It was the perfect night to be in the ring.
"You've been avoiding it all week," Vi accused, leant forward, arms braced on her thighs. "Why won't you tell me?"
Vander looked away, his mouth set in a line, but the corners downturned. The corners of his eyes pinched, deepening the wrinkles that age had pressed into the skin. "You just got back, kid. I didn't wanna'..." His voice, full of melancholy, trailed off as he kept his gaze focused on a crack in the roof.
"Didn't wanna'...?" Vi prompted, forcing the issue even though she could see he was upset. She'd backed off initially after their first conversation six nights ago – when she'd shown up at the door and dumbfounded him so much he'd nearly fallen out of his wheelchair. And that had been its own thing, grappling with the knowledge that the incident that had gotten her thrown in jail had also left her foster dad paralyzed from the waist down. In that moment, she'd been willing to let it go, her head bogged down with painful realizations and truths. But now? After seeing Benzo's blood splattered across his shop walls? An arm laying across the counter, looking like it'd been ripped off? Yeah, now it was time for answers.
"I'm so ashamed." Vander exhaled, rubbed his thumb and forefinger wearily over his eyes, like pressing them hard enough would make what he was about to say somehow easier to stomach.
She stood and retrieved a bottle of alcohol from a cabinet set against the wall in what passed for their living room; it was barely big enough to fit a couch, table, and the squishy armchair backed into the corner.
Two glasses were slammed down onto the table, rougher than she would've liked, but she guessed that was just her temper flaring up. She poured them each half a glass, passed one to Vander, then got comfortable on the couch, her ankle crossed across her knee. "Spill."
Vander turned himself in his wheelchair so he could see her properly, then sipped from the glass, a satisfied grunt passing through his nose as he swallowed. "The first years after they hauled you away were all right. Powder struggled – hell, we all struggled – but she seemed all right."
Vi nodded. She understood the subtext: as all right as we could've been, given the situation.
"But she never let go of that stuff," he emphasized the last word with bitterness. "She was hellbent on it. I asked her to let it go, to use her genius for something else, anything else. She wouldn't listen." He paused to take a swallow of homebrew, his eyes never straying from a spot on his pants. "She swore day and night she was going to get you justice."
"Tch." Vi snorted through her nose. "I chose to do it for her. There was no justice or injustice."
"She never saw it that way. The whole thing – she blamed it on topside."
Vi gulped down half her drink in one go, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. "She was just a kid, Vander. Didn't you keep an eye on her?" Her tone was slightly angry, definitely accusatory. She wasn't happy it came out that way – she didn't want to talk to him like that – but she was trying really hard to stay composed, and some of it just kept slipping through.
"Like this?" Vander questioned, finally looking at her out of the corner of his eyes. They shone in the dim light, heavy and sad. "Nah, kid. I couldn't. I couldn't do right by her."
Vi dodged the on-coming punch by swaying to the right, then punched her opponent's back as hard as she could. It was the perfect kidney shot and perfectly legal. The woman's body buckled; first she fell onto her knees, then she fell face first into the dirt floor, eyelids half-closed. Down cold, while cheers erupted around the ring, patrons waving their tickets in the air with glee, ready to take it to the bookie and get their pay out.
But it wasn't enough for her.
"I'll go another round," she shouted to the referee while the cutman rushed over and made sure she wasn't bleeding too badly from any of her injuries.
He cleaned up her eyebrow, which had been busted open, and criss-crossed some tape over it to keep it from flowing freely again.
The announcer stood from his place near the ring and spoke into the mouthpiece for the loudspeakers. As soon as he started speaking, his voice blared loudly across the arena. "Vi with one more round, folks! Looking to double your winnings? See one of the bookies before the next match begins!"
That was how she spent her night, getting banged up, throwing punches, staunching a cut lip, the eyebrow that reopened, and nursing bruises that'd definitely take days to fade, as she re-lived her earlier conversation with Vander about her sister. The bright overhead light, the calls from the crowd, it all faded into background noise like static from a radio. The only thing that pierced through the haze were the punches and the pain and the coppery tang of metal in her mouth when someone clocked her so hard she thought a tooth would come out.
Vi didn't blame him; being wheelchair bound, unable to work, The Last Drop blown sky-high anyway, didn't leave Vander with a lot of options for caring for three kids. And who could really help in Zaun, when everyone was so focused on fending for themselves? It'd been a miracle in and of itself that Vander had saved them from the streets; most orphaned kids got snatched up for drug-running or by machinists who used them for factory labor. Vander had done enough just getting them off the streets, putting a roof over their heads, feeding them. Looking out for them. Then life dealt him an irreparable blow. He'd lost his business, lost his job, lost his eldest kid, lost the use of his legs…. To her, it was a wonder he hadn't thrown in the towel completely and offed himself.
