Why am I the bad guy?
Maybe I wanna be the hero sometimes
So used to people treating me like I'm evil
Yeah no one ever wants to play nice
"Super Villain" ~ Stileto
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: FREE
If Zaun is free, why isn't the bread?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
RE: SUBJECT: FREE
Zaun is free bc Zaunites don't sit around waiting for someone to feed them.
We got our freedom ourselves.
The bread will follow.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: FREE
The bread stored in the chem-barons strongholds?
And they decide who eats and who doesn't?
You're hoarders and hypocrites.
Same as Topside.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
RE: SUBJECT: FREE
150 new rehab clinics. 105 new schools. 2000 miles of new water pipes. 40 miles of new highway lines. 4500 people working every day on a single project. 6000 people working in total across Zaun's public works.
u know what the biggest public work in the last ten years from Topside was? A monument.
An effing statue.
Do u wanna talk about hoarding and hypocrisy?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
RE: SUBJECT: FREE
Lists won't feed the ones who need it.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: EFF YOU
u need bread.
Is that it?
Spent years sabotaging our cause, and now ur hungry?
And u think that should be our problem?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
RE: SUBJECT: EFF YOU
Zaun's going to burn.
Not because of us.
Because of you.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: EFF YOU
Because jinx amirite?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
RE: SUBJECT: EFF YOU
No.
Because what you've set up is more of the same.
Zaunites cheating Zaunites to get scraps.
Just like it's always been.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: EFF YOU
u think u could do a better job?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
RE: SUBJECT: EFF YOU
I'm not interested in a job.
This is our city.
We all need to be involved.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: EFF YOU
Oh lookie.
The Boy Savior's back on his high-horse.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: HORSES
What, like the one you were riding when you let them all die?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
RE: SUBJECT: HORSES
Plug urself with an augmented cucumber.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: HORSES
You should throw a big party.
Invite all the kids whose parents you killed.
Tell them how great it all is now.
How much better everything is.
See if they agree.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
RE: SUBJECT: HORSES
This is how we change things.
This is the only way.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: HORSES
So it's alright that the people are still suffering?
It's alright that your new order's no better than the old?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: FUTURE
I never said that.
It's easy to point at the past and say things were better.
But the past is done.
Zaun gets a different future.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
RE: SUBJECT: FUTURE
Silco's words on your lips.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: FUTURE
u thinking about my lips?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: WHAT
Don't change the subject.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
RE: SUBJECT: WHAT
ur the one that brought it up.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: SUBJECT CHANGE
That's not what I was talking about.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
RE: SUBJECT: SUBJECT CHANGE
Talk talk talk.
That's ur problem.
Nothing but big plans. Big ideas.
Never actually got it done.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: SUBJECT CHANGE
Maybe if you'd stopped destroying everything we built.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
RE: SUBJECT: SUBJECT CHANGE
Destroyed?
What, like you wanted to destroy the Shimmer tank in the Drop?
Hypocrites and hoarders.
That's u all over.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: SUBJECT CHANGE
Their blood is on your hands.
All the families you poisoned with Shimmer.
All your bullets in their heads.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
RE: SUBJECT: SUBJECT CHANGE
I'm not here to take ur blame.
I didn't make u a coward.
u ran away when it mattered most.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: SUBJECT CHANGE
I asked you to come with me.
We could have stopped him together.
But you refused.
Now, look at you.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: LIES
Don't.
Don't u dare.
I had a home with him.
u tried to steal it from me.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
RE: SUBJECT: LIES
No.
He stole it from you.
When he killed Vander. When he drove Vi away. When he took over the Lanes.
He stole from everyone.
Now he's Chancellor.
And what are you left with?
A tower.
A broken city.
Nothing but a pile of bones.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: LIES
He's the only family I have left.
u were the one that turned ur back on me.
u left. Just like Vi.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
RE: SUBJECT: LIES
And you stayed behind.
I guess we both chose our family.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: LIES
What do u want from me, Ekko?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: TALK
To talk.
This is our city.
We can help it.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: NO
The last thing I need is ur words.
Leave me alone.
u did once already.
u always do.
That's why u lost me.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
RE: SUBJECT: TALK
I didn't lose you.
You're still here.
And you're the only one who can make a difference.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: PLUG URSELF 2 WITH AN AUGMENTED CUCUMBER 2 (BIGGER & BETTER)
What r u talking about?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: RE: PLUG URSELF 2 WITH AN AUGMENTED CUCUMBER 2 (BIGGER & BETTER)
I've seen you.
Out in the city at night.
Our lookouts have too.
You're searching for something.
What are you trying to do?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: NOSY
I'm doing what I want. And it's none of ur business.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: CURIOUS
What are you looking for?
You've got kids spraypainting X's all over the place.
What do they mean?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: STALKING
u don't know how to stay out of anything, do you?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: CURIOUS
I know you have the Hex gem.
I saw the glow. On the day you blew up the Bridge.
I know you're using it to search for something.
I don't know what. But I know you'll tell me.
Because this is the future you want, isn't it?
Zaun free.
Without Shimmer. Without the chem-barons. Where the people rule themselves. Where we don't have to hide, and live like rats.
Isn't that what you want?
Isn't that what you dream of?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: RE CURIOUS
( ︶ ͜ʖ ︶)_╭∩╮
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: HUH
Fine.
Don't tell me.
I'll figure it out.
I always do.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: UGH
i'm looking 4 runes.
There. Happy now?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: RUNES
Runes?
What do you want them for?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: IDK
Magic i guess.
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: ERROR 500: HUH?
What the hell does that mean?
END OF MESSAGE
FLASH MESSAGE
SUBJECT: SO DUMB
wait and see, Boy Savior.
ur in for a show.
