwater solvent—and Silco's coffers fat.

Silco has his own private chamber. It is not belowground, but up high: a cantilevered rooftop garden twenty stories above the bathhouse proper, with a glass dome ceiling that opens to the cityscape. Equidistant between the industrial blight of Entresol and the jewel-toned decadence of the Promenade, it offers Silco a spectacular panorama—Zaun's eternal night, brightened by spires and sparks and steel. In the distance, his headquarters slices a blade-sharp silhouette across the sky, the smokestacks spitting fire. Jinx's Aerie, a silver needlepoint, pierces the horizon.

On the far side of the bay, Piltover twinkles with empty promises. The Hexgates cast a ring of blue radiance over the cityscape, like a false saint's halo.

To Silco, it's a living map that he's spent years plotting. Every inch beloved, every landmark a love-letter. His bad eye's traced it a million times: the tortuous path to progress, with its pitfalls and payoffs.

A path he'll never stop carving until it's immortalized on Piltover's soul.

Sevika cries out again.

She sits at the tub's edge, her thighs stretched apart. In the mosaic mirrorscape, two other Sevikas strike the same pose, their heads tipped back, their features a blissed-out blankness. Pleasure sometimes exaggerates her expressions, and other times scrubs them flat as she loses herself in an inner-space.

Her good hand twines in Silco's hair.

Submerged shoulder-deep in the pool, his head burrows between her legs. The misty lanterns are softly gold, burnishing her dark skin. The curls between her thighs glint shiny and decorative. With both palms, Silco spreads her wider open. She is sopping-wet and smoky-hot. The heavy perfume of her arousal is undercut by the sweetness of ferns festooning the hothouse beyond the chamber.

Singed calls it the Terrarium: a greenhouse full of Shimmer-fed specimens, each a triumph in botanical evolution. Lilies with pearlescent petals; cacti with poison-tipped spines; orchids like gorging mouths. Each one serves as a base for Singed's alchemical concoctions—hallucinogens, soporifics, stimulants. Precursors for the research at the F12 lab, where brand-new strains of Shimmer are being cultivated, their potency carefully calibrated.

Some will be cure-alls. Others, kill-alls.

Sevika cries out a third time.

The sound echoes through Silco's bones, as if he is wielding a heavy power tool. Scooping an arm under her right thigh, he lifts it to tuck his left shoulder into the crook of her knee. Meanwhile the fingers of his right hand slide down, combing through her pubic hair, smoothing and spreading them. He nudges his nose across the tip of her clit, a ruddy peek between the slick lips.

Sevika bucks. Her fingers tighten in his hair.

"Fuck," she gasps, a deep breathless whine. "Right there."

Silco's left hand digs into her hipbone. His right spreads her open, mouth parting to lick soft-tongued across her entrance. Her cunt is a swollen pooch. He's fucked her already—a rageful, smoldering, near-silent fuck that she'd only taken with a grin and a litany of gasping taunts, goading him on. But in the aftermath, he can afford to linger. Satisfaction is a muted thing unless he devotes enough time to really making her shriek.

The cost of order—and its reassertion—is its own reward.

Digging his fingers into her thighs, Silco wrenches them apart. Closing his mouth over her cunt, he devours her in earnest, a deep purling growl. Sevika sobs her breath in. Her heel digs into Silco's shoulderblade. Her hand fists in his hair. Moments like this, she chains him to her, welded and wedded. Makes him feel as if he's in too deep.

Tethered.

Silco needs that. The penny-brightness of Medarda's blood still lingers on his tongue. The memory of her—her voice, her eyes, her body—leaps with a wild hunger behind his ribcage. He wants to carve it out and eat it raw. Wants to chase her down, devour her whole, and spit out her bones.

He wants her gone.

But first he'll have her, all of her, until he's had his fill.

In the obelisk, they'd not gone beyond the heavy petting. It wouldn't do, given the entourage waiting steadfastly below. They both know the game; discretion is paramount. Yet in the aftermath, Silco was left with a jittery tension too complex to equate to blue balls. She had more than a little something blue herself. Her smile held something dizzily denuded.

It's an opening.

It's progress.

"Silco," Sevika gasps, dragging him from his reverie. "Fuck. I'm close. I'm—"

He can feel it. The telltale tremor taking her, like a mine shaft moments before collapse. Humming, Silco tastes her fully, wet delving licks back to front. Then he pops her clit between pursed lips, a teeth-edged cruelty that melts into an inexorably soft suction. Sevika thrashes, both hands bracing on the tub's edge. Her cries grow ragged. The seconds unspool, until her body goes stricken, pinned beneath the pressure of his unrelenting mouth. Her own mouth, that insatiable beauty between her legs, throbs open and shut, open and shut, glistening in its own juices. The taste doesn't tickle alluringly at his senses like hyacinths. It douses him like hot oil. His mind is scalded clean.

In its wake is a gratitude so black it nearly drags itself inside-out, the monster gnawing beneath the surface of his skin.

No substitute, but the remedy he's been seeking.

When Sevika comes, it is a breakage, the sensation tearing out of her in a snarl. Her body reels backward, then forward, her head hanging above his, dark hair a mess around their faces. Her good hand seizes Silco's jaw, thumb digging into the socket and unhinging his mouth.

The kiss is a teeth-edged mess. He passes back her own tart flavor on his tongue. Bites her lower lip, lets go, darts in again. Their foreheads touch, breaths dragging on sighs.

"Fuck," Sevika says.

"Yes," Silco says. "Exactly."

He falls away from her like a shadow. His head submerges beneath the water's surface, the shape of him skimming further out before he crests on the shallow end of the pool. Tipping his head back, he combs both fingers through his dripping hair, smoothing them back like a pomade. A humid haze hangs over his shoulders.

It soothes the burn on the inside.

Opposite, Sevika stretches lazily across the marble ledge. Under her breath, she hums Devil's got the Blues. Her prosthetic hand drums along the ledge with a sound like fork tines: tink tink tink. She's had it upgraded, the circuits rewired with chem-ware from Margot and Renata's sextech project.

A set of brand-new sensors pick up the slightest variations in temperature, pressure, and stimulus. No more awkward recalibration. No more deadened nerves or dead skin. With the upgrade, Sevika's control is enhanced, and her combat capabilities refined. Already, she's put the arm through a field test: a fight to the death, with a would-be assassin.

The end result was one messy corpse, and a clean win.

Behind closed doors, the upgrade's rekindled a more tactile curiosity. Her prosthetic fingers wander curiously along her own body, a caress, a tweak, a pinch, as if relearning the contours. On Silco's body, it's no slow-burning tease, but a violent seizure. His skin is raw from her scratches, and there's a bluish mark on his right hipbone where her thumb has pressed in too deep.

Hardly the worst way to end the day.

In the Cabinet, he is pushing for the sextech modifications to encompass treatment outside of recreation. A curative for nerve damage, chem-burns, even spinal injury. If the chem-ware becomes available for the masses, people mutilated by the mines or deformed by the war will have hope of not just regaining mobility, but normalcy.

Of being able to feel again.

Mass-production is a risky gamble, but so are all nascent technologies. In regions like Demacia, such pilot projects would never take off the ground. In Piltover, they'd remain low-key, lest they threaten established industries and their bottom-lines.

In Zaun, innovation is the essence of revolution. The Expo will be the proving grounds, the first real test of whether the tech can thrive beyond the lab. Progress is a harsh mistress, and natural selection favors only the fittest. In time, Silco's city may become a smorgasbord of technological delights, each one commercially available and cutting-edge.

Zaun deserves no less. Especially if it is to survive.

(Like you, Jinx).

(At all costs.)

Tonight, he'd invited her down to the bathhouse to unwind. She'd declined, citing the need to work on her mural. She'd sounded a little tightly-wound—on the verge of a breakthrough, or a meltdown. Silco's money is on the former. He's come to recognize Jinx's jittery cadences; when she's in the grip of a thrilling invention, and her brain is too busy buzzing to think straight, they come more frequently than he cares to hear.

They have the potential to end well. They have the potential to end in catastrophe. It's a toss-up which way Jinx will go.

It's always a toss-up.

Wisely, Silco has opted to give her space. They've barely begun patching up the rupture that Vi's attack ripped between them. The last thing he wants is to exacerbate the delicate healing process. Still, he is alert, a black line riding his spine like a cat tiptoeing over the edge of a fence. Jinx's psyche has been fragile for some time; Vi's intrusion, and subsequent flight, have stamped a bruise into the tender tissue.

His best-laid plans gone awry; her worst nightmares made flesh.

Silco's ordered an entourage of blackguards to keep a weather eye on her. They'll keep vigil from strategic vantagepoints, but with orders not to engage. He doesn't doubt that Jinx will spot them. But their enforced distance will be a signal that she's not in trouble. Only treasured.

And if she wants to take a potshot at them—well.

That's why blackguards are trained to run like hell.

On his part, Silco has withdrawn for a little self-care with Sevika. There are few better ways to finish a grueling fortnight than submerged in the Shimmer-infused water. In heat like this, the aches recede; the mind blanks out. He can almost remember what it felt like to be whole. To be human.

Almost.

Sevika traces her mechanical fingers across her cheek. Her jaw works back and forth. "Shit."

"Problem?"

"Jaw's gonna be sore tomorrow."

"We all suffer for our art."

"Not complaining." Slyly, she licks her swollen lips. "But it's a good idea to pace yourself when you're shoving a big chunk of meat down someone's throat."

Silco's lips twitch at the backhanded compliment. "I'll keep it in mind for next time."

"Let's see if I can top my own record. Probably my best suckjob to date."

"Practice does make perfect."

"So far today, I'm batting .750."

"That sounds about right for your average day."

Sevika's eyes, half-lidded, meet Silco's.

"I'm guessing yours wasn't half as peachy."

"What makes you say that?"

"If you fucked me senseless after every meeting, I'd be dead ten times over." A beat. "Talks with Medarda hit a roadblock?"

If Silco concentrates, he can hear the familiar stress-lines in her voice. The cadences of old camaraderie are as suffocating as they are steadying.

"Our end-goal remains unchanged," he says, when the silence needs filling. "The Noxian consul has been handled."

"You're telling me. The whole Black Reef reeks of his yacht's smoke." She rests her head against her copper-plated palm, regarding him. "That's not what I meant."

"And yet, that's all you get."

"Is it the crystalline bracer you'd ordered Maven to filch from his bags? Was it damaged?"

"The bracer is intact."

"So what's the issue?"

No reply is forthcoming. Sevika sighs and sits up, shoving the damp licks of hair from her face.

"Jinx," she says.

Silco's silence elapses into something else. His body holds a calm languor beneath the hot blanket of water: a lie. His rage cuts cold as shards beneath his skin: the truth.

And the truth is—he is at an impasse. His blood-bargain has spilled into blood-feud.

All thanks to Medarda.

That's thrice she's outplayed him. Not by threatening his child or Zaun, but by reminding him that the collateral for his cooperation is both. Now Violet is expected to return to the Fissures, as part of the blasted Peacekeeper Exchange Initiative. And Silco must embrace the arrivals and even smile, while his jaw tightens to shattering point, and he could gut each of them there and then.

Gut Vi, and watch her bleed.

Just like Vander.

Except the stakes are too high. This isn't just Jinx's future, but Zaun's. If the Peacekeeper Exchange succeeds, then a new era dawns. Topside will be lulled into complacency, thinking the danger past. They'll believe that Zaun is ready to let bygones be bygones. And he must play the part to perfection, swallowing his rage until his belly is bloated with it.

Then again, Medarda has her own stake in the game. And she can no longer maintain total control, in the presence of unfamiliar territory and conflicting urges, while simultaneously under pressure to hold her interests steadfast. She needs the Treaty to succeed, and their cities to work together, so the Golden Boy stays breathing.

Silco is the key to that. And that gives him leverage.

In the darkness of his mind, a pair of golden eyes twinkle. He sees full lips bare of anything but a smear of blood.

"You told me everything I needed to hear."

Silco stares up at the mosaic ceiling, stretching out with one arm tucked behind his head. His tongue plays idly inside his mouth, same way his mind replays his and Medarda's encounter in the obelisk. In that moment—a single kiss, a single cut—he'd had her. He'd held her. A woman once unreachable to him, an idol carved of gold.

He thinks of the heat-shimmer coming off her body. Thinks of the silk between her thighs: wet on wet. Thinks of her cries, smooth as honey, and the way she'd poured them down his throat.

In the aftermath, his rage rises in a dark-hazed surge, until it is past, and it is present, and it is everything.

"Let's cut a deal."

Yes, Silco thinks. Let's.

Outfoxing Medarda strategically has proven a futile endeavor. She is too savvy; too sophisticated; too adept at playing the game. As Ambessa Medarda's daughter, she was born with the world laid at her feet. As the architect of her own rise, she's made her own destiny. But someone who lives without validation of their worth remains a target. They only learn brilliant ways to hide it.

He's begun to pierce through the glamorous bracing that conceals the vulnerable girl beneath. The next step is to prevent her from retreating back into her exalted sphere. Keep her mind engaged; her emotions raw. And, most vitally, keep her guessing.

In the heat of the moment, she will let slip up. And there he'll be: a knife at her jugular.

A tantalizing reverie comes, born from the depths of internal hell in which the monster dwells. Piltover's crown jewel dangling in his jaws. Territory taken all the way. He will blindside her, and bind her to him, and break her. He will hurt her until she begs for the end. Until her body is emptied of screams, and her last words are his name.

His name, and nothing else.

As for Vi...

Silco's rasp reverberates over the steamy acoustics of the chamber. "Medarda expects a meeting brokered in exchange for the consul's send-off."

"A meeting?"

"Between Jinx and Vi."

Sevika's dark eyes flash to his. "—The fuck? Why?"

"She claims our cities must start afresh. As must the sisters."

"Out of what? The goodness of her heart?"

"The ashes of her guilt."