Vi grit her teeth as her opponent jabbed at her sore ribs. Spurred on by blind fury laced with pain, she sent a left-hook his way that knocked him clear in the temple. He staggered on his feet, woozy, and she finished him off with a punch to the jaw.
The crowd was electric, buzzing with energy each time an opponent fell, each time she was left standing. But she was reaching her limit; a layer of sweat that felt like a second skin clung to her as she caught her breath, staring down at her latest opponent's prone form in the dirt. Then she retreated to the sidelines and the cutman did his work again, wiping up dried blood, taping up cuts, doctoring what he could. One more round? Did she even have it in her? Her arms felt about ready to fall off and every time she took a step on her right side, pain shot up it and radiated down her arm. She glared down at her side, as if her ribs had betrayed her by getting injured.
"Don't get yourself killed," Vander grumbled as she wrapped up her knuckles that night by the couch. "I just got ya' back, Vi."
Those words, and her dad's soft tone, kept her from pushing her luck. She crossed her forefingers in an "X" to the referee, signaling she was done for the night and ready to cash out on her winnings. Some in the crowd disapproved; "boos" rose up from amongst the stands, but she cracked her neck, rolled her shoulders, and showed them all her middle finger as she walked out.
At least she'd be able to support herself and Vander for the next few weeks. That was one worry crossed off her laundry list of problems.
Next on the list? Locating her sister.
The next morning—
Caitlyn sat in the debriefing room as Marcus stood at the podium, reviewing yesterday's cases. Most of them were pretty banal - some petty theft, a mugging, things that hadn't resulted in death. Fellow detectives reported their details, reading from pieces of paper, listing off suspects, going through witness reports, the usual morning routine under the bright overhead lights. But she had her notepad out, turned to last night's page of mysteries. Hidden under the table, she tapped her heel on the wood floor, fidgeting slightly in place.
"Now," Detective Marcus segued, "last night's worst case was the junk shop. Explosion, possibly several small explosions, resulting in one death of-" He paused, flipped the top page of his report up to look at the page beneath. "Of the shopkeeper, known as Benzo." He said the name like it was a foreign language. "What else do we have?" The lead detective's eyes looked up, one hand clenched around the edge of the podium.
The two other detectives who'd been on site looked sideways at each other, sitting at a table closer to the front. Caitlyn watched their body language, the way they shuffled around papers and tapped repeatedly at certain pages as they rose up in their respective piles. Then, the woman with a bob haircut, cleared her throat.
"No real leads as of yet," she said with an even tone that her stiff shoulders belied. "It's possible things were stolen from the shop, but it's going to take us a bit to sort through all the random inventory. The only thing of note were remnants of the suspected explosive, but it doesn't match up with previous Zaunite weaponry."
"You cross-referenced previous cases," Marcus asked with a slight raise of his eyebrow.
She nodded her head, "Yes, some. We weren't able to sift through all previous cases, but through the majority."
Caitlyn couldn't see it, but she heard the 'gulp' in the woman's voice as she finished that sentence.
Marcus leaned forward, his elbows propped up on top of the podium. "Need I remind you, Detective Nolen, that this is a high priority case. This kind of weaponry is extremely dangerous and the Counselors will be breathing down our necks for answers."
"Yessir-" she began, but Marcus cut her off.
"I don't care if you two have to pull an all-nighter to look through every file. Coming to the debrief with half-assed effort is not good enough." His fist punctuated his words as he pounded it again and again on the podium. "Am I clear?"
"Yessir," both detectives answered, their heads cast down.
Caitlyn sighed, rolling her eyes. This was the kind of detective work that put their name to shame. Complacency had made most detectives lax in their duties. In a certain light, it was expected, with Piltover only harassed with minor crimes, but it still burned a fire in her belly.
She looked down at her notepad - everything of note she'd written down or sketched from the crime scene, none of which the detectives even touched upon. The symbols? The colored paint on the explosive pieces? Familial connections to the deceased? What had they spent their night doing, exactly?
It doesn't matter, she thought, her fingers tightening around her pencil. I'm on the case.
Everyone was dismissed, and she wasted no time gathering up her things to make a quick bee-line back to her desk. A tall, teetering pile of files awaited her she'd already collected from the storage room first thing this morning. Before her shift even started.
Amidst the hum of police work – the opening and closing of metal filing cabinets, the whir of the coffee pot percolating, conversation starting and stopping, the smell of paper with a hint of dust – she sat down and pulled the first file towards her and opened it. Her eyes went immediately to the snapshot paperclipped to the top paper of the criminal report, then quickly closed it again, pushing it to the side. Next file. Again, looked briefly at the snapshot, closed it, and pushed it aside. Without a doubt, her pursuit was a long shot, but a case like this required a fine-toothed comb; every rock needed to be upturned, every cranny needed to be inspected. Every lead needed to be followed. So she'd follow them all.