END OF MESSAGE
Midnight.
From the wide bay window of his office, Silco watches the half-moon hack itself into the night sky. Its weak glow barely penetrates the smog. The Grey is a ghostly smear that eclipses the cityscape. Even the neon signs at the Promenade are a diffuse cluster of lights.
The Aerie, slicing through the haze, pulses brilliant blue.
Jinx is hard at work. With the Expo imminent, she has a new assignment: prototype turbines powered by Hex-tech. If successful, they will play an integral role in purifying Zaun's atmosphere. The turbines will be situated at key locations throughout the upper and lower districts. The bottom half will funnel toxic particulates out of the Sumps. The upper half will render them into harmless vapor.
The project will serve to spearhead Zaun's Emissions Control Program. In time, all factories will be required to install miniature versions in their smokestacks. The plan, in conjunction with a series of new laws, will pave the way for a cleaner city, free of suffocating smog. It will also play a major role in showcasing the city's tech capacity—and its potential for foreign investment.
By her own admission: Jinx is a big fan of the idea.
"Fan," reads her stickynote on Silco's bureau. "Get it?"
Her schematics, a dense folio of hand-drawn blueprints, are laid out across his desk. As always, the artistry is a visual delight. The turbines appear as elegant, mechanical flowers: the propellers like petals blossoming from a conchical hub. The runes are etched in neat, spidery, well-defined lines.
The depth of detail is breathtaking. A testament to how far Jinx has come, as an inventor and an artist.
Silco's pride holds a wistful ache. He can't help but remember the little girl who'd scribble on the margins of his paperwork: her crude, unruly diagrams; her misspelled notes; her doodles of monsters with too many teeth. Now there's a nearly self-conscious flourish even in the signature: a stylized script that belongs on an invitation to a grand tea party.
One where the brew's spiked with a dose of LSD.
Sipping his nighttime brandy, Silco peruses the designs. The wistfulness, he locks in a black box: it will only serve to reduce his critical focus. The past few weeks of Jinx's aggressive secrecy and self-enforced solitude have kept him on tenterhooks. Her energized upswing, while gratifying, behooves a watchful eye.
Since he's signed off her first paycheck, she's been on a spending spree. A flux of delivery carts has begun wheeling in and out of the Aerie. The zeal of her endeavor verges on religious fervor—or the throes of a sugar-high. Often, he'll visit to find her sprawled in a welter of scrap-metal, or passed out cold with a half-empty jar of candy in one hand and a blowtorch in the other. Other times, he'll walk in to Jinx sitting crosslegged in the middle of her lab, palms pressed to her ears and eyes squeezed shut: a trancelike rictus that's as alarming as it is mystifying.
Afterward, she'll claim to be listening to the sounds of magic. To Silco, she appears to be conjuring demons—or exorcising them.
"I'm fine," she snaps, when pressed. "Just chasin' down a hunch."
The sum total is disconcerting, even for a man who's built a city on magic's fumes. He is well-acquainted with the pulsebeat of the creative build-up: the pinnacles and plunges. This is something else entirely. An undertow of the spirit, dragging Jinx towards a no-man's land beyond recall.
All that stops Silco from ordering a round-the-clock security detail is Jinx's progress: steady, methodical, absolute. She has already completed the rough-cut blades and begun assembly on the first prototype. The upsuck is strong enough to lift an elephant up into the clouds. The downspout is precise enough to pare the finest hair on a baby's head. The calibrations, Singed has personally confirmed, are dead-on. All that remains are the final tweaks, and a field test.
Silco tells himself: The bottom-line is the bottom-line.
Jinx has done nothing but excel since returning from the Deadlands. She deserves a degree of privacy—a chance for her creative flow to run its course. Her mind is the engine that propels Zaun forward. The more he lets it rip, the higher his city will soar.
Jinx is strong, he tells himself. She will be alright.
The alternative is too catastrophic to contemplate.
Silco takes another sip of brandy. It goes down a touch sharper than the last.
Speaking of catastrophe…
Next to Jinx's schematics, a large manila envelope's marked with an innocuous letterhead: STAFF. A label that belies the contents of its delivery: Vi's admission to the blackguard training program. The first phase in the Peacekeeper Exchange Initiative, and a significant step in the dance of progress between Piltover and Zaun.
One of many, to lay the groundwork for the larger game in motion.
Setting his brandy down, Silco opens the envelope, and withdraws the papers: clearance forms, background check, and training schedule. He skims through everything, then signs off with efficiency.
Sealing the documents in a fresh envelope, he makes some vital calculations.
The next few months will require painstaking choreography. There are too many variables at play to allow for error. Viktor's defection from Piltover. Zaun's acquisition of the Hexcore. Medarda's greenlight and Piltover's cooperation. The Expo and the Hex-turbines. The beginning of the Peacekeeper Exchange Initiative. The unveiling of the Four Horsemen. Noxus on the horizon and warmasons in the shadows.
It's a complex sequence of moves that will beget an even more complex chain of reactions. One slip-up could throw off the entire scheme.
Vi's presence, as the most pivotal element in the plan, must be cultivated with the care.
A task not made easier by the fact that she is here to kill him.
The knowledge has been with him from the start. A moot point: he stuck a knife in her old man, and she's not going to rest until she's repaid him in kind. A debt for a debt, so all's right with the world. That he has the upper hand, and the gun to her head, means nothing in the face of her bloodlust. Every time they've been within spitting distance, she's tried for whatever she can grab. Every time, she's ended up on the ground.
And every time, she's come back for more.
A trait, Silco is beginning to sense, they have in common.