Succinctly, he relates the conversation with Medarda in the obelisk. Heimerdinger's disappearance. Viktor's break from Talis. Talis' resignation from the Council. He omits the intimacy he and Medarda shared, because that's not a fire he cares to feed.

Sevika isn't the jealous type. Like Nandi, she has a solid pride in herself. Self-esteem. Everytime he's dragged her into one of his games with his whores, she's met him not as a grudging participant but as an active accomplice. They've made no promises of exclusivity to each other. Their loyalty is to Zaun.

This is different.

Instinctively, he knows it's different—and that difference catches him off-guard. Secrecy is a habit, but his desire not to speak of it is an impulse. The memory of Medarda's kiss lingers like a potent physical throb. He keeps a tight hold on it, and it's the tighter for that—a knife that cuts both ways.

"That's a crock of shit," Sevika says.

Silco blinks, and the reverie is gone, and he's in the bathhouse again, staring into the eyes of gunmetal, not gold.

"Now she wants to make amends?" Sevika says. "After years of burying us alive? Real charitable."

"Isn't it? Now put yourself in Medarda's shoes. Consider why she's doing it." He rests his cheekbone against his knuckles. "Her only surety that I won't act against her interests is my word. She has no reason to trust that. Now that Talis isn't a Councilor, he is doubly vulnerable. She has twice the reason to dread an attack on him. She needs to ensure that Zaun stays allied with Piltover."

"Through Vi."

"Hm." His good eye slits, a glitter of raw malachite. "How better to bind my loyalty than by tying my hands? Vi is the one factor who isn't political, but personal. She presents a threat to the machine we are attempting to establish. Jinx serves a vital function in that machine. Reconciliation between both sisters would make Jinx dependent on Vi's presence. Dependence is leverage. Medarda would have my cooperation, and Zaun's allegiance to Piltover, without a drop of blood spilled." His fingertip traces his left temple, like a scalpel searching for an incision. "Fortunately we have our own vein to tap into."

"You mean Talis's partner?"

"I've received correspondence from him. Following the rift with Talis, he's returning to Zaun."

"For good?"

"So it seems. He's burned his only bridge. Our intel confirmed he and Talis haven't spoken after the Equinox feast. And Viktor was spotted in the Academy library, packing up his research."

"And Uppside will let him walk?"

"Far from it. Once Medarda learns he's defecting, she and the Council will threaten to enforce sanctions. They'll claim we are undermining their Hex-tech. That I have lured away their top researcher for industrial sabotage."

"Haven't you?" At his nod, Sevika's expression hardens. "Why? We'll be back at square one."

"If I didn't think it was worth the risk, I wouldn't let Viktor in."

"So why are you?"

Steam swirls back and forth above the tub. Silco's voice, twisting across the space, holds the same low-pitched lassitude.

"Viktor is an old protégé of the Doctor's. His allegiance may be dubious. But his genius is not. With him come ready-made blueprints. Hex-tech for everything from medical implants to energy generators to mining equipment. Once it's put into mass production, it will usher in a technological renaissance. Topside's investors won't dare blockade us if it means losing out on potential profits. And the Council will have to capitulate. Or choke."

"You're banking a shitload on his loyalty."

"Loyalty's a fine thing." His tone darkens. "Need is more reliable."

Sevika's head cocks, intrigued. "I'm listening."

"At the gala, I had planned to approach Viktor myself. Jinx beat me to the punch. At first, I thought it was a childish fancy. Now I realize it was a godsend." At her frown, he explains: "She sidled up to him like a girl with a crush. It caught him off-guard. By the time I cornered him, he was like a thief with his hands full of loot. That's when I noticed what Jinx must have. The boy had String-Eye."

"He's a Shimmer user?"

"His interest began as scientific. Singed confirmed that Viktor was attempting to harness Shimmer's regenerative capacity. Something to amplify his Hex-tech with a 'fifth element.'" The flicker of a smile. "Tragically, it failed. My network placed discreet inquiries. It seems an assistant at Viktor's lab, a woman by the name of Sky Young, went missing around that time."

"What are you suggesting?"

"The details are hazy. But certain remarks Viktor made fill in the gaps. His health was declining rapidly. He was desperate. He miscalculated the dosage of Shimmer. The Hex-tech went out of control. Something explosive occurred. The assistant's death was collateral. Now the Wardens are investigating the incident. It's a matter of time before they link Viktor to Young's death. If the Council believes he killed an assistant, he'll be branded a murderer." Beneath the shroud of steam, his diseased eye glows. "Blood on his hands. A deadline on his life. His freedom forfeit. All are powerful motivators."

Sevika is grim. "Dying men have limited utility."

"Not if there's a cure in the works."

"Oh?"

"Singed's formula for Grey Lung antibodies has been refined. We're testing the viability on live subjects. By this time next year, it should be mass-produced as a vaccine."

"If the kid's still kicking."

"He will be. Special strains of Shimmer can combat the spread in the short-term. It will slow Viktor's deterioration. During our meeting, I gave him a vial. A sign of goodwill. As for the long-term..."

"His life for his loyalty."

Silco nods. "A fair exchange. He gets the antidote. We get his Hex-tech. The best part is—he's the one who has to ask. It won't be a bribe, but an admission of need. It will bind him to us. His debt will be repaid through his service to the city." The memory is its own thrill; Viktor's confession for a brighter future. The steel suffusing his spine. His conviction, shining through a cracked façade. "He's a scientist, Sevika. His ego won't allow him to turn his back on a quandary. It's the ultimate prize: the chance to live and keep his integrity intact."

"If he goes rogue, he'll be a nightmare to contain."

"I've no plans to contain him."

"What?"

Sevika stares with a surface stolidity, a vein throbbing in her temple. Even after seven years, the unpredictable twists of his mind still catch her off-guard. With good reason, given her job is to cauterize the raw wounds left in their wake. But if she wants something different, all she has to do is walk away from what she has.

And she hasn't. Not once.

Silco tips his head back against the pool's lip. A droplet of water chases the pale curve of his Adam's apple.

A show of good faith; baring his throat for her scrutiny.

"Viktor, whatever his shortcomings, is the force Zaun needs," he says, eyes on the shrouded ceiling. "He's not interested in the gem's profitability. He's interested in its potential. What it can become."

"That's not reassuring."

"For a scientist, it is. A lack of limit is a virtue." The scarred corner of his mouth curls. "To say nothing of the plausible deniability."

Sevika hums in acknowledgement. "Nobody asks why a nutjob's tenure ended in a casket."

"Hm."

"Does this mean the Doctor's getting the boot?"

"Far from it. Singed's breakthroughs into Shimmer are invaluable. His work, coupled with Viktor's, may yield a whole new range of implants and prosthetics. And Viktor is younger. Still susceptible to persuasion. We can offer him opportunities Topside never would." Rivulets of silvery-black hair fall over his forehead. With an idle motion, he smooths them back. "He won't be the last refugee from their ranks. As Zaun rises, more lost lambs will return."

"Wagging their tails behind 'em?"

"No tail-wagging required. I want the Fissures to be a haven for innovators. A ground zero, where they can pursue their ambitions freely. We'll have a steady influx of funding from foreign investors. And we'll have a reliable supply of labor from our locals. Two sources of revenue and employment. Two pillars upon which Zaun can build the rest. The question is—"

Shrewdly, Sevika sums up, "How to stop the newcomers from getting eaten by the natives."

"Take a guess."

"The blackguards."

"Exactly. In the coming years, they'll be tasked increasingly with civic duties. With the dust from the Siege settling, it will re-channel their energies. We've begun phasing Shimmer off the streets as a narcotic. The cartels will fall into disorder. With the blackguards acting as a bulwark, the worst of their antics can be contained. And those who aren't deterred..."

"They'll be easy pickings," Sevika says. "Without Shimmer, their influence is a quarter of what it used to be."

"And now, I want their numbers dwindling. Rehabilitation—or execution. It doesn't matter. Act at your discretion. Rally the underbosses, and have them tighten their grip on every zone. It will keep the blackguards focused, and stop the cartels from turning into a predatory horde that disrupts civilian life. Understood?"

"Loud and clear. What about Jinx?"

Silco's eyes flick sidelong. "What of her?"

The line between Sevika's brows deepens: a tally mark of future headaches. "She's only just gotten her head back on straight after her run-in with Vi. Now Medarda's trying to arrange a reunion. If you agree, there's every chance things will go sideways."

Unspoken: Again.

"The Peacekeeper Exchange is a clever ploy. The optics will be positive. Even I can concede that."

"Doesn't mean we have to comply. It's a PR stunt. Not a legal contract."

"It's a Treaty. That means walking a delicate balance between Topside's needs and ours."

Sevika gives a brusque headshake. "How? Until now, you've gone out of your way to keep Jinx and Vi apart. If you make this happen, it's an invitation for a catastrophe." A beat. "Unless you're up to something."

"Aren't I always?"

"Yeah, and most times, I get it. This time, I don't."

Their stares meet. Sevika's glower holds a bite of something beyond irritation. It takes Silco a moment to identify it: suspicion.

Rising from the marble slab, she regards herself in the age-flecked mosaic mirror. Her breasts are dappled with blushes. The nipples are lovely: dark-bronze and taut. One shows faint red imprints from his teeth. Silco's predilections never change. He simply finds different ways to lay down marks.

But as raw as it gets between them, it's rare that he takes her with such ferocity.

In the mirrors, she cups one breast with her mechanical fingers. Her expression is steely rather than sultry. A single strand of hair falls over her parted lips.

In Silco's mind's eye, the strand's a curl, and he's got a fistful of Medarda's ringlets in one palm, and a handful of her backside in the other, and her gown's hiked up, exposing a swathe of smooth thigh, and her breath is hot and humid against his ear as he wrenches the straps of her gown down. The cups of her bodice sag, exposing the high breasts. They're a feast: the nipples darkly flushed and tiny as pomegranate seeds. He takes a bite and she cries out, and the obelisk's glass walls reflect her naked need: a hundred hidden angles of a woman in a thousand shades of ecstasy, and the hunger's an ache and the ache's a need, and the need's—

—Sevika.

"You're not being honest," she says.

Silco cants his head.

"This deal with Medarda," she says. "There's more at play here. There has to be. That's thrice she's cornered you—with Jinx as leverage. But you're not retaliating. You're not even making counter-plays. They're more like concessions. It's like you're trying to get closer to her."

"Do I look that foolish?"

"No." Her reflected stare burns through the steam. "You have a history of dealing with people who play as dirty as you. People whose interests aren't aligned with yours. Until they are. So why is it suddenly so difficult to negotiate with Medarda—unless your end-game isn't negotiation at all? Is something happening behind the scenes?"

"Such as?"

"You tell me." She swivels to regard him. "She shows up with no prior warning. She insists on a tour of the Skylight Commercia. You trade a lot of business that could be passed off as banter, and then you take her on a private excursion to the obelisk. A private excursion to someplace you could be seen by no one, and overheard by no one."

Silco's gaze is level. "Backdoor deals necessitate privacy."

"An hour's privacy?" Her chin tips up. "Lock says that's how long you were up there. Normally, I'd get it. You're both talkers. It'd take time to finesse the details. And Medarda's got a stake in seeing this deal through. She wants Talis alive, and the Noxian consul dead without casualties. But to waste that kind of time when you're both on a deadline..." She makes a low sound, halfway between a grunt and a scoff. "I can only think of one reason why she'd be that hands-on. And it's not a businesswoman feeling the pulse of a prospective investment. She wants to make damn sure she knows where yours is at."

Silco's stare grows hooded. "Do I have a pulse?"

"Yeah, and I can hear it from here." She steps toward him. "Something happened. Something personal, and if you expect me to believe otherwise—"

"Is that a threat, Sevika?"

"It's a question."

Against Silco's temples, the tide of temper swells. "I hardly need my schedule approved by you."

"So it's like that."

"Elevate your mind. Medarda and I share a temporary goal."

"You're telling me you're not remotely attracted to her?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"It's a simple question."

"It's an irrelevancy."

"Like hell."

Their stares clash. The air boils.

"Sevika." Silco's voice holds a slow chill of warning. "Keep it professional."

"Fuck professional," she retorts. "Do you think I'm the only one asking? Half the crew's wondering if Medarda's got her hooks in you. Because right now, it feels like she's playing you as well as you play everyone else. Like she owns you."

Silco's expression doesn't alter. But Sevika knows him too well for his own comfort. That's what happens when you let someone get too intimate with your body. They can read the surface and parse the dimensions inside. That's what Sevika does: digging past his barriers with a stubbornness like a dragon's claws. There's always been more to her than her brute diligence. She can be wickedly astute. She can take pages from his playbook, and finesse them into her own.

Her instincts sense that something is awry. Something bigger than Piltover or garden-variety politics.

For her sake—it's best to misdirect.

"No one owns me," he says softly, "You know that."

"Then why cater to her demands? Why keep involving yourself in the shit between her mother and Swain? You've got us spinning circle dances on every level. The warmasons and Noxus. Your sudden fetish for magical relics. Viktor's Hex-tech. Jinx's craziness. This shitshow with Vi. We're putting our lives out on the line. And every second we're deeper makes it more difficult to achieve what we need to achieve. There's too many costs on the table."

"There is a big picture, and we will see it."

"Will we?" Her eyes blaze. "You never share the big picture unless it suits you. Never even give us enough information to hazard a guess. When will you raise us on your list of priorities and be aboveboard? When can I expect total transparency? Or will you blow me and then blow me off every day for the rest of our lives—until we're both in the dirt?"

Her voice is sharply stressed, as if these are words she'd dared not say before. Knowledge she'd circumnavigated for weeks. It is so unexpected Silco finds himself shocked out of his baseline ennui. Paranoia isn't like Sevika. He can name without trying a dozen people who would descend to dramatics—Jinx included.

Not his XO.

The silence goes sticky with things once left unspoken. A long moment passes. Then Sevika's anger fades into the ashen, gut-level chill of self-exposure. Her eyes jerk away. Dragging on a bathrobe, she moves to go.

