Chapter Summary: Bone gets real with Heimerdinger. Grayson gets real with herself. Enyd becomes the real MVP. Katya feels really confused.
Content Warning: In Grayson's section of the chapter, there is reference to sexual assault and police brutality.
Ivy pushed the drink cart into Heimerdinger's office, the gold pitcher and crystal glasses rattling as it rolled toward the two wingback chairs by the ornate marble fireplace. Councilor Bone sat in one seat, his head in one hand while the other pressed a handkerchief to his mouth. He didn't look at her as she approached, nor did he acknowledge the noisy cart. Heimerdinger stood in front of him, small hands clasped tightly behind his back. He nodded to Ivy as she came up, his blue eyes shimmering with concern.
"Thank you, Miss Banforth," he murmured.
The corners of the aide's lips ticked up politely and she poured two glasses of water, placing one on the end table next to Bone, the second, smaller glass on the table by Heimerdinger's chair. The Yordle nodded again, excusing her. Quietly, steps muffled by the plush rug, she let the room. For a long while, the only sound in the spacious office was Bone's wheezing breath.
"Drink, Jarrot," Heimerdinger kindly instructed.
Bone grimaced behind his handkerchief, his teeth clenching in frustration. He didn't want to drink the Piltovian's pity water; he wanted to not be sick. To not be dying because of the labor he had done for them. He wanted Rynweaver and the other too-wealthy Academy benefactors to not grip their purse strings so tightly. He did not want the water.
Reaching out a shaky hand, Bone gripped the glass and brought it to his lips. The first sip he wrestled down, the following gulps came more easily.
Satisfied, Heimerdinger turned and stepped up the small stool to his chair, and sat down. The concern didn't leave his eyes as Bone drained his glass. He left his own beverage untouched.
A long moment passed, the silence in the office punctuated by the Undercity Councilor's phlegmy throat clearings. Still, he didn't look the other in the eye.
"I am dying, Professor," Bone grumbled after a couple minutes. He kept his eyes closed and his heavy head on his fingertips. His shoulder sagged, confessing the fact out loud. His throat clenched in a way that had nothing to do with his illness.
Heimerdinger's long ears folded back and dipped. The concern that had molded his brow since adjourning the meeting transformed into weighty sorrow. His own small body mimicked his counterpart's, his head dropping in grim respect for the mortality he'd never know.
"I am . . . sorry, Jarrot," Heimerdinger whispered.
"I am dying," Bone repeated. "I am running out of time to do good for the Undercity."
The Yordle lifted his head. "You have, my friend."
Bone sneered at the platitude.
"What have I accomplished, Professor?" he asked, his voice gravelly with illness and venom. "What real change have I managed to cement?"
"The new sanctions and regulations at the mines, for one," Heimerdinger offered.
Bone's hand dropped from his face and he fixed the professor with an icy stare.
"And can you guarantee me – guarantee the Undercity – that those will not be abrogated once I am gone?"
Heimerdinger's ears dropped further. He was immortal; not a fortune-teller.
"The changes I have managed to enact are flimsy at best," grumbled Bone. He brought his handkerchief back up to his mouth and coughed again. "I have barely been able to scratch my political agenda, and not only is my time running out, but Rynweaver and the other noble families are devising means to keep furthering the divide of opportunity between Piltover and her Undercity. Whose call do you think the Council will heed, Professor?"
The two stared at each other for a long while. Bone tired of his voice, the voices he spoke form being unheard; Heimerdinger uncertain of how to handle this diplomatically.
"Jarrot," he began carefully, "it is the Council's job to act in the best interest of the whole populace. Things advance for Piltover, they advance for the Undercity. A rising tide lifts all boats – "
"With all do respect, Professor," Bone grit, "that is horseshit. If Rynweaver and the other benefactors get what they want, what will happen to Viktor, your prize pupil? His sister won't be able to pay more than she already is for his schooling. What then? Toss him back into the Undercity's maw to die? Let his spot be taken up by another Piltovian child? There is no bridging this inequitable rift between Topside and the Underground without massive change. And I have not been able to scratch away at anything because the rest of Council is only interested in maintaining the status quo."