He takes another sip of the brandy. A little inchworm of blood vessel throbs in his left temple, the commandment arising on cue:
Thou shalt not be derelict in thy duty.
Vi's return will knock Jinx off her pins. There's no getting around it. Nor will Silco reject the impossibility of a blowup; it doesn't jibe with his cardsharp's sense of entropy. There will be a confrontation between the sisters soon enough. The only solution is to minimize its impact. Make sure it occurs in the most advantageous circumstances.
On his terms.
His fingers flex on the glass. A little harder, and it'll crack. The urge to fling the bloody thing across the space is overwhelming. And, truth be told, not unfamiliar. Lately, old compulsions from boyhood are beginning to bubble to the surface. To smash and bash. To rip and rend. To paint the walls in gore and stain the carpet in blood.
As if, by destroying the right thing, he can undo all the wrongness inside.
But—no.
The curl of his fingers loosens. There are more efficient ways to purge his demons. Ones that won't land him in the asylum, or the morgue.
Ones that'll spare him the indignity of picking broken glass off his imported Shuriman rug.
Setting the brandy aside, Silco rises and slips into his coat. His boots, dead-silent, carry him from his office, and down the vestibule. He's due for a dinner with the crew—a rare occurrence these days, given his workload. But half the mantle of leadership rests, not on crucial decisions made in-field, but on the small rituals that keep a unit together.
The camaraderie conditioned into his role doesn't come naturally. Silco's always been a loner; preferring to sit apart and observe the action. The Eye's no different: the shadow that holds the spotlight in place. He knows that his brand of charisma is too sharp, too unsettling, to cultivate warmth. He'll step in for the tasks that necessitate a divine hand with a touch of hellfire: keeping the troops' spirits high and cutting the chem-barons' egos down to size. Doling out the rare reward, where it's earned. Delivering the punishment, where it's deserved.
The rest—the small-talk, the squabbles, the gossip—he'll leave in Sevika's capable hands. She's got a knack for keeping the crew's heads screwed on straight, and their asses on the grindstone. They'll bitch and moan, but there's a respect beneath the bellyaching. The kind that's earned through hard-won years in the trenches, side-by-side. A loyalty that'll last the distance when shit hits the fan.
Because it will.
Vi's arrival will stir up trouble, within the ranks and without. A chunk of the chem-barons will be ticked off by the Peacekeeper presence. Others, more opportunistic, will be eager to capitalize on the shifts in Zaun's firmament. Then there'll be those nursing blood grudges—against Vander's legacy, and Vi herself. There'll be jostles and power plays in the ranks. Some will want to use Vi for target practice. Others will deem Silco's head the better prize. A few will be clever enough to seek a balance between the two extremes. Sevika's debriefs have been thorough on the subject: Silco's got a dossier on everyone with an axe to grind.
They'll need watching.
And the Eye cannot afford to blink.
He takes the elevator down to the mess hall. It's a low-ceilinged, subterranean space with a row of tables bolted into the concrete floor. The walls are rough-hewn cinderblock painted in matte-black. The bar, in a far corner, is a sheet-metal counter lined with mismatched stools. The lighting's dim and the ambiance is smoky, a ripe fug of gun-oil, cigarette smoke, and spilled alcohol. But the food's prime, the booze is top-shelf, and the entertainment's lively, courtesy of the jukebox, the gameroom outfitted with snooker tables and dartboards, and the brawls prone to breaking out nightly.
Never let it be said that Zaunites can't enjoy themselves on a budget.
The mess is crowded tonight. The tables are piled high with grilled squid, cornbread, and tureens of sump-vole stew. The head cook mans the grill, flipping a row of sizzling shrimp with a showman's panache to hoots and hollers from the blackguards. The crew are already chowing down with the vigor of a successful hunting pack. Lock's busy carving out a slab of seared tentacle the size of a thigh. Dustin and Ran are competing to see who can balance a knife on their knuckles. Sevika, knocking back a shot of whiskey, presides over the scene with the half-lidded surfeit of a lioness surveying her pride.
It's the sort of raucous scene that, in the old days, would've been a regularity at the Last Drop.
Inhaling, Silco can almost summon the old aromas of cold beer and warm bodies. He can see the silhouettes gathered around the long counter: liquor flowing as freely as the laughter. Vander's huge silhouette behind the bar, slinging drinks with a deft hand and a quick grin. Benzo, at his usual stool, shooting the bull until it is staggered and bloody, then starting on its cousin. Lika, with her flirty, off-the-cuff banter, felling the patrons one by one like ducks in a shooting gallery. Sevika, off in the corner, displaying a hard eye and a steady hand as she scored a bullseye on the dartboard. Nandi, at the door, never deigning to set foot into the pub, but doling out rolled-oat biscuits and sage advice to the urchins always gathered at her feet.
And Silco, tucked into his alcove, watching it all through the haze of cigarette smoke, his pen halfway through the act of scrawling a manifesto that already lived and breathed in the room. Vander's golden aura. Benzo's well-worn bonhomie. Lika's puckish charm. Sevika's dogged grit. Nandi's quiet grace. And Silco's undying vision: a circle of friends, a city of equals, sisters and brothers born of the same bedrock and blistered by the same sorrows.
Piltover's sins writ large in their skins. Freedom, ascending in their souls.
Zaun.
Silco exhales, and the memory's dead. The ghosts of the past have no place in the present. The Last Drop is dust, and the old gang is no more. The blackguards are younger, hungrier, with no room for camaraderie. His crew are predators on the make: ambitious, amoral, and willing to bite off their own tails to get ahead.
Only Sevika, the tether between old and new, remains.