Silco dives down beneath the water, disappearing beneath the shimmering surface. When he reappears, he is at the ledge by Sevika's hip.

He lays a palm there. Water drips down his fingers.

"Stay," he says.

"Forget I said anything."

"Stay."

"I have to get back to work."

"Stay—or I'll drag you into the pool."

It's no idle threat. They both know she can't swim.

Sevika sits by the ledge. In the low lamplight, her lashes cast sullen shadows below her eyes.

"It's always games with you," she seethes. "Nothing but games."

He can taste the bitterness in her words, passed between them like a kiss.

"I'm not playing games," he says, trying to navigate the rocky shores of semantics. "But I'll not tolerate backseat driving either. Not from you. Not about this."

Her expression flickers, first defiant, then conflicted. Like she has heavy thoughts. He likes Sevika thoughtful. Her face softens; her eyes gloss darkly. Complicated tides beneath a smooth surface.

Quieter, she says, "I'm just saying watch yourself. Grow up in a hole, it's easy to get taken in by shiny things."

"Like Medarda?"

She doesn't rise to the jibe. "I'm saying this as your XO. Not—"

"—my lover?"

Her jaw works. "We don't do lovers, Silco."

"I'm aware." He sets his elbows on the ledge. "So why are you taking this so personally? Because as far as jealousy goes, it's charming. But to take it to such extremes—"

It works too well. Sevika erupts with a snarl. "Fuck jealousy! That's not me, and it never has been!" With effort, she reins herself in. "Medarda's not the issue. Fancies come and go for both of us. I have no illusions about that—or about you and me. I know what type of man you are. We fuck, and it's fun. I get nasty. You take it up a whole other level. What you give, I give back one-hundred-and-ten percent. But I refuse to keep giving until the sun explodes. I sure as hell won't watch you hand-feed Medarda a direct line to our city, and let her suck you in. I don't trust her, and I don't trust that you've thought this blood-bargain through."

There it is. The crux of her rancor.

Zaun.

Silco puts a hand down to cup her bared knee. Her skin is scarred there, like scales. Souvenirs from battles. He smooths it with a thumb, the way he used to when they'd been younger. Sevika shivers. Her body softens as it succumbs under the spell of his stare, like someone hypnotized by the changing shapes in the water.

Silhouettes just beyond reach.

"You have put your life on the line for Zaun," Silco says. "And for me. Have I not rewarded it each time?"

Sevika nods.

"Then trust that I have my eye on the target. Trust that we are on track."

"You know how Nan used to say. Trust but verify." She jerks her knee away. "I need verification."

Silco returns her smoldering stare without blinking.

"Were you intimate with Medarda in the obelisk?"

"Intimate?"

"Did you fuck her?"

"Our dealings were business," he says, and whatever else, means it. "Strictly business."

"You're not answering the question." Sevika's gaze slits. "Did. You. Fuck. Her?"

He shakes his head.

It's not a lie. He and Medarda didn't fuck. Not the way he and Sevika do. The two encounters exist on completely different stratums.

One is a raw transaction, its signature scrawled on bare skin. The other…

Sevika keeps studying his face. Silco keeps the façade seamless. A lifetime of practiced duplicity has its uses. But so does the truth.

For a moment she looks nakedly relieved. Then the hard-eyed glare is back.

"So it wasn't a fuck."

"It wasn't."

"But something happened."

"Nothing of consequence." That's not a lie, either. The consequences are a work-in-progress. "Heavy the head that wears the crown. She needed a listening ear. I gave her one. She puts up a front, but behind the scenes, the Council's a circus. Medarda has no allies among them. Only pawns, and you can't trust a pawn to have your back." Irony is a fine blade: its point buried deep between them. "Our talk was honest. Honest is what she needs. It will put us on equal footing. Keep her from playing mind-games, and me from having to counter them. Satisfied?" At her silence, he presses. "What more do you want me to say, Sevika?"

"Nothing." Her voice is rigid. "That's the problem. You never say a goddamn thing. I have to pry every piece of information out of you. I'm supposed to be your second-in-command. But you can't even give me the benefit of the doubt. You say you value loyalty. But you never fucking act like it. You can't even admit the truth: that I'm a damn sight more than a bodyguard or a cockwarmer. I'm your partner. And I don't mean like some sappy love affair. I mean I'm the only one who watches your back when anyone else would stab it through. I'm the one who makes sure your plans get done, and your enemies die, and your allies stay alive. I've spent seven years by your side and every minute, every goddamn second, has been in service of our cause. And still, I haven't earned my right to know where we stand on the endgame. Hell, you can't even look me in the eye and give me a straight answer." Her face spasms, the deep-buried anger seething to the surface. "You are a fucking snake, Silco."

The words hit home, and hit deep. He feels the truth of them, in each layer of skin shed, each truth betrayed, each slow erosion of the self.

And yet not all of the secrets are his to share.

"If I were a snake, I'd have struck by now." His fingertips drift to her ankle. "I haven't. I've kept you close." His thumb imparts a soft circle. "If you were wise, you'd strike first. Get a clean shot." His palm rises, cupping the curve of her calf. "Why haven't you?"

"Don't make this into another game." Her jaw sets, but she doesn't pull away. "You're not the only one who's invested in our future."

"Ours?"

"Zaun."

"Then let us work together for it." He sets both hands on her knees, parting her legs. The bathrobe hangs open, revealing a hard strip of her belly, the heavy curve of one breast. Water beads like dewdrops on her skin. "We are close, Sevika. So close. A few more pieces, and the board will be ours." His eyes lift. The pool drinks up his voice. "I know I don't tell you enough. But it's not because you haven't earned the right. It's because I need you to trust me. To have faith that I won't lead you wrong." He dips his head. His lips are a fluttering coolness on the inside of her thigh. "Give me your faith, Sevika. Give me that, and I'll give you..."

Sevika slides to the edge of the slab, letting her robe fall, her legs sprawl.

Her copper fingers fist into his hair.

"What?" she breathes. "What will you give me?"

Her visage refracts in the mirrors: a fractaling of dragonfire. She is loveliest this way: all the softness aflame. Nothing like Mel Medarda—honeyed to the core—but the raw potency of her is no less compelling. She is his, and that is a heady fact, not because he's cultivating her as an asset, or playing on her vulnerability, or seducing her into a trap, but because she's chosen to be his.

As he's chosen her.

It's a reminder that, for all his scheming and stratagems, Silco's desires—his weaknesses—will always undo him. Because they run too deep. Too far. There's no artifice to them. Just a primal simplicity of feed-fuck-kill, and a hunger never goes away. A monster that never sleeps.

And though he'll still play games with his other toys, he knows they are dalliances of a different order: prettier, but less sturdy; useful, but ultimately disposable. There are toys who, like Medarda, can hypnotize him so intensely that he forgets everything else. And there is Sevika, who keeps his feet on the ground, and his head in the game, and Zaun's perfect mechanisms in order.

An iron chatelaine for your iron castle, Medarda had teased—but it's more than that.

The truth is he needs her. Not because her loyalty is his best insurance, her expertise a vital asset, her strength a necessary resource. It's because if there is anything worth needing, it's someone who is dangerous enough to kill you, and strong enough not to.

Someone whose allegiance is bought and paid for, not with coin, but with the promise of the bitter end.

He'd seen it in her at seventeen, her cheers cutting the loudest at every rally, and he'd seen it in her at twenty-two, when everything good was taken from her and she'd stayed standing, and he'd seen it at twenty-seven, when she'd leapt against the shock-blue trajectory of the blast from Jinx's monkey bomb.

Leapt in, and saved him.

He needs that totality of belief bolstering him. Needs it, because Vander was a fool, and Nandi was stolen, and Sevika's the last bastion left. Jinx will be the one to inherit his dream, but Sevika is the one he'll count on to hold fast, no matter how far afield his plans take him. She is a constant, the rock upon which his foundations rest.

In face that, truth is a necessary casualty.

"Tell me," Sevika whispers. Her knees trap his shoulders, a sleek vise "What will you give me?"

Silco runs his tongue across his lower lip: prelude to a promise.

"Everything," he says.

And, openmouthed, he sinks down between her thighs.

It's a long time before he comes up for air. Sevika, snarling, drags him out by the hair, and over the edge of the pool to connect with his skin, his mouth, his cock. Their coupling is done with force and few words. Her teeth snaring his lower-lip. Her thighs locked around his hips. Her hands—copper and flesh—scoring his shoulders. The steam curls around them. The echo of their grunts, the wet slap slap slap of skin, and the rise and fall of the water, all bounce back and forth along the marble.

Two warm bodies, and a monster's own heartbeat.

Yet the aftershocks bleed with a different monster. Silco cannot name it precisely. Or better put, he dares not. To pin it down with words is to give it the definitions of wings, teeth, a heart. The shape is already in the closeness between them. In the space between his body and hers.

A silhouette disconcertingly like trust.

Afterward, they stay close. They're not much for cuddling, he and Sevika. But once in a blue moon, she'll rest his head against whatever part of her body is expedient: the hollow between her breasts, the shelf of her hip, the tautness of her belly.

Now she sits with his head tipped back like a book spread in her lap. The rest of him sprawls halfway into the water. Her mechanical hand plays idly with his hair. It's less a caress than a callback. Silco has a tendency to drift, even as he is held in place.

"So?" Sevika's voice comes slurred. "You gonna talk? Or make me keep guessing?"

It's an effort to stir his lips. "You don't give up, do you?"

"That's how I keep my job."

"And how I keep my head?"

"Package deal."

Her hand resumes stroking his hair. He can feel her waiting. It's an imperative: the same one he'd issued by making her stay. Now she's turned the tables, and he's the one being called upon. Silco tells himself it's in his best interest to answer. He can't have Sevika suspecting the sincerity of his motives. He needs her focused. And he can't afford for her to pull a Vi and go, either.

If, by offering a little honesty of his own, he can defuse the situation, and set her at ease, then a little honesty is what he will give.

A little, and no further.

"The Peacekeeper Exchange Initiative," he says, "is a front."

"What do you mean?"

"Medarda will have her way. Vi will come to Zaun. She will serve her purpose. And she'll serve it at arm's length. Jinx won't be afforded the opportunity to get close. She'll be occupied with her work. Zaun's work." Silco looks at her, and there's something in his eyes. T the dark inverse of revelation. "Her and Viktor both."

"They'll be working together?"

"Separate spheres. Same goal."

"Nothing stays separate in close quarters. Especially with a teenager's hormones in the mix."

Silco's stare locks on hers.

"You said it yourself," Sevika says, "She singled Viktor out. Might be a coincidence. Or..."

"What?"

"Maybe the girl's got a crush."

Silco makes a soft sound expressive of disgust. "Don't be ridiculous."

"It's a theory."

"She does not have a crush. She was testing him."

"Testing him?"

"Assessing his value. As an ally." The thought occurs to him. "I suppose she's growing bored with Magnus. The dog has his uses, but he can't engage the mind."

"And Viktor can?"

"His intelligence is a match for hers. Shocking, considering their age difference."

"That's my point." Sevika's features, upside down, hold a smileless amusement. "Viktor's not a child. He's not a dog. He's a grown man. And Jinx..."

Silco preempts the rest. "She is only seventeen."

"Only? How many seventeen-year-olds are capable of blowing up an entire city, or taking down an Enforcer cavalcade singlehandedly? Let's not forget the time she hijacked a fucking airship. Or the time she took out a roomful of Slickjaws armed with nothing but six color pencils. You've set her loose on the world. She's got the experience of a war veteran." Her jaw sets. "The baggage, too."

"Your point?"

"My point is, her tastes are different from the average girl's." The corner of her lip curls. "Older men get to be a nasty habit. They're all about control. And when you're used to being a little monster, you enjoy getting put in your place. It's a headfuck. Like playing chicken with a loaded gun. And we both know how much Jinx likes guns."

"You're saying Viktor would take advantage of her." The words are clipped; the tone, icy. "That he'd play into her trust."

"If not Viktor, then someone else. She's not a kid anymore. She'll be a woman soon. And she'll catch the eyes of every fucker out there, sooner or later." Her hand never ceases its small caresses. But her stare holds his: challenging. "She's gonna catch the eyes of a certain type in particular."

"What type is that?"

"You know. The hellraisers. The risk-takers. The ones living for a thrill to top all thrills." Quieter: "Like you at that age."

A vein pulses in Silco's left temple. "You are implying she'll find a lover soon."

"More than one."

"Hardly."

It comes out sharp enough to take a head off the shoulders. Yet the creeping tide of possessiveness is very real. All that dilutes it is the knowledge that Jinx has—so far—seldom expressed an interest in either boys or girls.

It isn't that she is oblivious to her own charms or their effect on others. Silco has taught her to weaponize her appearance with the same deft precision as a blade. Yet she's never shown an inclination to go prowling, either. Certainly not the way Silco used to at her age. A casualty of premature initiation, or his own base nature; his mind was always acutely attuned to the sensual.

Typically, his own child's budding sexuality is a subject best avoided. The few times it's come up has been pithy summations from his network: She gets off on booms, not bodies.

Unspoken but blatant: Freak.

Most are convinced Jinx is a rare species of deviant. Someone more gratified by mind-fuckery than the primal simplicity of hormones. If she were, Silco wouldn't be shocked. Hell, he'd encourage it. There are few more intoxicating modes of control than insinuating yourself into peoples' thoughts, playing hell with their emotions, seeping into their psyches in an act of irreversible infusion. In face of that, sex pales in comparison.

But outsiders have always tenaciously clung to the notion of Jinx as a monster.

So, Silco concedes, has he.

Jinx is still a growing girl. A girl exposed to every stripe of brutality—and yet spared the worst by virtue of his own aegis. She's never before declared it smothering; never rebelled against his rules. The issue has always been unwanted people wanting her.

Now Sevika is telling him she might want people back. Not just want them. Crave them. The same way Silco had craved Vander, or Nandi.