As he spoke, his eyes had become glossy, his voice desperate and aggrieved around the edges.
"This is not what I hoped my tenure on Council would be," he whispered.
Heimerdinger watched and listened to his peer. His heart truly ached for the man in front of him. A sigh whistled through his mustache as he lowered his eyes.
"Change," he said, "takes time."
"Time is not something I have, Professor. There are plenty of other Undercity citizens who have a similar affliction – or something else. They don't have time either. Viktor doesn't have time."
Heimerdinger winced at the mention of his student. It was likely Rynweaver and the benefactors would get their way. His stomach swooped and the skin under his fur became cold at the thought of having to send Viktor back across the river for good.
"This . . . variance between our cities is not what I had in mind when founding Piltover," Heimerdinger confessed.
"I believe you."
Heimerdinger looked up, ears lifting. Bone returned the look with red, watery eyes and a stern brow. He coughed into his handkerchief once more before continuing.
"I believe you that it was not your intention when founding Piltover to leave half of the population quite literally in the dust. However, it is what has happened. And do not distance yourself from the issue by using nothing words like 'variance.' It is prejudice, inequity, inequality, and violent classism. Piltover has built its progress on the corpses of Trenchers. And you have us dig deeper graves, day in and day out. Digging those graves is what is sending me to mine.
"The further the city gets from its founding, the broader the divide. This is a deep wound, Professor. Deeper than the Sumps. And in order to begin healing from it, changes must be made. And not just some rules and regulations at one mining enterprise. Piltover and the Undercity cannot move forward as things are now. Progress cannot bloom from prejudice."
The pale scotch in Grayson's tumbler caught and refracted the dim light of her desk lamp. The crystal it had been etched from glowed with it. She sighed, took another sip, and leaned her head on the tips of her fingers. In the back of her mind, she heard her mother's voice reprimand her for her poor posture.
"Ladies sit up straight, Theodora," she would say. "Ankles crossed!"
When Grayson was old enough to dress herself, she had kept her corset slack so she could sit more comfortably. Unfortunately, her mother caught on and demanded to inspect her underthings before they had company or before she left the house.
It irked young Grayson for several reasons. Not the least of which being that she and her family were a lesser house. No one was looking at them expectantly. Atticus was an Enforcer, his wife a junior curator at a small art gallery. They weren't nobles nor did they entertain any, so her mother's insistence on ladylike etiquette was grating.
Besides, even as a young girl, Grayson knew she wanted to be an Enforcer. Like her father. She wouldn't need to know which fork was for salads nor the correct order of dishes for an eight-course dinner.
The one thing she was able to use from her mother's infuriating, demeaning lessons was how to listen, how to approach people, and how to sus out subtext within a conversation or interaction. They were skills that had allowed Grayson to climb the Enforcer ranks quickly.
Much to her chagrin, though, slouching did end up hurting her back as much as sitting stick-straight did. She grunted and shifted in her seat, flipping over a page of the report she was currently reading. One of the ones from the dossier Bone had given her that afternoon.
The case had been closed for a couple of years. It was similar in subject matter to the previous few cases she had looked at in the folder. It had been a brief investigation: An Enforcer was accused of sexually assaulting, and later beating, an Undercity sex worker. The woman was not an employee of any of the brothels – no establishment claimed her once the report was made.
The Enforcer in question was a young man new to the force, and the young woman accused him of raping and sodomizing her. Once she made the report, she returned to the station beaten and bloody saying the same man had jumped her. The photographs that accompanied the report were too few, but impactful.
Despite this, the subsequent investigation was brief and lacked depth. The Enforcer was not found at fault, and when the victim kept making a fuss, the courts proclaimed her mentally incompetent and sent her to Osweld Asylum.
Grayson sighed and closed the folder, pushing it away. She sipped again at her scotch and eyed the remaining stack of reports to her left.
"That being born in the Undercity increases citizens risk of being treated unjustly by a system that is meant to protect them. That is why Viktor looked at you fearfully. Because, like it or not, you were not taught to protect him."
Councilor Bone's voice echoed in her head. Her gut coiled. The liquor didn't burn enough.