Already her dark gaze has clocked his presence. The corner of her mouth twitches: acknowledgement without fuss. She's not expecting him tonight, but she knows better than to stand on ceremony. Silco's sporadic appearances at supper are of a piece with the Eye's mystique:
Make the moments count, and the rest will fall in line.
Matter-of-factly, she tips her glass in his direction. The crew's chatter dies off on a ripple of alertness. Through the room, the shift in tenor is subtle, but immediate: spines straightening, shoulders squaring, elbows sliding from tables. A few of the junior officers stand in deference. The Eye's presence, whatever else, is a foolproof motivator for good manners.
Silco signals them down: a small dip of the chin. He's here to touch base, not hold court.
Smooth as a shark's fin slicing through water, he cuts to his place at the head of the table. The meal's already laid out for him: Lock, with the promptness of a well-trained retainer, is quick to heap his plate with a generous helping of squid and a side of cornbread. A tumbler of amber whiskey appears at his elbow. He nods in thanks, and tucks in without a word.
On cue, supper resumes. A touch more subdued, but the spirits are markedly higher. Silco's shadow at the table is far from unwelcome. For the blackguards, it's a seal of approval on a job well done—and a tacit incentive to keep their noses clean, if they know what's good for them. For the crew, it's a callback to the old days in the Lanes: maps scattered between greasy boxes of Jericho's takeout as they hunkered down to plan the next takeover.
Now, it's a chance to shine, and they don't waste it. Talk's a mix of shop and social: the day's busts, the week's training, the month's progress. Lock's sister has settled comfortably into her brand-new new digs in Oldtown. Her son is about to ship out for the Freljord on a fishing expedition: two years in the deep freeze, with a fat bonus at the end. Ran's brother is finally clean after a nasty stretch in rehab, and hasn't popped a pill in months. Ran's also looking to move in with a girlfriend: a chem-engineer working on draining the marshes in the Sump. The kid's a bit soft around the edges, but Ran's no romantic. If the relationship sours, they'll cut their losses and walk. Dustin, meanwhile, has narrowly dodged a paternity suit. The girl in question has confessed that the baby's not his. He's still shaking off the phantom sheen of sweat at the specter of fatherhood, and is contemplating a vasectomy.
Silco listens in silence. He's disinterested in a blow-by-blow of his underlings' personal lives. But he's not unmoved by the sense that their families are beginning to benefit from their hard work. It's a reward well-worth the cost: the fruits of Zaun's labor returned to the hands that toiled for it. Quietly, he congratulates Lock on the good news, and Ran on their decision to cohabit with a steady partner. Dustin, he reminds, gently, to exercise caution when bedding the fairer sex. There's a reason he's mandated free contraceptives in the brothels.
Dustin swallows a lump of pride and nods. A vasectomy's in the cards.
Sevika, as always, holds a separate counsel. She's a dutiful gatekeeper, but she's there to keep tabs on the troops, not bond with the boys. She's also got a nose for what's relevant to the night's agenda, and what'll only serve to throw it off-track. Her own report is succinctly outlined, and strictly business.
After careful consideration, she's chosen underbosses for each of the five quadrants: Kolt, a former shipyard owner who runs the docks like a military battalion; Ylena, a masked spymaster with an encyclopedic knowledge of the vices and virtues of Piltover's elite; Zizi, an assassin with a ruthless flair for wetwork and a penchant for displaying her rivals' skulls on a shelf above her desk; Eduard, an ex-soldier from the Void Wars with an ironclad hold over Zaun's blackmarket arms trade; and Uzi, an audacious bootlegger who is making a killing in the contraband market.
They're all competent, ruthless, and raring to prove their loyalty. They've each carved out their territories with precision, but toed the line when it concerns the Eye's edicts. Under their leadership, Silco's profits are up by 50%, and the peace is holding steady. If the fragile ecosystem flourishes, they will be the foundation on which the city's new order will stand.
Silco acknowledges the update with a single nod.
Each underboss will need to be vetted. But he has no doubt Sevika's made the right call. They're the right balance of astute and ambitious. They'll push the boundaries, but they'll stay in line.
And if any of them step out—they'll be dealt with.
The status report on the chem-barons comes next. So far, most of them have signed on for the Emissions Control Program. The ones that have resisted will fall into line soon enough. Silco's had his fingers on the pulse from the get-go, but it's a relief to hear confirmation that the majority are on board. There'll be an uptick in production and distribution costs. But the long-term benefits of a healthy workforce outweigh the short-term drawbacks.
As for the ones that are still dragging their heels, there are ways to make them see reason.
He's equally pleased with the progress on the Guilds. It's a long way from a coup, but the momentum's building. They've made inroads in every sector of the city's industry: factories, refineries, mines, shipyards, brothels. But the real breakthrough is the support they're garnering from the laborers: fatter wages, shorter hours, and a safer work environment are potent incentives. Once they have a majority, they'll be able to dictate terms. The chem-barons can play ball, or risk a mass walkout.
Or a revolt.
If things go south, Silco can incite a riot with a snap of his fingers.
The news is encouraging. Silco feels a stirring of optimism, as rare as it is uncharacteristic. But the report isn't done yet. Singed's work on the F12 hothouse is proceeding at a brisk pace. Already, the preliminary results are promising. The plants have begun growing at twice the normal rate, and producing ten times the yield. The chemists are hard at work synthesizing the compound, and the chemtech labs are gearing up for mass production. By the month's end, the first produce will hit the shelves at the local grocers. The prices will be a little steep at the outset, but once the demand picks up, the margins will narrow. In the meantime, Silco will subsidize the cost for the bottom-dwellers. It won't be long until every household in Zaun has a steady supply of fresh fruit and vegetables on the table.