Until it'd all soured in a bath of blood.

"Viktor is not Jinx's type," he says. "Nor is she his."

"Yeah?"

"The boy's never touched a woman. Let alone bedded one."

"You're saying—?" Sevika's brows wing sky-high. "Huh. Explains why there's never been rumors."

"My sources are reliable. The boy lives like a monk. The closest he's come to a relationship is Talis, who is so obtuse he missed a mile-wide opportunity." He lapses into musing. Her nails lightly raking his scalp have a strangely meditative effect. "I'd wager that's part of the reason Viktor and Jinx found each other. They're both outliers. The odd ones out." He thinks of Viktor's expression at the gala, when he and Jinx bid each other goodnight: courtesy that hid a strange kinship. "He won't touch her. Not that way."

"And the next one who does?" Sevika looms in. Her dark hair sluices over her shoulders, like a pair of wings. She's letting it grow, finally, past the nape of her neck. It suits her. "The next one who sees her and wants her and goes for it?"

"Jinx can take care of herself."

"What if she wants 'em to touch her back?"

Silco's good eye narrows. "Are you under the impression I'd forbid her?"

"I know you would." Her tone brooks no argument. "But that's not the point. You can't treat her like a little girl forever. She's got too much curiosity. Soon, she's gonna start exploring. And it won't stop at sex. It'll be the world, next. Once she's had a taste, she'll want it all. She's a firecracker, Silco. Always has been. The question is: are you ready?"

"Ready?"

"For her to spread her wings?"

Silco doesn't reply. The words strike a discordant nerve. He's aware of the irony. His dearest wish is to see Jinx soaring higher than ever, a shooting star streaking across Zaun's stratosphere. At the same time, he fears the inevitable crash. The collision.

The catastrophe.

"Jinx isn't a bird," he says. "She's a girl. She'll always be mine."

Mine.

It holds the finality of a pair of jaws snapping shut. But the possessor isn't him; it's her. Jinx. The girl who is everything. His child. His creation. His crowning achievement. He's already set a city ablaze to keep her safe.

He'll do worse to keep her whole.

Sevika's eyes flicker, then settle. "As you say, sir."

"It's a non-issue." The vein in his temple gives a single tic, then subsides. "As it is, she and Viktor will be monitored during his work. Blackguards, not the usual goons. Their orders will be clear: make sure matters stay aboveboard." A beat. "Especially since Viktor will be arriving with a treasure trove to share."

"Treasure trove?"

"The Hexcore."

Sevika's hand stills. Shock resolidifies her sated musculature into steel.

"The Council will be up in arms. Medarda will be blindsided. They deserve to be. For decades, Fissure-born have been deemed beneath Topside's citizenship. It's a law designed to keep our status nebulous, and our ambitions curbed." The ghost of a smile. "Now that law will work against them. Viktor—whatever offense he's committed Topside—will be within full rights to return belowground. With any work he's done during his tenure."

"The Wardens—"

"Zaun is Zaun. Their laws no longer apply. The Council know this as well as we do. So they will try to initiate a legal tug-of-war. They'll decry Viktor's defection as treason. They'll make a show of force. But that's all it will be. A show. Behind closed doors, I will offer them a taste of whatever new wonders Viktor devises. Tax-free, with a hefty discount. They will bite, because profit is sweeter than paranoia."

"Medarda—

"She's a businesswoman. She'll have her qualms. But her sensibilities will override them. She's staked a lot on this Peace Treaty. To jeopardize it now threatens her city. That, she'll not risk." He caresses Sevika's thigh with the back of his knuckles. Smiles when she lets off a little shiver. "Meanwhile, Jinx and Viktor will be free to conquer a new frontier. One that will make Topside's look like a child's sandbox."

"What kind of frontier?" Sevika's tone is guarded. "Science. Or...?"

"Magic."

The armature of her thighs clenches beneath him. "Magic."

"The pentimento come to life. A synthesis of past and future."

Disentangling, he reaches for his silver cigar case on the marble ledge. The lighter flares, his cragged face red in the glow of a brightleaf cigarillo. Sevika stares, transfixed. Finally, he's putting the obliqueness aside. Finally, he's letting her see the big picture.

Except there is no light in his eyes. No clarity. Only a rolling tide of darkness.

"I need you to listen to me, Sevika," he says. "Listen, and give me your faith. Because what I'm about to tell you must not go beyond these walls. Understood?"

Sevika nods. Her look is the same one as during the Siege: the moment right before the bullets hit, and the shrapnel flew, and their world changed. The moment freedom went from shining abstraction to bloodstained truth.

This moment, a threshold, is another.

"I never told you what happened in the Deadlands. That's because I've had trouble believing it." His fingers gesture. The ash falls. "It's true. There was a blast. Jinx and I were caught up in it. A tremendous fireball. It should have killed us. Should have. But Jinx had the Hex-gem with her. It sparked something in the old runes carved on the obelisks. You know the ones. The waypoints for shipping coal to the Black Minge." Memory thickens his voice. "The gem... was like a key. It unlocked something in those runes. Ley lines of power, long buried. A current running through the air itself. The obelisk lit up, and something—opened. A doorway. We passed through it, and found ourselves elsewhere. Many elsewheres. Like time splitting into different threads."

Sevika inhales, and holds fast.

"It felt like lifetimes. Living and dying and rebirthing. Over and over. Lifetimes I would never have believed. Lifetimes I would never wish to believe. Then it was finished. We were back in the Deadlands. The blast was fading. We were untouched. And yet, we were... changed. In some indefinable, microscopic way." His cigarillo smolders in his hand: a pulsating circle of red. He stares at it, his focus at once fevery and far-off. "Jinx and I talked about it afterwards. She believes the runes are a code. An ancient sequence that unlocks the arcane energies latent in the city itself. And they are everywhere. In our murals. In the walls. In the streets."

"So that's what those X'ers are doing," Sevika says. "They're making a map."

"More like a blueprint. Once Jinx has deciphered all the runes, and their full meaning, she can arrange the sequence to her liking. She calls it a Hex-code. A lexicon to manipulate the currents at will. Convert them into pure energy."

Sevika's features as slicked—not with steam but sweat.

"And Viktor?" she asks. "Where's his Hexcore fit into this?"

"It's less the Hexcore than Viktor himself." Off her silence: "During the gala, something unusual happened. Jinx slipped the Hex-gem into my pocket. A whimsy—or so I thought. Then she left me alone with Viktor. Throughout my talk with the boy, I nearly felt it burning a hole in my trouserfront."

Sevika musters a wan smile. "You sure that was the gem?"

"Quite sure." His own smile glints like a knife in the shadows. "Viktor's reaction was curious. He had a glove on his right hand. When I showed him the gem, his palm moved for it instinctively. That's when I knew."

"Knew what?"

"He, too, has been crossing thresholds. Playing with the gem's power. It's changed him. Left him... augmented. The glove was to hide it. Beneath, his skin had the look of reinforced steel." His chuckle rides an unraveling twist of smoke. "All this time, he's been chasing his tail. He's determined to outrun death and leave a legacy. Meanwhile, his real legacy is carving a path right into his flesh."

Sevika's shoulders go taut, but he forestalls her. "I know you mistrust magic. But Jinx's research into its properties is sound. Viktor has shared his notes on the Hexcore. I've had Jinx look them over. She says his findings are consistent with hers. More than that. They're both, at opposite ends of the spectrum, approaching the same breakthrough."

"Which is?"

"Jinx claims that the more closely an entity interacts with the gem, the more the gem changes them, and the more they change the gem. A feedback loop. Not simply between person and the gem. Between others who are similarly touched. It's not a charm. It's a conduit."

"A conduit?"

"For the energy that lives inside of it. That energy, Jinx believes, is not just alive. It's aware. It can feel."

Sevika's brow spasms. "How?"

"I don't know. But it's plain the gem is not the same as when Jinx first got her hands on it. The same goes for Viktor. If his augmentations are proof, the gem is changing him in ways even he doesn't understand. He is no longer merely an asset. He is a live experiment. As time goes on, he will be compelled to keep experimenting. Topside will give him no leeway. Only in Zaun can he find that latitude. And only with Jinx, will he be able to tap into its secrets."

"Silco—"

"Listen." He fixes on her. His bad eye holds the eerie phosphorescence of deep-sea life untouched by the sun. "In the Deadlands, one Hex-gem was enough to unlock the threshold. But Viktor's Hexcore combines a series of gems. Its power is immense. It has the potential to unveil all the runes of the entire city's grid. Enough to harness the power of every ley line, and direct the energy at will. Enough, in other words, to light Zaun up brighter than the sun."

Sevika's jaw drops.

His XO: pragmatic and tough as nails. Yet in her eyes, he sees the deep and abiding longing that has never left. The desire to rise above circumstance, and make a life for herself, and their people. The desire to see the Fissures thrive and the children grow, with food laid out, and cups filled, and the world, theirs.

A dream cut short by reality. By Bloody Sunday. By the Day of Ash.

"This—" Her throat works. "This is sorcery, Silco."

"Not sorcery. Science. And we've barely scratched the surface. Viktor has spent years solving issues we are grappling with right now. And he's got a head-start. Paired with Jinx's natural aptitude for the arcane, their discoveries could terraform the cityscape." He takes a drag on the cigarillo, lets it go through pursed lips in a perfect ring. A moving target of Zaun's future. "Think of it. Jinx handles the runes and their symbology. Viktor handles their practical applications. Between the two, they unlock breakthroughs in everything from medicine to mechanics. Hex-tech. Chem-tech. Hybridized and integrated. We'd be looking at a whole new paradigm of industrial advancement." A shiver arrows down his spine. "Imagine, Sevika. Magic as an unlimited energy source. A city of warmth and light. A city where we're finally..."

"Free," Sevika says.

"Yes."

The low-pitched whisper resonates through the chamber. It feels like a descent into bottomless depths. The groundswell of anticipation has been gathering in the dark spaces of his mind since his and Jinx's night in the Deadlands. Now the seam of his thoughts has cracked open, and from the shadows the dream has begun to seep.

It is not a small dream, nor a gentle one. But he's been thinking about it for months, and the possibility is—

Exciting?

Frightening.

It's a completely new species of fear. No, not new. Old. That crystalline purity of emotion he's not experienced since he was a young man. He might be five years old again, sitting on Daddy's knee and listening to him talk about civil rights. Listening and wondering: is this what it means to have hope? To feel the future unspooling into a horizon, and believe, without doubt, that it can be real? He could be sixteen again, vibrating with the ecstatic pitch of his desire, his throat raw from crying out, as Vander held him down and sucked him off, and afterward gave him back the taste of himself in a kiss that promised he could be anything. That he could be everything. He could be twenty-five, the naked sprawl of his body enfolded in Nandi's, their legs entangled, his mind afire with ideas. She was his sweetest confidante, and she'd listened even without listening, with the same intensity, the same tendresse, as though his dreams were as precious as his body.

He could be five, or sixteen, or twenty-five. The emotions are indistinguishable. And yet they're not. Because they're no longer bound to those who'd elicited them.

He isn't young anymore. Can't feel with the same undiluted intensity, even if he wanted to. The texture has corroded like the rest of him: a life-bitten legacy of betrayal and bloodshed. His soul is jagged, his heart is blackened, his face is ruined, and it is only because he was so thoroughly destroyed that he has remade himself, and the city around him, into something new.

Something that bites back twice as hard.

The silence stretches. Sevika's eyes remain on Silco. She could notice nothing else around her. Could be shot dead in this moment at point blank range and never move her eyes. He watches her expression sober as her mind rearranges his words. Reforms the chaos of his revelation into orderly columns. Into tactile facts.

Typewritten, like his ledgers, and laid out for the taking.

"That's quite the plan," she says.

"It's not a plan." His good eye holds hers, the barest seaside gleam beneath the dark scrim of lashes. "It's the beginning."

"How much will it cost in the grand scheme?"

"We'll have to play it by ear. Funnel funds where needed. The Council will need to be kept in the dark. Pay-offs will be necessary to keep the investors happy. Favors to keep the chem-barons complacent. In the meantime, the Expo will act as a testbed. We've a number of nascent projects powered by chem-tech and Hex-tech. They'll be showcased at the Expo, as a barometer of market size. We'll know by the month's end which project will take off. At which point, we'll put our chips down. Get the Council to invest in our projects. Then, once their finances are tied to ours—we will unleash our Four Horsemen." His lips peel back to show a row of serrated teeth. "Are you ready to go all-in, Sevika?"

In Sevika's eyes gleams a deepening anticipation. "Hell, yes."

"Then we must give Topside the illusion of a working arrangement. The Peacekeeper Exchange Initiative will help cement that. It will keep the Council off our backs. Keep us in the driver's seat. As for Vi..." His lips settle into a smooth line. A telling sign; the transition between two modes of bloodlust. "She and I have our own arrangement."

"Last time, she nearly killed you."

"I know."

"And? You're okay with that playing in repeat?"

"If it serves our interests: yes."

Sevika's scrutiny sharpens.

"Last time, Vi was here as an intruder. This time, she'll be my guest. Better yet. My special-ops blackguard. She'll serve Zaun, as a good dog should." There is satisfaction in his words; something else in his eyes. "Let her have a ringside seat to our inner workings. Let her see the changes that have come to pass. Let her report back to Topside about our city's advances."

"Trap her in a maze of our making."

"Very good. Once the enemy is caught in your parameters, it's easier to keep them off-balance. In time, Vi will let her guard down. We will cultivate it. Make her trust the situation. Make her feel safe. Then send her back where she belongs."

"Piltover?"

"Purgatory."

Sevika's expression goes shuttered. But why wouldn't it? She knows how Silco looks before he goes for the throat.

"You'll set her up," she says. "Get her to make a wrong move."

"Her third job. That's when it will happen."

"She's not stupid. She'll see it coming."

"That's where Jinx comes in."

"Jinx?"