She knew that crime rates in the Undercity were higher than those in Piltover. It was common knowledge, even amongst the public. Piltover mothers – regardless of station – frequently prohibited their children from straying any farther than the boundary markets in the Promenade. There was a well-known dare-game among Piltover teens to go deep into the Undercity, and whoever got the furthest unscathed won.
The Undercity was dangerous. Everyone in Piltover knew it.
And yet, the unease that had rippled under Grayson's skin when she met with Bone earlier in the day would not settle. It scratched at her stomach and questioned what she had thought had been her intuition.
But Viktor's eyes . . . the handful of reports she had read . . . Bone's notes comparing relatively similar cases between the Undercity and Piltover . . .
Her teeth ached and her heart squeezed.
She had wanted to become an Enforcer because she watched how her father loved what he did. He would speak to her about how fulfilling it was to be there for people in some of the darkest moments of their lives, and help them through it. How good it felt to be of service to his city and his neighbors.
The idea had warmed and fizzed Grayson's insides. It made her full of pride and hope. She wanted to do that, not sip tea and attend garden parties. She didn't want to uselessly and capriciously climb the social ladder. She wanted to be purposeful in a way she could feel and see.
And being presented with evidence that perhaps her endeavors were not that . . . made her numb.
She couldn't feel it.
And she couldn't unsee the facts Bone had laid at her feet.
Grayson knew she was on the track to eventually take over for Sheriff LeDaird when he retired. Her father would've been proud of her. What if she could help accomplish more than he or she ever dreamed? Ever knew to dream? What if she forded the river and bridged the divide?
About once a month, Enyd visited the Clapper Textile Mill to purchase scrap fabric. For only a few washers and cogs she would be able to walk away with a small laundry bag of thread and a variety of swatches. It was cheaper than buying bolts of fabric. And the managers of the mill were happy to slip some extra money into their pockets while keeping the floors tidy.
No matter how many times Enyd entered the building, she was always taken aback by how loud it was. Even in the small and orderly front office area, the pounding and shrieking of the mighty looms just beyond the back brick wall burst through the mortar, rattling the filing cabinets and desks. She wondered how anyone got anything done as their pens skittered across parchment and dust motes rained down on their hair, having been shaken loose by the creaky rafters above.
Despite the cacophony, the mill's secretary looked up as Enyd walked in and she waved her over, getting up from her vibrating desk. Birdy was a square-shaped woman with a flat face and one arm. The other had been sheared off in a looming accident years ago, after which she was transferred into the office. She was curt and belligerently independent.
Enyd wove around the manager's desk, mumbling platitudes to him and the client he was speaking with. Neither gentleman looked up, their eyes glued upon the contracts and agreements quivering between them. She spared one last glance at the client, who looked too wealthy to be visiting Clapper, before slipping through the door Birdy held open for her.
"That girl has stockpiled quite an array fer ya this time," Birdy quipped in her throaty voice as they ascended a set of stairs.
"Who was that man speaking with Amos?" Enyd asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.
The secretary's wide mouth pursed and she rolled her eyes.
"Some Topside muckity-muck."
"Topside? Doing business here?"
Birdy's nostrils flared and her lip pulled into a thread-thin line.
"He needs . . . discretion, apparently."
She offered nothing else. They arrived on a metal landing and the secretary opened the door crowning it. The clanging and whirring of the looms increased to bone-quaking intensity as the two women entered the factory floor's catwalk. Below them, mighty metal mouths gnashed against the fabric tongues that slipped and pulled through their teeth, the width of the bolt increasing with each chomp; colors became deeper with each bullet-fast pass of the metal shuttle as more thread was added. Birdy was completely nonplussed by the volume of noise, but Enyd clapped her hands over her ears and quickly shuffled behind the other woman.
They traveled down the metal gangway, their footsteps a pitiful edition to the rest of the din. Birdy's gaze flitted amongst the throngs of mill girls beneath their feet, all of them dutifully tending to their tasks (lest they end their shift short a limb, like the secretary). Her eyes widened as they fell upon her intended target: a tall teenager whose dark, almost black, skin stuck out from her pale peers like a sunflower seed in a bushel of ginko nuts. A broom was in her strong hands and she methodically swished it over the floor, gathering a pile of loose thread and fabric scraps.