Even Sevika, with her inherent poker face, cracks a brief smile at the prospect.
The vaccine for Grey Lung, meanwhile, remains in the works. So far, the trials have met with mixed success. The side-effects are severe: nausea, vomiting, and in some cases, organ failure. But the majority of the subjects are responding well to the treatment. Those with a positive prognosis will receive the inoculations, and the others will be monitored for signs of deterioration. It's an imperfect solution, but it's a start. Once the kinks are ironed out, they'll be able to roll out the cure on a wider scale.
Beyond Zaun's shores, the waves are stirring. Zaun's Exploration & Survey Corps have nearly completed mapping out the Nautical Corridor between Bilgewater, Shurima and the Ionian strait. A port has already been constructed at Bilgewater's Leywood Port to accommodate their ships and the cargo. Another is being built on the island of Buhru. From there, the trade route will snake its way to the mainland: a path that will extend to the markets of Ixtal, Mudtown, and beyond.
Silco's ambition, predatorially instinctive, senses opportunity that spans past his original designs. The prospect of a direct link to Shurima, the Freljord, and the Ionian archipelagos is beyond tantalizing. The markets in those regions are untapped, and the demand for chemtech is high. The potential for profit is staggering. The potential to disseminate Shimmer, too, is substantial. With Noxus in the grip of internal strife, and its martial ambitions stymied, the door's open for a foothold on foreign soil. Zaun's dominion spreading outwards, like a spider's web.
A chance to repay old debts, in full.
For now, though, it's a matter of consolidating home territory. The next few months will be critical. The Expo's got the city seething and bubbling like a stewpot in the oven. Zaun is gearing up for the biggest spectacle of its short history, and one that promises to pay big: cash, connections, and clout. Naturally, the chem-barons are all jockeying for a piece of the pie. Sevika's got her ear to the ground: who's on the rise, who's on the take, who's ripe for a shakedown.
The Eye will need to keep a steady vigil in the coming days. The wrong move could blow the pot sky-high.
The crew, too, are eager to get their own inside track. Will there be a chance to mingle with the big guns in attendance? Who's the lucky bastard in charge of shepherding the Topside press? What's the word on the Peacekeeper Exchange Initiative and is it for real?
Silco takes their queries in stride. The answers he doles out answers in his own time. Yes: there will be opportunities galore. Yes: the press will have to be handled with care. And yes: the Peacekeeper initiative is very real, and a major step in Zaun's trajectory to a brighter future.
That last one's a tough pill for the crew to swallow. They've been on the receiving end of Topside's tender ministrations for too long to see their presence in a friendly light. But, to their credit, the crew take the news in stride. They're willing to play ball if it means the big score. The bottom-line's always been the bottom-line.
And the score is too sweet to pass up.
As supper winds down, the crew begin talking over each other, metaphorically swarming around the chum. Silco lets Sevika's matter-of-fact interjections keep their enthusiasm on a short leash, as he finishes off his whiskey. Despite the buoyant atmosphere, there's an aftertaste like sludge on his tongue. It's not the liquor: the batch's aged to perfection. It's not the news: it's all good. It's not the crew: they've done jobs well.
It's Jinx.
Holed up in her lab, burning the midnight oil. Same as every night.
Again, the inchworm of strain veins his temple.
Thou shalt not be derelict in thy duty.
It's not that he's not concerned for Jinx: he is. But he's also a realist: the girl's nature is as obsessive as it gets. The best way to keep her in line is to give her enough rope to hang herself. If she's determined to work herself to exhaustion, so be it. He can't force her to take a break. He can only trust that she'll come to her senses before it's too late.
That's what worries him the most. A sense that she's too close to the edge. That she's balanced on a cusp. That one wrong move will cost them both their city.
Cost Jinx her life.
Sipping, Silco watches the lamplight flicker from a variety of glassware, shadow and mirage merging in the cut-crystal prism of a whiskey glass. His crew, in the half-dark: a pack of wolves gnawing at bones. The Eye, a red moon, watching from above. And somewhere, the blue crown of Jinx's head as it bobs through the tables, the slanting lamp-rays catching a loose hair as it drifts off in the wake of her wanderings, falls into the dark, and is lost.
Zaun's manifesto made flesh, but a cipher in her own right.
"—sons of bitches sent one of their Shuriman financiers Down-Low," Lock is saying, disdain plain in the curled lip baring his metal-capped teeth. "Bastard got his ass blackballed after some scandal Up-Top. Something about a teenage girl. Can't remember the details. All I know is, he's got a taste for blue. You can smell it on him. The guy's a creep."
"—tattoos different on this batch of warmasons," Ran is saying, spinning a dinner knife between their fingers. "Roses in black. Not sure what it means. But you can bet your ass it means trouble."
"—not sure how long the peace will hold," Dustin is saying, gulping his whiskey. "There's been some grumbling from the old-timers. They're not happy about the Exchange Initiative. Think it's too cozy with Piltover. They're not wrong. But once the Expo's over, things will settle down."
Under the table, Sevika's knee touches his. A moment's connection in a lapse of dislocation. Her dark stare holds a message: the same one it always holds, when Silco's silence stretches too long.
You okay?
Silco gives her a single nod. A confirmation he's here, present, accounted for. Sevika's mouth quirks the response: You better be. Her knee withdraws, and the contact's lost.
But the tether, as ever, holds strong.
"I'm ready to call it a night," she says, shouldering back in her chair with that calculated grace she deploys to such deadly effect. "I've got a meeting with the chem-baroness at first light. That's not an audience I'm eager to keep waiting."