"There's bad blood between them. Vi desperately wants Jinx to return to what she used to be. She's more desperate to make amends for triggering the change. She'll want to prove herself worthy of Jinx's forgiveness. We can use that desire for our ends. Lead her down the right path." A reptilian glint seeps into his eyes. "And make sure she meets the right people along the way."

"Got somebody in mind?"

"I'll apprise you in time."

He's already resolved that Sevika's presence will not be required. Not for this. She is a capable soldier, but Vi has already bested her once. The rest of his crew? They're good; definitely reliable. But they are no match for a prodigy like Vi. Silco can't risk them for the final steps.

In the end, he will have to finish this business himself. His way; the only way. And Medarda will be none the wiser. Everything will be handled discreetly, and whatever her suspicions, she'll be too deep into their blood-bargain to call Silco out. Not unless she wants to risk Talis' life.

She's trapped Silco thrice. But he'll have her in his jaws this time.

Zaun will be stronger for it. So will Jinx.

(And you, Vander?)

(You'll have company soon enough.)

"Silco?"

"Hm?"

Silco's hair is in his eyes, obscuring his bad side. Sevika reaches with her prosthetic hand to smooth the quills back. A deformity of flesh touched by a disfigurement of machinery. Reflexively, Silco stills. Her touch is strange: half-soft, half-hard. The copper-tipped fingers stir the fine hairs on his nape. They rest there, just where the border of skin grades into stubble.

It's the closest she's come so far to touching his neck.

"Suppose Jinx wants Vi around?" she says, low. "What happens then?"

The rage crests. Silco's features go indistinct, trapped in a monster's shadow. Then it passes.

"It will not come to that," he says. "The sister Jinx knew is gone. All that remains is the Topsider: judgmental, and righteous, and a coward. In time, Jinx will see it." He sets his palm over hers. The prosthetic cables thrum like tendons. "This reunion will be a lesson for her. The most important one of all. A traitor will never have your best interests at heart. They have only one place in the natural order. Six feet under."

He drops Sevika's hand. It falls into the hot water, like a dead thing.

Hissing, she jerks away. In a smooth movement, Silco vaults out of the pool.

A towel is laid out for him, next to the neat pile of his clothes. Drying off, he slithers into his suit. It is a methodical reconstruction of order. With each layer, the monster slinks back into its cage. With each button, the rage settles, patient and coiled. Every tie a tether; every stitch a suture. Until he is whole again, and no trace of nakedness remains. Only the Devil's glow that lives behind his bad eye.

The remaking from monster to man to myth.

Silco slips a finger beneath his collar, ensuring the cravat is immaculate. His eyes meet Sevika's in the mirror.

"It's time," he says. "The cards are nearly in our hands."

"Nearly?"

"There's one left." He straightens his sleeves, then his cuffs. "And she's hard at work in the Aerie."

And, if all goes well, he will secure her as the ace of spades. Up his sleeve, and in his sights, for the rest of the game.

(Right where you belong, Jinx.)

(Home safe.)

---

In Piltover's unbloodied brightness, fire is a leitmotif, a radiant blessing, a herald of hope.

It refracts off the gilded skyline: the core of a hundred hearths. It dances in fractals off the glass panes: taking on the breathtaking shapes of a galaxy in motion. It caresses the girders of rooftops and envelops the cobbled streets: an embrace of everlasting protection. The air is charged with it: a sweetness that floods the mouth like mulled wine, and lingers on the skin like woodsmoke and roasted chestnuts. The panorama is a supersaturated palette of golden spires, russet rooftops, and saffron lamplight—a city prismatic with enchantment. Sometimes it is neither sight, nor taste, but sensation: a hot buzz against the nape, a prickling of sweat between the breasts, a feverish flutter of the heart.

For Vi, it is the kiss of the sun, all aglow. It safeguards and strengthens her. It is proof that she's done with the shadows.

Even if the shadows are never done with her.

Caitlyn cries out.

She is spilled across the coverlet, one arm flung across her face, her hips stirring as Vi's mouth laps between her widespread thighs. Vi has kept the shutters up because she loves the sight of her spread across the bed in the dusky twilight: sweat glittering on her bare skin, her body sculpted into a shape of pure sensuality, blissed-out and beautiful.

It's how Vi likes to end her shifts: the two of them twined into a lover's knot, the last rays of sunlight warming the bedsheets, the ebbing soundtrack of the city a fuse leading straight home to Cailtyn's body.

Today, Vi needs that straightforward solace of homecoming.

Because she is home. The lamplight turned low. Her keys tossed into the ceramic bowl. Her jacket hung on the hook beside Caitlyn's hat. Her boots kicked off in the foyer. Caitlyn's arms, waiting to greet her, and their bedsheets a blue sea ready to float them out to the shores of completeness. Everything is the way it's supposed to be.

Except...

Except Vi feels like a stranger in her own skin. A fugitive. Her body, keyed up, still redlines on adrenaline. The scent of smoke, heavy and acrid, still lingers in the roots of her hair.

Her eyes, bloodshot, are still gluey with an old limescale of tears.

She can still see the yacht exploding, a time-bomb floating toward the shoreline. The brilliant flames glowing across the waters, a bonfire on the beach. From her perch in the docks, Vi had stared at the climbing flames, her arms wrapped around herself, nausea pooling in the back of her throat.

She'd done the unthinkable. She'd taken down a vessel full of people.

In the aftermath, dream-shocked, her jaw had clamped shut on an unspent scream. When the coast guard arrived, she'd watched them douse the flaming wreckage. The waves had been painted red, a spill of bright blood. She and the rest of the Noxian consul's security detail were given a physical evaluation, then subjected to a cursory interrogation. Vi knew to keep a blank face, knowing nobody could pin her to the crime. Her pallor was easy to dismiss: just post-shock jitters.

All other evidence would've been destroyed in the blast.

Alone in the empty alleyway, reality had hit. A gut-punch of horror. Her body had doubled over, and she'd stayed that way, breathing, for a long time. Her skin buzzed, and her palms were damp, and she'd kept wiping them against her thighs, waiting for the blood to flake away. Except her hands were clean, and the blood was on the yacht. In the water. In the air.

Everywhere.

She'd begun to sob, collapsing against the wall. The tears came hot as acid. She'd pressed her burning cheek to the cool brick, a fist stuffed into her mouth.

Nobody must hear. Nobody must know. Nobody but her.

Caitlyn cries out again.

She thrashes, and Vi keeps her in place, the muscles in her forearm flexing. Her tongue chases back to front, savoring the way her taste sharpens from point to point: saltysweet and all-encompassing. She sucks Caitlyn's clit with a practiced pressure, and feels her thighs spasm around her ears. Her belly hollows, supplanted by the heavy teardrops of her breasts, rising and falling. Her cries fill the room, and the space between Vi's legs throbs: a relentless pulse.

She's already come twice, brought off by Caitlyn's clever fingers, but it's not enough. The fire is lit, and it wants what it always wants: flesh. Her skin burns, and her mouth burns, and her mind burns. The hunger is a gnawing thing, ready to consume until only bone remains.

And only one person can feed it.

"Vi—fuck," Caitlyn sobs.

She uncouples her legs from around Vi and digs her heels into the mattress, lifting herself to meet the next pass of Vi's tongue. She's close: half-shaped syllables strung on her lips. Her hands are knotted in the bedsheets. Her spine is a gorgeous arch as she climbs. Vi watches her, caught between wonder and desire. Her clit throbs, and she's aching, and she can't keep still.

Her hand drops, down between her thighs. She grinds a thumb against herself. Her mouth seals over Caitlyn's clit, and her thumb works tight circles over her own, and she feels when Caitlyn crests, her body seizing up, expelling a long hoarse cry. Then she's coming, and the waves hit her, and hit her, and hit her, and she rides them, in thrall to Vi's mouth, her head tossing back, all "Vi!" and "Gods!" and "Yes!" until the cries break into sobs, and subside into shudders.

And Vi knows she should wait, but she can't. She crawls over Caitlyn, and takes her left leg, pushing it up against her chest. Caitlyn gasps, spread wide open. Vi straddles her other leg, angling herself and wedging their bodies together. And oh, fuck, it's so good. Everything slick on slick, her mons and the softness of Caitlyn's mound, the hard-soft of her clit.

Their faces are close. Caitlyn's eyes hold a half-lidded glaze. She looks stoned.

Like that night in Zaun, inside the coffin—

Vi's mind shies. Her hands brace against Caitlyn's shoulders; she presses her weight down. Then she is moving: a hard, merciless rhythm that rocks the bedframe and jolts the mattress springs. Caitlyn quakes, her whimper on the edge of pleading. But her body yields, palms starfishing the sheets. It's all heat and pressure and friction. Their breaths come in a harsh, shared staccato. Caitlyn's leg, doubled up, is damp under Vi's grip. She holds it there, fingers denting the muscle, and their stares lock.

The need is a red surge. A fire. It engulfs them both.

"Oh Gods, Vi," Caitlyn groans.

She reaches up, and her hands find Vi's breasts. Her fingers roll and tug, and the fire spikes. Vi grinds and grinds and grinds, and Caitlyn's seizes her hips, and it's too much, and not enough, it's never enough, and—

Vi is coming again, a keening sob torn from her throat.

Caitlyn drags her down. The kiss is openmouthed and wet, and her body seizes, and she is still coming. Caitlyn feels it: each hard, distinct pulse. Her lashes flutter, and Vi bites her lower-lip, her mouth falling open in a silent cry, and then Caitlyn's breaths are sawing the air, and Vi knows it's happening for her again. She spasms with each undulation of Vi's body, the aftershocks passing back and forth. Their mouths cling, and they moan into each other. Vi's groin hurts and her lungs hurt and her heart hurts, and all she can see is the yacht and the blood and the flames.

The finish is a brutal thing, an endless convulsion that wrings her body, and empties her out. Vi's muscles unlock. Woozy, she collapses. Caitlyn folds her close. Their foreheads touch. Her fingertips caress Vi's hip, barely grazing the Eye tattoo on her thigh.

That's when the tears start: a slow leak that Vi struggles against.

Caitlyn's voice is soft. "You okay?"

Vi nods, once.

"You sure?"

"Yeah." She swallows. "Just..." She can't say it. "Glad you're here."

Caitlyn's face gentles. "I'm glad, too."

Their mouths brush. No heat. Just a sweet lingering press.

It's as perfect as Vi could want. But the guilt still burns, a low flame in a ring of gore. She kisses Caitlyn again, nuzzling in, her hands taking the tour. Caitlyn expels a breathy sigh. Vi starts to pull her closer, to begin again, do this as many times as it takes until the fire is out, and the monster is too.

No blast, no bodies, no—

Caitlyn lets off a dizzied laugh.

"Tapping out." She kisses the damp hollow of Vi's throat. "No more, or my legs will fall off."

Gentle but expert, she tumbles Vi, so she is underneath. Her dark hair is a blitz of shadows stirring around their faces. At this proximity, Vi can count every single one of her eyelashes. Her stare is soft and blue and lovely. All Vi can think is Sorry—Sorry—Sorry with every beat of her heart.

Because it should be enough. It should be everything.

And yet—

Concern flits across Caitlyn's features. "You sure you're all right?"

"Yeah." Vi forces a smile. "I'm just—wired. Long day."

"The consul's yacht." Vi tenses, and it's enough for Caitlyn. "Oh, Vi, that wasn't your fault."

"I—"

Caitlyn goes on, perceptive to a fault, and yet utterly blind. "They're saying it was an engine malfunction. The toxins in the water sparked a chemical reaction. There's nothing you or the crew could've done. I'm just glad you weren't on the yacht. It was a miracle, all of you escaping unscathed."

Vi says nothing. The memory of the explosion replays, scratchy like a reel of old film. She smells the smoke.

Same as the night at the Cannery.

"I can't imagine what it must've been like," Caitlyn says. "To be in the middle of that. But you handled it like a pro. I'm so proud of you."

"Yeah."

"Just... did you notice anything odd, before it happened?"

"…odd…?"

"You know. Out of the ordinary." Caitlyn frowns. "They keep saying the filters fritzed out. But according to the harbormaster, the ship was supposed to have undergone maintenance earlier this week. Everything was in order."

Vi shrugs, eyes averted. "Oversight?"

"Maybe. Still, the timing's awfully suspect." Vi can hear the bright gears of Caitlyn's mind whirring. She's so much like Powder: incisive, clever, querying. Always alert for patterns, and assembling the scattered pieces into a logical whole. "Do you think it could've been an inside job? Maybe one of the crew was paid off by an enemy of Noxus, or—"

"Could be." Vi cuts her off. "Could be a lot of things." She tugs Caitlyn closer, until she is sprawled on top of her, a hot silky blanket. With both palms, she smooths her hair back, cupping the wings of her shoulderblades. "Let's not talk shop, okay?"

"But aren't you curious?"

"I'm done thinking about it tonight. That's an order, officer." Vi kisses her forehead. "You're neglecting your duty."

"Am I?" Caitlyn purrs. "And what would that be?"

"Pillowtalk." Another kiss on her chin. "Keep me awake, Cupcake."

Caitlyn laughs. The sound is a blend of bittersweet notes that Vi could never bottle up. "I'll do you one better. How about dinner?"

"I'm not up for fixing a big meal tonight."

"Then I'll fix it. I'll even drop down to the bakery, pick up some bread."

"The bakery's closed."

"Mrs. Mamatis keeps the backroom open. She likes to make a little coin off the graveyard shift."

"Huh. She always pulls down the shutters when she sees me coming."

"She just gun-shy."

"I think you mean Trench-shy." Vi grins, and it feels natural. Nearly. "Probably thinks I'll rob her blind. Already bagged the shiny rich girl, and all."

Caitlyn smiles back. The sweetness is a punch to the chest. "I don't recall putting up a fight." She nuzzles Vi's hair. "Besides, you're a model citizen. Everyone knows that."

"Yeah."