Birdy beat her fist against the metal duct over her head in a methodical pattern. All at once, hundreds of faces looked up to the catwalk. The secretary locked eyes with the sweeping teen and pointed firmly at her. Enyd saw the girl's face track to her own, and she nodded, scurrying down a tight row of machines to the back of the factory.
The two older women followed from above, finally escaping the main floor by way of another stairwell. Enyd sighed with relief and let her hands drop back to her sides. Birdy's energy remained the same as she trundled down the stairs before them.
Weaving through a couple short hallways on the first floor, they arrived in the cutting room, and found the sweeper shoving a few more swatches into a small laundry bag.
"Hi Ms. Enyd!" she said joyfully, her white teeth a streak of starlight against her dark skin.
"Hello, Nasha. Those look like some interesting patterns you've collected for me."
Enyd stepped to the counter and took up a short length of blue fabric with a paisley embossment.
"Make sure it's t'yah liking," Birdy called. "Then come find me in th'office. I gotta get back to work."
Enyd nodded and bid her chaperone good-bye.
With the secretary gone, Nasha's shoulders slumped and a breathy chuckle bubbled in her throat.
"Birds makes me so nervous," she admitted. "The way she looks at me when she tries to get my attention gives me the heebie-jeebies."
"She's fine," Enyd tutted playfully, sifting through the materials. "She's just a grumpy old-timer. Like me."
Nasha laughed and shook her head, the makeshift bonnet she wore over her bushy hair swishing precariously.
"Nah. You're not grumpy. And you're not an old-timer."
"I have a son older than you, dear," Enyd countered with a cheeky grin.
Nasha shrugged and crossed her thick forearms over her chest. "It's more of a state of mind, I guess."
The older woman smiled at the girl's generous definition and continued to inspect the fabric and threads. The silence between them was short-lived, because soon Nasha whispered excitedly, "Did you see the fop with Mr. Amos? The Piltie looking one? Was he still in the office when you got here?"
"He was," Enyd said carefully. "Birdy was not very forthcoming with the details, though."
Nasha guffawed and shook her head again.
"He's visited the mill a couple times in the past month. Caught all of our attention, you know? Mr. Amos rarely gets Piltie clients!"
"What does a Piltie want with an Undercity textile mill?" asked Enyd.
A Cheshire grin sliced across Nasha's plump face and she leaned in conspiratorially.
"So, his wife's family's business is in window treatments. They do all the mansions in Bluewind Court. He's got some management position at the Clockwork Vault. Apparently, he has racked up a lot of gambling debt with some Bilgewater crew. He's ordering a bunch of curtain panels from Mr. Amos that he's gonna be shipping over there."
"Curtain panels? Why?"
Nasha leaned in further and whispered, "He's been skimming the tops of some bigger accounts he oversees at Clockwork; gathering up enough coin to pay his debts. He's gonna hide the money in the panels, and forge some shipping manifest to make it look like his wife's family's business is shipping the curtains."
"How do you know all this?" Enyd asked, eyes wide.
"Because Gidgit, one of the other mill girls, sucks Mr. Amos' dick at the end of the day, and he tells her things when he's all spent and stupid. Then she tells me when I make her spent and stupid – "
"Yes, I understand," Enyd brusquely hissed, wanting to bypass any discussion of Amos' or Nasha's sexual escapades. Besides, her mind was alight with possibility. Her stomach coiled and her heart tittered.
"Nasha," she said quietly, "have you or any of the other girls heard of the Children of Zaun?"
The journey into Piltover at the end of the week was much more pleasant than it had been at the start. The sun lazily danced in-between fluffy clouds and a cool breeze swirled off the Pilt as Katya crossed the Bridge to pick her brother up. While her body was tired from a stressful week at the mines, her heart was still light and fluttery from the meal and company she had shared the night prior.
And from seeing one half of that company standing in the clinic's doorway earlier that afternoon.
Clean up was in full effect at the accident site, regular operations were starting back up, and the triage tents were taken down; injured miners either could get back to work or rest at home. Upon arriving, Katya had been directed back into the mine's medical clinic by a pushy Topside physician, and there she relieved Will of rehoming and reorganizing the space.