The cue's a command. She's ready to cut him some slack; in turn, he can cut the crew loose. They're riding high, and that's the time to let them go. They're also riding drunk: a state that loosens lips and inhibitions. Best to let them run wild, where they can chase their own tails in peace.
Impassive, Silco salutes them with his tumblr. The chatter dies down, and the crew raise their drinks in turn, with a precision of a firing squad: lock and load. Silco's voice, quiet, cuts through the din like a gunshot.
"To Zaun," he says. "And tomorrow, to the future."
The crew echo the sentiment. It's a ritual as old as time. As true as a promise inked in blood. Glasses are tipped back, and the liquor goes down in a single gulp. As Silco rises, the room does likewise. The scrape of chairs on concrete is loud enough to drown out the jukebox's brassy refrains. But they wait for his signal, patient as a pack of wolves on the hunt.
His nod's all they need.
The moment his footfalls fade, they scatter in all directions. Some of them head to the bar to get their fill. Others head to the gameroom for a round of darts or pool. The rest disappear into the night, eager for the next round of debauchery. They're a motley bunch, but they've got one thing in common: the thirst for a good time.
And in Zaun, a good time's never hard to find.
Silco's left to his solitude. That, he takes it in stride. He knows it won't last.
On silent feet, he crosses to the mezzanine. The stairwell door falls open at a soft click. Silco steps inside, and closes it behind him. There's no need to switch on the light: the ambient glow of the skyline suffices. He beelines to the roof-access ladder and climbs. The heavy trapdoor is unlocked. With a grunt, he hoists it open and slips out.
The night air ruffles his hair and stirs the ends of his coat. The cold feels good against his skin. Soft, smoky, ready to envelop him. The cityscape, in all its nocturnal glory, is a living aurora beneath the smog.
A city that's dragged itself from the maw of hell. That's survived a resurrection so horrific it's nearly unhinged the fabric of its being.
A city on the cusp of a deeper rebirthing.
Silco walks across the flat expanse of walkways toward the Aerie. The guards posted there do not salute: a courtesy reserved for one whose authority requires no confirmation. Their vigilant gazes, however, track him as he slips through the doors.
Inside, the Aerie is bathed in an otherworldly blue glow. Only a quarter of the lanterns are lit; all else is twilight. Silco's footsteps are a deliberate tread up the spiral staircase. He can easily climb to the top without making a sound; the noise is pure politeness.
He isn't expected.
The ascent is like a drift through memory. He thinks of the shock when Vi had hauled him from Jinx's aromatic little nest. The rage that wallops him with each remembered blow. Then—the gunshot, the standoff, the stillness.
And in the aftermath, Jinx's gut-stabbed sobs.
At the time, Silco hadn't believed there could be anything worse than the soundtrack of Jinx's pain. Since then, he'd had occasion to reconsider. The following days of silence, retreat, retribution. The slow death of hope. Then the squall of stolen joy, even if it came smeared in a dog's blood.
Silco's no stranger to subterfuge. But that doesn't make it any easier to make a home for the guilt in a body of flesh-and-bone. Or to swallow the bile that threatens to crawl back up his throat. He's always been the man who'll see the worst done, and done right. But that... that was a different level of abhorrence. Even by his standards.
Then again, when it comes to Jinx, is there any line he won't cross?
A price he'll pay for fatherhood.
At the top-floor, ambient music hangs like a cool spritz of mint. Usually, Jinx blasts punk epics through the speakers the size of shipping crates. Ballads full of yowling female rage, with poetry about disembowelment, dead cats, and getting dicked down by her Daddy.
Even in his most depraved nightmares, Silco would never dream of doing anything like that to Jinx. His only reaction when she first began playing these songs was to remark that they sounded a shade grating.
Pfft, Jinx scoffed. Shows what you know.
As it turns out, he was on to something. Ear-curdling death metal isn't very useful, Jinx has discovered, when she is trying to concentrate on old occult textbooks. Lately, she's all about pairing dark wave with electronica. The whispery arias reverberate off the Aerie's acoustics, undercut by the sharp precision of synths, in an atmosphere of trancelike calm.
Jinx is in the third-floor laboratory. She is perched crosslegged on a stool by the worktable. It is strewn with books, facedown with spines cracked, feathers jutting like bookmarks from their pages. Here and there, bottle-green dragonflies are scattered belly-up, legs curled as if in death throes.
The Hex-gem turns end-over-end in a makeshift gyroscope: a tiny blue star.
There are a dozen vials everywhere. The air is perfumed with a sweetish musk like distilled spirits. One by one, Jinx uncorks the vials and dips a swizzle stick into the contents, stirring. Carefully, she lets a pinch of liquid fall onto the gemstone. Each time, the stone sizzles. Electricity zigzags across its facets. The glow intensifies, changing colors across a spectrum of blues, purples, and greens.
Then the electricity winks out with the pungency of singed sugar.
Jinx scratches notations onto a notepad. She has a stack of pages already filled. The handwriting is a mad scribble. As if her thoughts are being sucked through the pen-nib at hyperspeed, and she can barely keep up with the next epiphany.
"Huh," she says, "so it's got to be something with an acidic pH. Probably a protein-based compound. What else has an acidic pH? Pee? Eww. Maybe a few drops. Or else the protein-binding will make the whole thing go splat." She giggles, a little off-kilter, then stops. "Focus. Not pee. What else? I need some kinda catalyst. What d'you think, Spark-o?"
Magnus lays belly-up on the floor. The tail gives a lazy wag.
"You're right. Pee's no good. How about spit? We've got enough of that between us, right?" Another off-kilter giggle. "But no. It's gotta be something pure. Not too strong. Not too weak. Just enough to jumpstart the engine. What if we tried—" The rest is an inaudible spillover as she mixes another sample onto the Hex-gem, which reacts with a violent hiss. Her head jerks back from the smoke. "Yikes. Too much. Too much. Steady on."