Vi's smile stays fixed. Her jaw hurts, but she doesn't let it slip. Because she is a model citizen. And she has a shiny girlfriend. And she should be satisfied. She should be home, safe, with a full belly and an open heart.

And no blood on her hands.

"Go on." Caitlyn disentangles from Vi. "Take your shower. I'll pop downstairs. See if Mrs. Mamatis has a few fresh rolls."

She sits up, the sheet pooling into her lap. The slanting amber sunlight limns her curves. Like she's been dipped in honey. And Vi wants to taste her, all over again. But the ache is too close to the surface. If she starts now, the fire will rise up, and she'll burn them both alive.

Instead, Vi whispers, "Hey."

"What?"

"Love you."

It's a simple fact. But the words always come hard for Vi. Like pulling teeth. She can never say it without a throb of pain. Because she doesn't deserve it. Doesn't deserve Caitlyn.

And yet Caitlyn deserves to hear it.

Their eyes meet. Caitlyn's smile blooms like a rose in her heart-shaped face. Reaching out, she cups Vi's cheek. In the touch, there is a steadying serenity so unlike the heat they've made. Vi wishes she could hold on to it forever.

Breath held, she pretends she can.

"I love you, too," Caitlyn says. "With all of my heart."

A parting kiss. Caitlyn, a little flushed, pads out of bed. Vi watches her go, the curve of her buttocks a sweet sway. In a few minutes, she's washed up, then dressed and gone. Spent, Vi lays in her warmth. The foreshortened span of her own body is sweat-sheened. On her thigh, the Eye is an eyesore. Yet her fingertips trace the curve. Her thumb follows the shape of the winged eyelid. It stares back: cruel, reptilian, knowing,

For a moment, Vi swears it winks at her.

Panic fires her nerves. Leaping up, Vi races to the shower. Under the spray, she scrubs and scrubs, suds frothing around her feet. Her skin smarts; her eyes sting. The Eye keeps staring, a malignant blackness. It's inside her, a parasite taking root. Her mind keeps spinning; her nightmares spiraling out of control.

Since hers and Powder's reunion in the Aerie, she can't stop thinking about it. The multicolored delirium of her sister's lair. Hers and Silco's bodies twined together in the dark. Powder's screams and Jinx's gun. And Silco's whisper, insidious and compelling.

"Ssh, my lovely. Ssh."

In dreams, Vi hears that voice. It holds a subaudible pitch that slithers right into her brain. Except it belongs to someone else. His silhouette: the same, but a prankster's crooked slouch. His hands: the same, but instead of cruel sickles, they're playful, cradling. His face: the same, but instead of a death's head of cicatrix and bone, it's alive. The color of limestone and cinnamon: a handsome face. He smiles down at Vi, his greeny-blue eyes twinkling.

His voice is a smooth murmur, a black silk ribbon that Vi's senses chase like a kitten after a string.

("Look out for yourself, Pet.")

He's the same. Except he's not.

Vi can't understand it. She can't. But at night, she feels a hand. It smooths her hair. It cradles her cheek. The fingers have no calluses, but a roughness from pens and knifework at each joint, and they feel familiar. In the darkness, the world is reduced to that single touch.

Then the hand elongates into talons, folding around Vi's throat. The man's face distorts like melting candlewax. The left eye glows red.

He hisses. He seethes. He smiles.

And he begins to squeeze.

Each time, Vi wakes with the sheets knotted around her body, her cheeks wet, her hands clamped over her mouth to keep the scream inside.

She nearly screams now. Except there's no room between her and the walls. Only choking steam. The shower spray has gone cold; her body is rashed in gooseflesh.

She's been standing under the showerhead, motionless, for a minutes.

Hastily, Vi turns off the faucets, and towels off. In the fogged mirrors, she can't see the Eye. But it's always there: a secret throb beneath the skin. The stillness of the flat only magnifies its presence. The entire flat holds a terrifying inertia, swallowing all sound with a totality that Vi hasn't noticed, because she and Caitlyn are always feeding the void with conversation, music, bickering, laughter.

Love.

Love inhabits the air like the motes of red sunlight ebbing at the windows. It's there in the cozy geometry of the bathroom tiles. In the patterned wallpaper of purple peonies Caitlyn picked out. It's in the wafts of Caitlyn's shampoo in Vi's hair, and her lacy bra hanging in the corner next to Vi's sports binder. It's in their room: the bed, freshly fitted with Vi's favorite sunflower-print sheets. The wardrobe, with their mismatch of clothes lovingly crammed together in a shared geography. The bowl of peaches on the kitchen table, the tasseled lampshade in the livingroom, the vase of pink roses in the foyer.

All the ways the apartment is theirs. All the ways they've made it home.

Home is what Caitlyn wants. Home is what Vi wants. They've built this dream, and kept building it, and the dream keeps growing. The love grows with it. Every morning, Caitlyn sits across from Vi with her mussed hair and the sleep-crumbs in her eyes and a dreamy little smile that says, Good morning, love. Every evening, Caitlyn returns from her shift with her hat perfectly pinned and her arms laden with paper bags full of fragrant, steaming bread, and her grin sets a fuse crackling down the center of Vi's body. Every night, they make love, slow and sweet, with hitching breaths and crooning sighs, and Vi feels her brain melting and her heart shooting sparks, because it's as if their bodies were built to slide together. To fit the way nothing else ever has.

Everything fits. It fits perfectly. The most perfect thing Vi's ever had. And she will die for it. Kill for it. Anything, everything, no matter the cost, no matter the—

No matter the truth.

It's isn't enough.

It's never been enough.

Because I'm not enough.

Vi's hands fly to her temples. She stumbles into the bedroom, and her legs go out. She falls heavily into a chair, head cradled in her hands.

It feels like the world's deck is tilting. She is off-kilter, tipping into freefall.

The flat is filled with a luminous sunshine that spreads bittersweetly over everything. But the brightness cannot penetrate her. The love can't sustain her. Because this isn't home. It's the waystation of a fugitive who doesn't know how to make her life fit. The unfittingness has deepened into a pit so far down that nothing can reach it. Laughing with Caitlyn, making love with her, talking to her.

Their togetherness is a stopgap, prolonged by nothing but the power of a single phrase: I love you.

I love you, but this isn't home.

I don't deserve it.

I never did.

A siren slices the silence.

Drawn to the moment with a discordant wrench, Vi's head jerks up. The siren shrieks again. No—not a siren. The phonograph. Her eyes fall on the culprit by the foyer. It's a kitsch antique, with the needle fashioned from a tiny clockwork sparrow in bright green. She and Caitlyn had found it during a flea-market outing. They'd laughed when they'd spotted it: the little wooden bird popping out and pecking a groove on the record, the pendulum tail swishing merrily side to side. It was so silly. So colorful.

So impossibly, undeniably, Powder.

Her sister would've loved it. Hell, she would've fetched her special screwdrivers and obsessively taken it apart. All those diodes, gears, springs, spread out on a cloth like treasure. She'd disassemble it until she knew every inch, inside and out.

It's why Vi ended up buying the stupid thing. Teasingly, Caitlyn had bumped her shoulder with Vi's. "I didn't know you liked antiques."

"Don't let the word get out," Vi shot back, mustering a smile. "It'll ruin my rep."

"Your secret's safe with me."

"And the rest?"

Caitlyn had leaned in and dropped a soft kiss on Vi's lips.

The phonograph lets off a warble. The needle, which had skipped, starts spinning again. A scratchy, lilting tune, so well-known that Vi's lips shape the lyrics before the rest of her mind even catches up.

There's a girl in town and word's gone around she's just fine
So I don't worry my head 'cause I know her heart is tied to mine...

Mom's favorite song. Vander's favorite. Powder's favorite, too. Vi's? No. She'd had no favorite. Not then. Not even now, as the music plucks the last, raw threads of her heart.

Just like Powder's screams at the Cannery.

("Vi don't leave me! Please—I need you! Don't go! Please!")

Instinctively, Vi lunges. Her fist lashes out. The bird-shaped needle cracks on its perch. A tiny spring, wound too tight, shoots up and strikes Vi on the forehead.

"Fuck!"

Seizing the phonograph, Vi smashes it on the floor.

The record explodes. Wood splinters. Gears ricochet. The bird goes spinning. The air is filled with sirens again, a distortion of musical notes. Vi stomps on the wreckage, once, twice. There's a satisfying crunch.

The noise stops.

Vi stands in the wreckage, breathing hard. Her whole body is quaking. The ferocity of the rage stuns her. The emotions bubbling inside are unlike any she's known. She wants to take things, and smash them to shards. She wants to beat the shit out of something. Beat it until the red tide drains out.

Beat it until it stops breathing.

(Like the killer you are?)

With a flashbang's flare, Vi sees Jinx: her face fevery-eyed as a jack-o-lantern. Lit by unholy fire but also an uncanny understanding. She'd looked into Vi, and known.

("That's not my story, sis. No matter what you tell yourself. And it's not yours, either.")

Vi shudders.

She stares down at the mess strewn on the floor. She thinks of the mess of the yacht in the riverwater. Thinks of the mess of the blackguards in the alley. It's the first time in her life she's made so many messes.

But the biggest mess is her life.

It's high time she cleaned it up.

Vi dresses in the patchwork set of clothes she'd first worn to the flat. From the wardrobe, she removes a duffel bag. She begins throwing things into it: clothes, socks, shoes, toiletries. It's not much. She's lived in a cell for so long; her possessions are minimal. No mementos. No souvenirs.

Her biggest proof of her time with Caitlyn has been this: their home, and the life they've made together.

But Vi can't live a lie anymore.

She goes into the livingroom. In the bookshelf, she finds the heavy tome of Demacian folklore. Caitlyn has never touched it; fairytales aren't her style. The book's spine is still pristine. The pages, crisp. Vi flips through the illustrations, searching, until she finds what she wants: a black-bordered folio envelope.

It has her name, Violet.

And Zaun's dagger-winged crest.

Numbly, Vi takes out the letter. She tips it sideways: a sheaf of papers falls out. The first is a thick grey cardstock. It is embossed with a gold seal of Zaun's Cabinet, and written with block-letter typeface. It details the inaugural ceremony of the Peacekeeper Exchange Initiative at the Promenade. The official delegation of Enforcers will arrive Friday evening. They will be received with a formal ceremony, and stationed at special accommodations in Hotel Muse. The next document contains a waiver from the Warden's office. It details the legalities regarding Vi's pardon for the blackguard's death, and her re-assignment to Zaun, with a list of duties she'll be expected to undertake. At the bottom of the packet, the signatures of the Council are affixed in blue ink.

The final papers are a pair of handwritten letters. The first is a creamy folio sheet that gives off a whiff of sensual—familiar—perfume. Hyacinths and white musk. The penmanship is an elegant cursive, with a looping 'y's and a flourishing curl to the 't's.

Violet—or Vi, if you prefer.

I hope this finds you well, and in the spirit of cooperation.

I've had a great deal of time to think of our conversation aboard the yacht, six months ago. Of you, and your words. They've stayed with me, and your desire to see your sister has weighed on my mind. I hope, with this reassignment, you will find the opportunity you're looking for. Rest assured that you'll be protected under the terms of the Peace Treaty. In Zaun, you will be accorded every privilege due a Peacekeeper on foreign soil.

Of course, for you, the soil is not foreign, but this will be the first time you'll step foot in Zaun with a blackguard's badge on your breast, and our city's full protection behind you.

It's my genuine hope that you will be pleased with the arrangements, and that they will afford you the opportunity to see your sister. I have done what I can. It's up to you—and her—to make the most of it.

Attached is my personal corresponding address. Should you need anything, or wish to call upon my aid, please do not hesitate.

Sincerely,

Mel Medarda.

Vi rereads the letter. Each sentence is a carefully-spun snare. The perfume is a siren-song. She has the irresistible vision of herself stepping off the ferry, her breath pluming in the cold, a shiver of excitement crawling up her spine. She'll walk through Zaun's crowded streets, and her sister will be there. Not the chimera in the Aerie, but Powder. Her little sister, with her bright smile and bubbly laugh. They'll be together again, and all the old wounds will fade. The past will be the past, and Vi will have her family back.

She'll walk with Powder, hand-in-hand, into the future.

The second letter is a red waxed vellum sheet, sealed with the helixing emblem of Zaun. It smells of caramelized bergamot, a darkly-masculine scent. The script is a spidery slant that seems to flow into the darkness between the lines. The message is to-the-point.

Pet,

Welcome aboard.

—S

Vi's hand trembles. There it is in Silco's handwriting. A summons, clear as the sun over Piltover. It's as if he's reached into Vi's split-open ribcage, found the ventricles of her heart, and squeezed.

Her blood seems to leach out. For a moment, she's back in the antiseptic chill of Silco's torture chamber. Sevika leaning over her, her cigarette cherry aglow.

"Get the job done, and Silco will let you see Jinx."

Vi's eyes squeeze shut. Her body is filtering out the adrenaline. Sanity creeps in. The last time she'd seen Powder, her sister had held a gun to her head. If the situation hadn't flipped with the toss of the coin, would she have let Vi go? Or would she have pulled the trigger?

Vi doesn't know.

She doesn't know what she wants. She doesn't know what to believe. She doesn't even know who she is anymore.

All she wants is her family. Powder. Jinx. Whoever.

All she wants is a way back, and a path forward.

Vi's hands tremble. With effort, she steadies herself. Dropping the letters into the duffel, she zips up. For a heartbeat, she wishes that she could smoke a joint. Like in the old days, with Mylo and Claggor. A trio of teenagers, trading hits on cheap Ionian hash in a dank corner of the ginnel, gassed up on hormones and tall tales.

"When I get a job," Claggor would say, "I'm gonna save up and get us a big flat. Just like they have up in Topside."

"You're full of shit, man!" Mylo would laugh. "Like Topside would let you move in. They'd arrest you the minute they see your scruffy face!"

Claggor would take a half-hearted swing. Mylo would laugh some more.

"Says the guy who smells like wet boots," Claggor would huff.