The boxes she and he had packaged up the day prior were stacked in neat piles around the front office and exam room. Periodically, additional packages were brought down by random laborers. Almost all came and went without saying much, barely giving Katya a chance to instruct them on where it would be most helpful to set them down.
Around one in the afternoon, when she was elbow-deep in gauze and bandages, Silco appeared in the clinic's doorway, his arms wrapped around yet another box. Katya felt her cheeks pinch at the sight of him.
"This one rattles," he said by way of greeting. The corners of his lips lifted, and he asked, "Where would you like it?"
"It is probably some of the antibiotics," she said. "I've been looking for it. If you could put it in the exam room, that would be helpful. Thank you."
Silco nodded and wove around the maze of boxes, as Katya lifted to her feet and followed him.
"By the table is fine," she sighed as he stepped into the small room.
He carefully set the box down next to the exam table, and she watched the way his hands and forearms flexed as he transferred the weight of the delivery to the floor. As he stood back up, the need to say something else pummeled her.
"Thank you again for having me for dinner last night," she decided to say. "I had a lovely time."
"I'll pass on your gratitude to my mum," he said with a lopsided grin. Then, something softer and more self-conscious flickered across his face, and he added, "We enjoyed having you. I hope you can join us again. Like my mum said."
Katya smiled and nodded.
"I certainly will never try to wiggle out of one of Enyd's invitations again. Her cooking is delicious." She paused and said, "And the company was enjoyable, too."
The tips of Silco's ears went pink and the grin he wore twitched nervously. He cleared his throat and nodded, trying not to look too pleased. Together, they began walking back toward the clinic door.
"You're picking your brother up today?" he asked.
"Yes. For the weekend."
He nodded, and Katya thought she saw a glimmer of disappointment behind his eyes. It disappeared as quickly as it came, and he fixed her with a warm look.
"Have a nice weekend, Kat."
She bit the inside of her lower lip and smiled to herself at the memory as the Bridge attendant let her through. It was new, but it felt warm and intoxicating to belong. To be sought after. To be cared for.
Her smile fully split as she approached the fountain in Pilt Square, and she saw her brother and Ivy waiting for her. He looked up from the book he was reading and smiled back, waving in greeting. He stowed his book away, scooped up his crutch, and limped toward her. Katya wrapped her arms around him tightly.
"Oh, I missed you!" she sighed into his hair.
"I missed you, too."
She drew back and cupped his face. "Did you have a good week?"
Viktor nodded and said, "I had lunch with Councilor Bone a couple times!"
Katya stared at her brother, flabbergasted. Before she could inquire further, Ivy had walked up, rucksack in hand.
"Hello, Katya."
She handed off the large bag to the medic, and once it was situated securely across the other's shoulders, she held out a cream-colored envelope. Katya's smiled dropped as she reached out for the letter, recognizing Heimerdinger's gilded sigil embossed on its front.
"Professor Heimerdinger scheduled Viktor's midterm conference for next Thursday," Ivy explained. "He's written a letter excusing your absence from work, if that helps in your ability to attend – "
"That isn't necessary," Katya curtly said. She was aware that it didn't make sense to be peeved with Ivy for the Yordle's overreach, but she found she couldn't help herself. "I will be there."
"Excellent," Ivy said politely. "I shall let Professor Heimerdinger know to expect you. Have a lovely weekend, Viktor!"
"You, too, Miss Ivy."
Katya tucked Heimerdinger's fancy envelope into her coat and guided Viktor back toward the Bridge.
"We have to pick up your brace at Pok's before heading home," she told her brother as they went.
"Can we go to Jericho's then? Like last week?"
"Not today, Viktor," she said. His lower lip pouted forward but he didn't argue further.
"If the weather is good tomorrow, how about we try going back to the Shores to look at the boats?"
His eyes brightened. He smiled and nodded at his sister. She smiled back.
"How did you come to have lunch with Councilor Bone?"
"I was having lunch on one of the campus benches and he came up and asked if he could sit with me."
He shot her an excited glance and his round cheeks glowed happily.
"Is that so?" Katya hummed playfully. "What did you and the Councilor talk about?"