She drags a hand through her hair, folded into a greasy bandana. A few strands, clumped together, stick out like quills. Even from the distance, Silco catches the whiff of paint and turpentine. The odor is not new: he's been smelling it since Jinx first crashed into his life and made it her personal mission to plaster it with pigment.
Now the intensity is off the charts. She smells like a walking chemical factory. But her eyes, beneath the dark scrim of lashes, are focused as laserbeams.
"Maybe a carb is the way to go?" she whispers. "Sugar and spice. Everythin' nice. That's what good boys are made of. So why not bad boys, too?" She lifts one of the dragonflies from the worktable. The wing touches her lower lip. "Question is, what's the right combo? And how much? A little bit and he doesn't bite. Too much, and whoosh! I'm puckerin' for the kiss of death."
Her voice catches, and her face shifts. The expression is both tender and pained. It's the same way someone would look if they were nursing a phantom toothache.
Or picturing a stranger's mouth fitting over theirs.
Silco says, "Jinx."
Magnus' ears prick—just as Jinx's own preternatural senses ping. She swivels in her stool. The dragonfly clatters to the table.
"Wha—! Oh."
"I thought you'd gone to bed, child."
"I, um—" Raking a hand through her dangling hair, Jinx sweeps the pile of glittering dragonflies into a drawer and slams it shut. "—I musta lost track of time."
"So I see."
Silco edges closer. Jinx's face is pale in the artificial light. Her eyes have a sheen like a coin flipped: heads, tails.
His skin crawls with the eerie familiarity of it. He's seen that look before: his own reflection in the mirror. It is the moment before he transitions from one persona to another. An unearthly doubling, where it's impossible to tell where the truth ends and the lie begins.
Then Jinx blinks, and the mirage is gone.
"You shoulda called ahead," she says, a tiny note of reproach. "You mighta caught me in the bath."
"You could use one."
"'M serious." She knuckles the grit from her eye. "I know you got a spare keycard, and all. Just next time, gimme a heads' up."
"I only wanted to see if you'd turned in."
"You wanted to make sure I haven't lost my shit," Jinx rebuts, a little sharply. "That's cool. I'm still on probation, aren't I? Crazypants might relapse. Gotta watch her every move or else she'll muck the whole thing up. Name, nature."
Silco's inward wince expresses itself as a mere constriction of his good eye. Conversation between them has resumed its rapidfire cadences. But lately Jinx has been doling out more than her usual share of barbs. Part of it is the intense pressure of her new project—and her pride, that hinges so utterly on its success.
The rest, he knows, is Vi's reappearance.
Since that night, Jinx has lapsed into a hypervigilant fugue. She refuses to speak of her sister, or acknowledge her by name. But her eyes are always searching. Her senses, always straining. The uptick in energy is a byproduct of her spiraling anxiety: a need to fill every waking second with frenetic motion. A need to prove her sanity, her worth, her very existence.
And yet, the higher she soars, the more she risks a speedy, clipped-wing plunge.
Lashing out is one of her few semblances of control. The triggers are simple enough to decode: her Aerie is sacrosanct. It is also the site of recent crime scene: trespass, assault, resurrected trauma. Small wonder she is so vigilant about preserving her privacy.
"Forgive me," Silco says. "I only came because I saw your schematics. It's brilliant work. Truly."
"It's unfinished work," Jinx corrects, but her anger dissolves in a churlish slouch. "It's gonna take a ton more research before I can finalize everything. And I've still gotta find a way to stabilize the energies with the right runes. It's a tricky balance. If the flow's too weak, it'll take all the livelong day to power a single turbine. Too strong, and half the city block goes kablooey."
"You'll find a way."
"I'm trying."
"If you'd rather I leave..."
"No, that's not—" Her sigh is dog-tired. But her little fingers hook into his shirtsleeve. "I just need a little space, okay? This stuff takes concentration. An' I can't concentrate if you're turning up at weird bells like the bad penny. It throws me off. I get distracted, an' the numbers stop adding up. You wouldn't like what happens when they do."
Her head droops, and Silco wants to touch the tender exposed nape of her neck. But Jinx is still skittish, and physical intimacy is a string trembling taut between them.
It wouldn't do to yank.
Instead, he says, "Sometimes, when I'm close to breakthrough on a business deal, I'll lock myself in the office, and let nothing in or out. Except drinks. Then I'll sit and wait for the answer to come. And you know what comes?"
Sullen, Jinx says, "The scheme of a lifetime?"
"A hangover."
Jinx's chin lifts, and their eyes meet. A pair of crooked little smiles sneak out in a matched set. Just like that, Silco feels their connection solidify: vital as the first spark of lightning.
Relaxing, Jinx tugs him closer. Her cheek nestles, comfortably, against the tweed flatness of his vest. Daring, Silco encircles her shoulders, and squeezes. A fortnight ago, he wouldn't have tried. A fortnight ago, Jinx would have flinched, or worse.
Things are different now. They are different.
Again, Silco has a sense of a cusp. In his bones, he feels the shift. In his gut, he knows Jinx does, too. Somehow, their bond is a part of it. A fragment of a greater plan that's being played out—before their eyes and yet beyond their control.
The only question is: will they be better off for it, or worse?
Jinx's eyes flutter shut.
"I don't have a hangover," she says. "There's no booze. Just the brain juice sloshin' in the old noggin. But that's all it's doing, y'know? Just sloshin' around. Doesn't want to settle."