"Yeah, well. At least I can get a girl," Mylo would say, and his smug little leer would earn him another swing. "How long's it been, huh? You think you're gonna get any with those big-ass goggles always parked on your face?"

"You're both full of crap," Vi would cut in, because otherwise the two would keep sniping back-and-forth, and then she'd have a headache instead of a high. "I know for a fact neither of you has a girl." She'd take a puff of the joint, and blow a smoke ring. "If you're lucky, I'll let you have my seconds."

That would do the trick. Mylo would make a big show of outrage. Claggor would manfully hide his blush. They were always trying to outbrag each other. But in truth, neither had ever had a girlfriend. They both would've spontaneously combusted if Vi even dared to take them inside Babette's.

Even as a joke.

A joke. That was all they were. Two stupid, sweet boys, with their lives ahead of them.

Vi was already two steps ahead. She'd had a string of girlfriends, and her favoritest was Nao. She'd been the first girl to show Vi the ropes of love, and how to touch her right. After she'd left for Bilgewater, Vi hadn't been as keen on the dating scene. Her sights were set on bigger things. A better life.

For her family. For Powder.

And she'd fight for it with every ounce of herself.

The memory is a blade, splitting her open. Vi goes to the nightstand. There is a pack of cigarettes packed in a ziploc bag. It's evidence from a bust she'd made. She'd intended to turn them over to her superiors, but the packet had slipped her mind. Now she's grateful for it.

She needs one fucking fix.

Taking the cigarette between her lips, Vi strikes a match. The first pull is hell. The second is heaven. The third is Vander, his brawny arms sweeping her up. She's never cared for nicotine. Smoking compromised the stamina, and Vi kept herself in peak physical condition. But now all she can smell is Vander, after a long night at the Drop: the fug of cigarette smoke impregnating the weave of his clothes. The soft cologney waft of alcohol on his skin, and the rough calluses on his palms as he'd ruffled her hair.

It's been seven years. His hands are gone, and yet she feels them. She's nine years old, and he's a mountain, and she's safe.

Vi's hand jitters. The ashes scatter like motes onto the bedspread. Hastily, Vi goes to balcony. Late evening, and air holds a humid density. Above, the thick cover of black-bellied clouds makes the sky seem like it is right on top of her, the lid on a box she is trapped inside. Far-off, the cityscape sprawls into the blue rim of the sea.

Vi can still see the yacht going up in flames. Still see Powder, crying in the alley.

The cigarette is burning low. She takes a jittery drag. A sense of numbness steals in, like a drug diffusing into her bloodstream.

That's when Vander starts talking to her.

He's not somebody you want to cross.

I know.

He's nothin' like me.

I know that too.

No, you don't know anything about him. About us.

He killed you. He took Powder. He stole everything.

He won't give Powder back. Not without a fight.

I won't either.

You go down this road, there's no comin' back.

Then I won't come back. Not until he's in the ground.

The cigarette's down to the filter. Vi stubs it out against the railing, and drops it into the flowerbed. In the street below, a child's laughter rises. A dog barks. From the bakery, the tantalizing waft of baking bread floats up. Vi takes a deep inhalation, a snapshot of olfactory molecules: sweetness, salt, smoke, sunshine.

Love.

Then she lets it go.

In the hall, she hears the quiet click of key in lock. The subdued scrape turns her body inside out. The door creaks open.

"Vi?" Caitlyn calls. "Bread's here!"

Vi's legs turn to jelly. It's like her body's being pulled apart. She's in two places at once: standing on the balcony, her feet glued to the floor. And funneling down the drain, straight into Zaun.

A bridge—uncrossable. Unless she takes the plunge.

Caitlyn's in the kitchen. There is a paper bag of warmly-fragrant loaves on the counter: a late-shift go-to. She and Vi will stand shoulder-to-shoulder by the counter, and they'll nibble the soft heels of bread, and smile, until the stress drains away, and the evening turns into an oasis.

An oasis that Vi is about to burn down.

"Hey."

Vi clears her throat and sticks her hands into her pockets. She makes herself stand still, while everything inside fizzes.

"Oh!" Caitlyn turns, and smiles. "There you are. Sorry I took so long. Mrs. Mamatis was showing me photos of her grandson. She says they'll be visiting here soon, all the way from Demacia. She's promised they'll bring us a souvenir." Caitlyn begins taking the bread out. "Maybe we'll finally have ourselves a proper tea set."

Vi doesn't say anything. She doesn't trust herself to.

"You okay?" Caitlyn frowns. "You seem—pale. You aren't coming down with something, are you?"

"I'm fine. Just a little drained."

Caitlyn lays the back of her palm on Vi's forehead. "You don't have a fever." She looks her up and down. "You're sweaty, though. Maybe I should make soup? I've got that special noodle stock from Ionia. It's supposed to be restorative." She turns back to the counter. "Or I'll try the Fissure turmeric you like. It's strong. But the taste is growing on me. Mother, too. Last week, after she'd gotten over her shock at sump-vole being a kind of rat, she ate the entire bowl of—"

Caitlyn stops. She tilts her head. Her eyes narrow.

"Vi, were you smoking?"

Shit. She must smell it.

"One," Vi admits.

"It's an awful habit." Caitlyn's nose wrinkles. "Where did you get the cigarette?"

"Evidence."

Caitlyn's expression goes from disapproving to downright litigious. "Vi! You shouldn't be tampering with that! It's a criminal offense!"

"It was just one."

"That doesn't make it right." Caitlyn shakes her head. "Don't worry, I won't tell on you. But please. I don't want you to start..."

Vi's jaw tightens. "Start what?"

"You know what. It's a bad coping mechanism."

Vi gives a hard shrug. "That's what we do, huh? All us Fissurefolk. We cope. Badly."

Caitlyn is taken aback. Reaching out, she lays a hand on Vi's forearm. "I didn't mean to imply—"

"You don't have to." Vi feels herself jerking loose, and there's nothing to do but let go. "There's plenty of other filthy habits I've got."

"Stop saying that. You know I hate when you put yourself down."

"Do I?"

Caitlyn's features steel themselves. "You do. And it's always before you shut me out."

Too much intimacy, Vi thinks, is a dangerous thing. It makes a woman feel seen. It gives her a place to lay her head, and drop her guard. It's the cardinal sin of boxing, and Vi had done it without a second thought.

This is the price.

"Vi, look at me." Caitlyn's voice gentles. "I'm sorry if I've done something to upset you. You can talk to me, you know. If you need to."

Vi nearly loses her nerve for a moment. Nearly. "There's nothing to talk about."

"That's a lie. Something's bothering you." She sobers. "Is it the nightmares again?"

Yes. "No."

"What then? You're in pain. I can see it. Did something happen?"

"Besides the yacht blowing up, you mean?"

Caitlyn shakes her head. "You're not to blame for that. You couldn't have stopped it."

Vi lets off a harsh laugh. "Same way I couldn't stop my home city from falling under the control of a monster? Same way I couldn't save my sister from going down with the ship and becoming a Shimmer-fiend? Same way I couldn't stop Silco's goons from locking you up in a coffin and leaving you for rat-food?"

Caitlyn doesn't flinch. Her features are unmoving, reproachful. But worse than the reproach is the concern. It's in the creases of her kissable brow; the crinkles around her pretty eyes. The way she's watching Vi, like a cat with its ears back.

"You don't have to do this," she says quietly.

"Do what?"

"Be so angry all the time. It won't scare me away."

"It should."

"Why?"

Vi's face twists. Memory sluices like vertigo. The coagulating rubies of rat-bites studding Caitlyn's bare skin. The way she'd trembled, arms and legs spasming. The way she'd gasped Vi's name, and clung tight, if she was drowning.

As if Vi was drowning her.

"It should," Vi repeats, the words lodged in her throat. "I could never keep anyone I cared about safe. And now I have you. And I'll hurt you."

"You haven't."

"I will. It's only a matter of time." Anger dances through her body, joules of it, and it's the kind she's only tasted once before, at the Cannery. Red-hot and catastrophic. The kind that burns a bridge. "I'll hurt you, and there's no point pretending otherwise."

Caitlyn sidles closer, soothing. "Vi. Please. We're past this."

"How are we past it?"

"Because I love you."

The soft certainty of Caitlyn's statement stops Vi short. Caitlyn seizes her chance. Her palms come up to cradle Vi's face. Vi stares, her heart skidding against her ribs. Her eyes are stinging. She doesn't know anymore if it's relief or regret or rage. Maybe all three, and her emotions are already a tinderbox ready to explode.

"Caitlyn," she rasps. "Stop."

"I'm not stopping anything." Caitlyn's thumbs caress Vi's burning cheekbones. She looks into Vi's eyes, and whatever she sees makes her lips part, the blue of her irises darkening. "What's happened? Vi, please. You're scaring me."

Vi closes her eyes. A sob nearly cuts loose. She bites it down.

"I have to go," she says.

"Go where?"

"Zaun."

Caitlyn's hands drop. "What? Why?"

"Because it's my home. My real home." Her eyes open, hot as embers. "I got a letter from the Warden. He's given the go-ahead. The Council have signed off on it. So has Zaun's Cabinet. I've gotten a full pardon, and a transfer."

"When?"

"This afternoon. I got home before you. The courier rang the bell." Vi swallows. "It's part of an Exchange Initiative. They're sending a few Peacekeepers over, to work with the blackguards. Silco's men." She lets the scarred corner of her lips rise. "Technically, I'm one of 'em now."

"What are you talking about? A blackguard?"

"It was a deal I cut with Silco. Our last night in Zaun. I'd kill the Noxian consul in a way that'd take the blame off Zaun. In return, he'd let me see Powder. He'd let us meet. That was the condition."

Caitlyn falls still. Their eyes lock and the revelation sinks like a stone into the silence.

"The yacht," she whispers. "That was you."

"Yeah." Vi's smiles twists, muscles gone awry. "Like I said. Nasty fucking habit."

Stunned, Caitlyn shakes her head. "I don't believe it. How could you?"

"It was the only way."

"Silco—he pushed you into it, didn't he? He forced your hand—"

"No one forced me," Vi cuts in. "It was my call."

"Bullshit!" Caitlyn holds up her hands: a bystander watching a motorcar careen off the karmic crossroads. "This is entrapment! He's responsible for giving the orders! And now he's using your sister as bait. Gods, Vi. Can't you see? If you set foot in Zaun, you're walking straight into a death-trap!"

"That's a chance I have to take."

"It's not a chance! It's a certainty! Nobody can protect you down below. Silco's already trying to make you a killer. Now he'll make you his next victim." She trembles. "He'll find a way to twist you into something you're not! Same as your sister! You have no idea what you're doing!"

"I do." Vi's shoulders square. "I'm saving my family."

"I'll come with you! Give me a few days! We'll be one the same Peacekeeper contingent."

"It's too dangerous."

"You're the one in danger! At least this way, we can face it together."

Caitlyn steps closer, and lays her palm over Vi's breast. Her features hold the same iron-willed determination as when she aims down her rifle scope. A woman who refuses to take no for an answer. Not from the world, or from anyone who hurts the people she loves.

"You've been fighting all your life," Caitlyn says. "Never had someone watching your back. Now you do. I'm your partner. I'll stand with you. No matter what."

Vi shakes her head. Her insides have turned to a block of granite. She stares straight ahead, at the deepening spectrum of sunrays through the kitchen window: red, pink, gold. Her last taste of summer, before she descends belowground.

Into the belly of the beast.

"You can't watch my back if you're dead," she rasps. "And that's what'll happen."

"Vi." Caitlyn's hand is still on her chest, the weight a promise. "I don't care."

"I care." Her own hand folds over Caitlyn's. Squeezing, she lets go. "I'm sorry, Cupcake."

Caitlyn's eyes glisten, edging on tears. She doesn't understand, and Vi doesn't expect her to. Caitlyn, whatever else, is a born and bred Piltie. The world had always opened itself up to her. She's had everything, and she's had it easy. It's the way she lives. It's the way she loves.

She'll never understand what it means to come from nothing. To expect nothing.

Nothing to count on. Nothing to lose.

"So," Caitlyn says, at last. "That's it. You're going back."

Vi nods. "I have to."

"For how long?"

"As long as it takes."

"And me?" The glisten in her eyes becomes an angry gloss. "What will I do, Vi? Pine by Monday? Get over you by Friday? Meet some nice noblewoman in a match my mother's arranged, and settle down? Win an illustrious succession of medals—and forget you ever existed?"

Vi's jaw hardens. "That's the idea."

"You won't even fight for it?"

"I am." Vi's hands ball into fists. "That's why I'm going."

Caitlyn's lips part. There are tears now. But the brightness of anger refracts them, a prism of blue fire.

"You coward," she whispers.

Vi blinks.

"You selfish bloody coward! Do you think I can't see this fucked-up nobility for what it truly is? This is our life. We've made a choice. A promise to be together. And you're just going to walk away? Well, fuck you, Violet. Fuck you, and your stupid, reckless, idiotic, chivalrous heart. You think, because of everything you've gone through, you're the only one who gets to call the shots? You're the only one with something to lose? Well, you're wrong. I'm losing you, and you're giving me no choice!"

"You've always had a choice!"

Vi's own anger breaks loose. Any other day, she'd applaud the supreme ease with which she's being verbally trounced by a girl whose never dropped a single preposition from her speech, and is now cursing with the fluency of a Fissure-born miner. She'd snatch Caitlyn up and kiss her, then lay her on the table and fuck her within an inch of her life.

She'd be glad. More than that: grateful.

Because this woman, who is grace in every sense, chose her. Chose, and made the crashing lows and spiraling highs of Vi's life her own.

But today is not another day. Not for either of them.