Hours later, with the sunlight fading through the streaky windows, Caitlyn relinquished her concentration on the task at hand. Before she went home for dinner, she needed to visit Jayce's office. So, picking up a thick stack of the remaining files, she opened up her leather satchel and shoved them inside to sift through at home.
Jayce's office was in the opposite direction of the Kiramman property, so her pace was not leisurely. The streets were packed with people going home from work, so she found herself nimbly weaving between pedestrians as she hurried. She hopped onto the back of a tram just as it pulled away from the curb, bell ringing, and pulled out her notepad. Her fingers found the page with ease, already familiar with its place - she'd turned to it so many times in the past 17 hours. Four stops later, she jumped off the tram and hurried through the tall, double doors of Piltover Academy, the golden light of the evening sun illuminating the white stone, blue glass, and golden accents as it sank lower and lower below the horizon.
The heels of her boots clicked sharply across the polished marble floors as she hurried through the hallways. Just as she turned the corner, she spotted Jayce some thirty feet away, shutting the door to his office, key in hand, messenger bag slung across his shoulder.
"Going somewhere?" She slowed her pace as she approached, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"Going home," Jayce said with a chuckle. "Long day."
It must've been. Her keen eyes noticed the dark circles, the bags, the way one side of his hair stuck up at an odd angle, as if he'd been pulling on it for hours. There was a small coffee stain on his shirt.
The door bolt clanked into place before Jayce slipped his keys into the pockets of his wrinkled pants.
"What're you doing here?"
"I need to ask you about something." She dug around in her coat pocket and pulled out the notepad. "These symbols look like the runes you work with - do you see?" Her finger pointed to them, one then the next then the next.
Jayce's brow furrowed as he leaned in closer, looking at the symbols she'd pointed out. Scratching his jaw, he shrugged, conceded. "They do look similar, yes. But a bit messy." His chuckle was breathy and light-humored.
"Well, it was hard sketching them," Caitlyn said in defense of her artistic skills. "I couldn't tell the shape exactly, seeing as the blood-"
Jayce pulled back, his eyebrows raised into his hairline. "Blood? Caitlyn, what is this?"
In a rush, she reviewed the previous night's case, remarking on how the shapes had appeared in the blood splatters on the walls and ceiling of the scene. "They almost seemed random," she went on, her words a flurry of energy as adrenaline buzzed through her veins, "but the more I looked at them, the more they seemed to be communicating a message. But I don't know what they mean," she said, her gaze flicking quickly to the page. "Do you?" She looked back up at him, expectantly, the tip of her pencil tapping her chin.
But Jayce clearly did not share the same energy. "Are you trying to get me involved in a case?" The man folded his arms. "What did I tell you when you got that position? I don't want-"
"-'to be dragged into your work at any cost'," Caitlyn recited back, nodding again and again. "Yes, yes, I remember quite clearly. But this is your expertise, Jayce. You're the only person I can go to."
"Wha- I-" He stammered, his mouth hanging open. "I'm not the only one studying magic runes, Cait. There are plenty of healers, of engineers, of-"
"Jayce," she said sharply, poking him in the shoulder with the butt-end of her pencil. "Are you going to help me or not?"
Heaving a sigh, Jayce walked past her, a hand gesticulating in the air. "I knew I was going to get dragged into detective work. I knew there was no point to me trying to set boundaries with you. Why would you respect my wishes? You - Caitlyn Kiramman - "
Caitlyn followed behind, her mouth tightly closed to keep from interrupting his rant, though she badly wanted to. Still, didn't keep her from rolling her eyes at his dramatics.
"-And I told your mother you'd come pestering me whenever you could. I told your father you'd come buzzing about my office, all business, making me work at all hours though I very clearly have a job," he continued, turning this way and that through the hallways.
By the time they reached the entrance, Caitlyn's patience had reached its limits.
"Are you quite finished," she said, loud enough for her words to echo across the high-ceiling.
"I might be," he said, slightly defensive. "It's not as if my complaints are unjustified when I told you-"
"Jayce." She placed a hand gently on his shoulder, looked into his eyes, imploring him with every ounce of begging she could muster in her gaze. "This is an important case. A man was killed. With explosives. I wouldn't come here unless I seriously needed your help."
His eyes softened. The lines on his brow smoothed. It was only a moment more and his shoulders relaxed as he sighed. "All right, Cait. Of course, yes, I'll help you. You know my office hours. Swing by when you can and we'll go through things."
"Thank you," she said, her voice steady, even, but sincere.
"But," he said with a raised eyebrow, "try to get better drawings?"
She nodded. "Will do. I'll return to the crime scene and take the time to sketch them as clearly as possible."
"Hurry home." His mouth pulled up into a smirk. "Before you're late for dinner."
And so she did. With one last thank you, she rushed out the double-doors, down the palatial steps that led up to the university's entrance, and reached the street. Then, as luck would have it, she hopped on the tram that just pulled into the stop at the curb.