"He asked questions about my classes, and what I like to build. I showed him my cane," Viktor answered, flourishing the crutch out in front of him, taking a big swinging step.
"Careful, Viktor," Katya chuckled.
"He told me a little bit about his life in the Undercity. Before he was a Councilor, I mean. He used to work at the mines."
"Yes, I know. Papa nor I ever got to meet him though. It's very exciting that you've made a friend in such a high place!"
Her brother laughed and they continued together toward the conveyor car station.
Augmentation Alley was bustling like normal. Glowing deep oranges and yellows in the shadows of the Undercity. The smell of fire and hot metal made Katya feel like they were walking through an oven. Her shirt stuck to her damp skin under her coat, and her bangs began to glue themselves to her forehead.
She and Viktor weaved past stores and stalls, making it to Pok's Parlor at the end of the alley. They were not the only customers, and her heart stalled to see the hulking figure in front of Mek's smithing anvil. It was Vander. Both young men turned to see brother and sister enter the shop, and Katya gripped her brother's shoulder, holding him in place. She was not ready for Viktor to know this part of her life yet. She hoped he didn't remember the barkeep from bringing Benzo to their apartment; she prayed it had been too dark for him to recognize the strikingly tall and muscled man before him.
Fortunately, Viktor looked up at her curiously, with confused, wondering eyes. Vander saw the trepidation in her face and kindly turned back to Mek without formally addressing her. Katya swallowed, wetting her dry throat with an audible click, and awkwardly ushered her brother further inside.
"Da!" Mek called out. "Customers!"
Grumbling and limping, Pok staggered out of the back room. Upon seeing Katya and Viktor he grunted and nodded, waving them over with a gnarled, meaty hand. The siblings gave Mek and Vander as wide a berth as they could, walking over to the augmenteer's workbench.
He rifled through the pieces of metal and leather hanging over his drafting table, eying the tags of paper attached to each. Finally, he plucked a piece from the far left end of the rack and laid it across the table between them.
Pok eyed the piece, then Viktor.
"Looks 'bout right. C'mere, boy. Let's try it on."
He stripped down to his current brace, Katya helped unlace him out of it. She felt how worn and fragile it was as she took it and his shirt into her arms. With cautious excitement, Viktor stepped closer to the old man. Pok slipped the shoulder strap over the boy's head and went about showing him wear to buckle and how to tighten.
Katya watched her brother's face gradually grow into something relieved and excited; the expression of joy being pulled from him as if it were warm taffy. She knew how much this opportunity of independence meant to him. She clutched his old brace tighter.
Sometimes, when she was young – younger than Viktor – her papa would take her to examine tidepools near the mouth of the Pilt. She would get sad upon finding shell after shell of what she thought were dead crabs.
"No, no, Button," her papa would say, plucking the delicate carapace from her small hands. "This is called an exoskeleton. Crustaceans and insects have them. When it is time for the crab to grow, it sheds its current exoskeleton so the larger one underneath can take its place. There's a short period of time where the crab's new body is vulnerable. But once it hardens, it is bigger and stronger than before."
Katya's throat squeezed watching Viktor undo and redo the buckles and straps of his new brace over and over again. Until he was comfortable with his new shell. He beamed up at her and she smiled back.
Satisfied, Viktor put his shirt back on, and Katya drew her coin purse out from her coat.
"I'll give ya a small discount if you leave his old brace," Pok said, nodding to the soft leather straps hung over her arm. "Materials are becoming difficult to come by."
Katya paused, considering. She looked down at the old brace.
"I would prefer to keep it, actually."
She paid Pok their agreed price, and she guided Viktor back around Mek and Vander, heading for the alley. She noticed how her brother's walk was more easeful than when they first arrived. Noticed how he more readily stepped in front of her. Her heart swelled for him, and ached at the same time.
Before she followed Viktor back out into the Undercity, she spared one last glance at Vander. Mek had just lifted something onto the anvil between them, and the barkeep was carefully inspecting whatever it was. When he lifted it up into the bright glow of the furnace, Katya could see that it was a large, crudely constructed gauntlet.
A/N: Comments are fuel to keep this fire burning 3