"The only reason we met," Vi grits out, "was because you had a choice. You chose to break the rules. To play vigilante and go down to the Fissures. Because you believed you were right. And with your family's connections, who'd argue otherwise?" She emits a short laugh. "Me? I was in a fucking cell. No trial, no papers. No choice. You think I was the one making the call? Hell, no. My ass was on the line, and I'd have sold you any line of bullshit, just to get a crack at Silco. Because that's who I am. That's how I've lived. I knew what I was getting into, I understood the consequences, and I accepted them—"

"—And, what? I was blindsided? Poor little Piltie, who didn't know the game? Who thought, with enough money, she could bend reality—"

"Yes! Fucking hell, Caitlyn! That's exactly what you are!" Vi's voice is ripped raw. "You've never had to look over your shoulder. You've never had to take a beating. Never had to watch the people you care about get shot or stabbed or killed. Your family has a title and a pedigree and a shitload of cash. You'll have that safety net your entire life. You can walk away whenever you want because this isn't your world—"

She should have anticipated the slap. She'd earned it, and Caitlyn is an excellent shot.

But Vi doesn't see it coming, because she's never been the kind of person who gets slapped. She can take punches without flinching, and pay them back tenfold. She'd learned, early on, the hard truth in the Fissures. There's a difference between hitting someone and hurting someone.

Hitting is a way to make a point. Hurting is a way to break someone completely.

Caitlyn's slap hurts. It's a glancing blow. The type you dish out to a child choking on a gulpful of water. Still, Vi's face burns. The sensation is foreign. No sparkage of adrenaline, but a creeping numbness. As if, with that single blow, Caitlyn has busted a circuit. Cut the wire.

And out goes the power grid, and the last of remnants of light.

"How dare you?" Caitlyn whispers. "How dare you assume, after everything, you can judge me? Do you know how lonely I was before I met you? How miserable, and lost, and trapped? You don't even know the half of it. I was suffocating. And everyone around me only envied my so-called charmed life. The only person I trusted was Jayce. The rest: my parents, my peers, my colleagues—I was nothing but the odd one out. The rich girl with no friends. The goody two-shoes with a stick up her arse. They didn't care who I was, or what I wanted. They only saw my mother, and all the ways they could use me. You're the only person who ever bothered to look beyond that. To ask me who I was. To see me." Her lip trembles. "You changed my life, Vi. You changed me. How can you throw it away after giving me all that? How can you throw us away?"

"Caitlyn, please—"

"Answer me."

At long last, Vi erupts. "Because it's not enough!"

The silence is like a burst artery. Blood splattering everywhere.

Caitlyn stares at her. Tears are falling, but her features are ice. A brittle mask to hide a soul's collapse.

"I know," Vi grinds on, merciless. "I know it's not what you want to hear. But it's true. This place. These people. They'll never accept me. Everywhere I go, I'm the outsider. Even here, in the place I want to belong—I'm the punk with the Trench-rat accent, who doesn't fit in. Mrs. Mamatis knows it. Your family knows it. Deep down, so do you." Each word holds a walloping impact. The ice glazing Caitlyn's face begins to crack. She shakes her head, as if to deny, but Vi doesn't let her. "I'm sorry, Cupcake. I tried. But I can't. Not like this."

"Not like this," Caitlyn retorts, raggedly, "because I'm not enough. Isn't that right?"

"No." Softening, Vi meets her eyes. "I'm not. I'm not the girl who fits. Not in your world. I've got my own. Down below. That's where I belong, and I need to stay there." Her breath comes in a little hitched half-sob. But she's past crying. "I should've stayed from the start. Maybe then—the blast, the building, the crystals—none of that would've happened."

"The blast..."

Vi can see Caitlyn reshuffling her memories, trying to piece together what's buried. Then the flashbulb goes off. Her lips part; then sheen in her eyes becomes a momentary prism of shock.

"My gods," she breathes. "That day... in Jayce's flat. The break-in. The explosion. That was you."

"It was an accident." Whatever else, Vi doesn't want Caitlyn to think her a murderer. Even if, in the end, she's just that. "We—my brothers, and Powder—we were pulling a job. Trying to make off with whatever was in Talis' flat. It wasn't supposed to go down like that. None of us wanted trouble. But Powder found the crystals, and she couldn't resist. And then someone was at the door, and we were cornered, and—and we panicked. We ran, and the crystals fell, and everything exploded, and—" She cuts herself off. "I never should've dragged them up there. Never should've let it happen."

Quietly, Caitlyn says, "That's why you were in Stillwater?"

"The Council sent Enforcers to the Undercity. They needed a pound of flesh. Except Vander wouldn't turn me over. He wouldn't let anyone else take the fall, either." Her breath jitters. "Every night, the streets were swarming with Enforcers. Folks were scared, and hurting, and angry. They wanted to fight back. Vander kept trying to stop them. He didn't want a bloodbath. But he was backed into a corner. If he didn't act, things would blow." She gives a hard shrug. "So I acted for him. I tipped off the Enforcers. Told 'em to pick me up at Benzo's shop. I'd take the blame, and get locked up, and it'd be over. Everyone would be safe. Except... Vander figured it out. He stopped me. Then he took my place. Or… tried."

"Tried?" Caitlyn repeats. "What happened?"

"Someone else beat the Enforcers to Benzo's." A coldness steals through Vi. She remembers the basement, the screams, the silhouette coalescing from the fog. "Someone with a bigger grudge. He tore through the Enforcers like paper. With Shimmer, and monsters, and a whole lotta hate. When he was done, the Enforcers were dead, and Vander was gone." Vi shivers. "That's when the real pain began."

Caitlyn's face blanches. "Silco."

"Yeah. He took Vander to the old Cannery. His torture chamber. He was trying to break him. Or—or maybe use him as a weapon. I don't know. But I had to do something." Her voice trembles. The memory of that night is a raw-edged wound. "I found Claggor and Mylo. I led them to the Cannery. The plan was to sneak in, and free Vander, and get the hell out. Except we were a bunch of dumb kids. We walked straight into a trap." Vi's throat closes. "Silco's men were waiting. They had us cornered. The only thing we could do was fight. So... that's what I did. For the first few minutes, it was fine. I'd knocked a couple of goons out, and the boys tried to break Vander loose. They nearly made it. Except..."

"Except what?" Caitlyn says gently.

"Powder." It bursts like a blister, the memory seeping red. "I'd told her to stay away. She'd have gotten hurt. I thought I'd be protecting her. But she was too stubborn. She followed us. When she saw what was happening, she... she panicked. She stuffed all of the crystals into her monkey bomb. She'd rigged the thing to blow. To save us." Vi's teeth grit. "It didn't save us. It killed us. Mylo. Claggor. Both gone in the blast. Just like that. The Cannery caught on fire. I was pinned under the door. Vander... he tried to stop it. He fought off Silco's men, and tried get us out. But—"

It's all bubbling to the surface now: the horror, the grief, the guilt. She's had six years to relive each minute in Stillwater. But she's never given herself a moment to mourn. Everything she'd felt, everything she'd known, all locked up inside. A black beast, raging against the bars.

Now the cell door is open, and the beast is loose, and it's clawing her apart.

Vi's chest starts heaving. "Silco—he was still alive. He'd been watching the whole time. He didn't care about the fire, or his men, or anything but his revenge. He came at Vander. He stabbed him in the back. And I couldn't—I couldn't do anything. I was stuck, and the building was burning. There was so much smoke, and blood, and it hurt so much." The sobs cut loose at last. "Then... Vander was there. He picked me up. He got us both out, just before everything went up in flames. Then he was just... just lying there. I'd never seen him like that. He'd always been a mountain. Now... he was barely human. His face all messed up, and his eyes weren't his. Not anymore. None of him was. He'd taken Shimmer. The shit had eaten him up from the inside. Changed him." Vi's voice sinks, as if she can still hear his dying breaths. "He'd done it to buy us time. To save me. And then... he was gone. Just like that."

Caitlyn is crying. Her fingertips, trembling, lift to her mouth.

"Oh Vi," she whispers.

Vi's shoulders spasm, a half-hearted attempt at a shrug. But there's nothing to shrug off. No absolution to be found.

Only the truth, and its burden imprinted into her bones.

"Vander was like a father to me. He'd given me a home. A way to make something of myself. And because of me, he'd died. Because of my stupidity. Because I'd wanted to play hero. Mylo and Claggor paid the price too. And Powder..." She sucks in a raw breath. "When she saw me, she was so happy. She thought she'd done something right. Saved the day. Instead, she'd killed everyone. The look on her face—fuck. It was like something broke inside her." Vi's fists clench. "I broke her. I lashed out. Hit her, and called her a jinx. My little sister, and I fucking blamed her for everything. The next thing I knew, I was walking away. I left her there, crying and calling after me, and I didn't even care."

A single sob escapes. Not from her.

Caitlyn.

Caitlyn, who is holding herself, arms wrapped around her torso. Tears streak her cheeks. She's crying for Vi, for her family, and for a life that never had a chance. It's so like her soft affectionate nature, and so like the strength Vi admires in her. Sometimes she wishes she could be the same. She wishes she could let go. Cry, and heal, and live on.

But her grief has calcified, and the cracks have set in. They'll never go away. They're who she is now.

And it's too late to go back.

"I left her," Vi whispers. "Left her, and Silco found her. He took her. I tried to stop him, but I was dragged away. Marcus... he took me to Stillwater. He threw me in a cell. Six years, and I couldn't do nothing. Nothing. Just sit, and rot, and remember. I had no idea what happened to Powder. No clue what Silco was doing to her. All I could do was hope that she was still alive." She shuts her eyes. "Six years, and the last thing I called her was a jinx. Six years, and I watched from the inside as Silco took over my home, and killed everyone I cared about. Six years, and I couldn't do a damn thing." The anger resurges. Her eyes open. "Then you showed up. You were the only chance I had. So I played you, and took it. The rest... well, you know the rest."

For a long while, Caitlyn says nothing. She stands, tears tracking down her cheeks. Her expression is stricken. Vi knows Caitlyn, and she knows she's putting the pieces together. She's remembering that night on the Bridge. When Vi had been ready to go back belowground, while Caitlyn and Ekko delivered the Hex-gem to the Council. No way to know, if she ever come looking, that they'd see each other again. No way to know if anything could last.

Vi had hugged her, and turned around. And kept walking. And then she'd heard it.

The gunshot.

She spun, and she'd ran, and the green specks of firelights had filled the sky.

Right before a supernova's worth of explosives had detonated on the Bridge.

Now, Caitlyn takes a half-step closer, but Vi's already turned. Already gone. Her spine has gone to steel, and her blood is iron, and she's got no heart left in her.

No room for anything but what matters.

"I have to go," she says. "I left my sister there, and it destroyed everything. I left her, and the last real bit of myself. I can't do that again. She's got no one, Caitlyn. She's all alone. She needs me."

"And I don't?" Caitlyn shoots back. "You think I can do without you? That I won't love you, if you aren't here?"

"You've got your family. You've got a whole life, and a future. I won't fuck that up." She shoulders past Caitlyn. "You're right. I've been a coward. I've been selfish. But it ends here."

Except Caitlyn in moving too, blocking Vi's way towards the door. "Vi, don't."

"Cait, get out of my way."

"No."

"You gonna make me throw you down?"

"Go ahead." Caitlyn's sobbing now, and Vi cannot endure the sound. "Knock me out. If you can bring yourself to do it. Because that's the only way I'm letting you leave."

"You have to. It's best for you."

"And who made you the expert on what's best for me? Or have you turned into my mother?"

Vi jerks, a puppet-string tugged, and a flash of heat flares up her arm. Her knuckles pop. She imagines the one good right-hook that would drop Caitlyn. A blow that would be the last thing Caitlyn ever remembers of her.

Instead, Vi's fingers curl inward, nails biting into her palm.

Shutting her eyes—shutting them tight—she seizes Caitlyn in an embrace. She inhales the sweet floral lilt of jasmine, feels the slippery silk of Caitlyn's hair. And then Caitlyn's arms come around Vi, fisting the back of Vi's jacket, and suddenly she's shaking, her face crumpling, a tiny sound torn out of her, and she buries her face into the warm groove between Caitlyn's neck and shoulder.

"I love you," Vi whispers. "And I'm so sorry."

"No," Caitlyn sobs. "No, Vi, no—"

And then she yelps, unbalanced, as Vi shoves her off. Caitlyn stumbles, catching herself against the wall, and Vi stands still, breathing raggedly, her fists clenched, and she knows that if she touches Caitlyn again, it will destroy them both.

So Vi doesn't give herself the chance.

Seizing up the duffel, she crosses the hallway in five strides. The window by the fire-escape is unlatched. In two shakes of a rat's tail, she's outside, and scaling down the drainpipe. A few heartbeats, and she's in the alley, and the streets are empty. The night is descending, a deep velvet indigo, and the air forebodes rain, and the streetlamps are coming on, and there's the leftover scent of baking bread.

And the fire.

The awful fucking fire.

In the window, Caitlyn's silhouette appears. Her screams chase after Vi's racing footsteps.

"Vi—come back! Don't do this! Please!"

The sound of her cries, breaking on the night, are Powder's.

And Vi is running, half-blinded by tears.

She doesn't stop. She doesn't even slow. And when the gunfire starts, shots ricocheting off the pavement, she runs faster.

Caitlyn Kiramman is a woman who never gives up. Even if it means taking a chance on a dangerous convict. Even if it means risking it all to vouch for her. Even if it means falling in love with the worst possible person life can offer.

Now Vi's taken her choice, and run with it. And the bullets chasing her heels are the only love Caitlyn has left to give.

Crazy bitch, Vi thinks, and her heart slams with a wildness that's nothing short of exultation. Never—never in her entire life—has she known a woman who'd shoot Vi's legs out from under her to keep her from leaving. A woman who'd lay her life on the line to save hers, and slap her upside the head for her own good.

Never, in her entire life, will Vi love anyone the way she loves Caitlyn.

But neither love, nor a sharpshooter's bullets, will stop her.

Vi runs. Into the dark, and its monsters.

Into the only place she belongs.

(Powder. Jinx. Whoever.)

(Hold on.)

(I'm coming home.)