"Sometimes, the best way to settle is through silence." He rubs his palm along that perfectly-suited spot between her shoulderblades. It feels good to be able to do so again. "Turn your brain off. Let it recharge. The answers will come."
"I would, if I could sleep." Jinx's head lolls. "But everytime I try, the world goes wonky."
"Wonky?"
She makes a little swirling gesture with her finger. "It's like... the walls turn into tunnels. And they're fulla things. Not things of this place, but things that've been here before. Before this place was a place. I try to touch 'em, but it's like learning to swim through oil. Everything gets stuck, and the more I struggle, the less I can move. My chest gets all tight, and my lungs start to burn, and I have to open my eyes or else I'll drown."
"I can talk to the Doctor. Prescribe something for rest."
"Ugh! You and your prescriptions! I don't need drugs. I need to focus. And I can't focus if I'm tripping on some weirdo cocktail. That'd make the monkey on my back do an electric boogaloo." Sulky, she burrows closer. "I'm just not there, yet."
"There, where?"
"Just thinkin' out loud."
"Think aloud with me. Where is 'there?'"
"It's..." Jinx's head tips, and her eyes meet his. There's a glaze to them: not of dreamland, but the nascent glow of epiphany. "It's a place. Not out there, but in me. Like there's a hook inside my mind, and I'm caught, and it's dragging me to where I need to go. I can feel it. I know it. It's right there, inside my reach. If only I could hold on, and follow, and—" She shivers. "It's so close, Silco."
Her stare passes from him to the Hex-gem. It spins in the gyroscope, a slow-motion nebula. Jinx's eyes follow it. There is a sudden stillness about her: a breathless suspension. The chemical paint-fug pouring off her is strong. Beneath is something new: a feral, organic ripeness. Animal, almost.
It reminds Silco, disturbingly, of the dancefloor at the Last Drop.
He'd always hated the musk that boiled through the vents whenever the club was jam-packed. The reek of sweat, body fluids, and pheromones: a heady stench of humanity distilled with the base ingredients of a slaughterhouse. He'd hated it more when Jinx would spend the night spinning like a top in the overheated heart of the crowd. By the end, the smell would cling to her like a second skin. The smell, and the sense of fingerprints—alien, unwanted, everywhere.
He'd never cared to ask who'd danced with her. How many. How often. It was too dangerous. The urge to rip the culprits' throats: too visceral.
Inexplicably, the urge returns.
Silco lays a palm on Jinx's nape. Pinches—hard.
With a meeep! Jinx starts. Her eyes are her own again. The scent leaching from her pores is no more than the ordinary odor of grubby girlflesh. Whatever the fuck it was has disappeared.
"Ow!" She rubs the nape. "What was that for?"
"I thought I saw a tick." Silco thumb traces the curve of her nape. "My mistake."
"Tick. Pfft. Try a scorpion." Her eyes narrow, a little slant. "Or was that a sneak-attack?"
"More like a warning."
"For?"
"For thinking too much. You've been working nonstop. I'm declaring a mandatory break."
"Yeah?"
"Hm."
Her chin tips: half-challenge. "And what's my incentive, Mister?"
"Guess."
Jinx's eyes crinkle. The old curiosity creeps in. Then: a gasp. "Is it—?"
"That's right."
From his coat, Silco withdraws a pink paper bag. The delicious waft of chocolate suffuses the air. It is like a coin dropped into a wishing well. A ripple of surprise, and the gloom lifts. Jinx's eyes take on that familiar magpie's sparkle.
"From Vairea's stall?" she asks.
"Hm."
"With caramel center?"
"Of course."
"Gimme!"
She snatches the gift with grabby little hands. Within moments, the parcel is ripped open and her cheeks are crammed.
"Mmmmrrrr. Glitter's cherries are the best. Bar none." She throws her hands into the air, an excited ramble that rivals her spiritus movens on structural engineering. "They're just the right mix of crunchy and squishy. Then they crack in your mouth and the caramel just oozes out. Like, really—ooooozes. Ya get the whole flavor profile in each bite."
"Hm."
He ought to tell Jinx that she isn't endearing when speaks with her mouth full. He doesn't. Multiplication tables, pirate chanties, magic incantations. He adores every sound that bubbles from that throat.
Well.
Almost every.
("LiarLiarLiarLIARLIAR!")
Magnus, intrigued by the soundtrack of gluttony, pads over to Jinx's stool. His snout prods her leg. Licking her fingers, Jinx drops a fistful of cherries between the massive jaws. They snap shut inches from her playful fingers. Magnus settles back into the shadows, sated.
"You spoil the wretch," Silco says.
"Don't be jealous."
"Merely a warning."
"Meh. The big guy's earned his keep." She yawns and stretches, before darting a quick sniff at the sleeve of her jacket. "Urgh. I am ripe. Guess that bath's overdue."
Silco begins to withdraw. "I'll leave you to it."
"Wait." Her fingers hook into his shirtsleeve again. "Can—can you stay?"
"Stay?"
"I was workin' on the mural. My hair's pretty gummed up."
"Show me."
The bandana unwinds from her head. The blue shock of hair is matted into a spiky rat's nest. The smell of turpentine, paint, and unwashed urchin is an olfactory knockout. Silco's nostrils smart. But Jinx's look of hopeful expectation makes it difficult to refuse.
His child, a creature of stubborn self-reliance, seldom asks for assistance with such matters. Not since her first days in his care.
She'd been so shy and uncertain then. So afraid to trust, or to let herself need. Their hair-braiding ritual had blossomed, gradually, from the seeds of her tentative trust. And her transformation, after she'd chopped off her lovely locks, was a reminder that even the most enduring routines couldn't last forever.
Now, she is asking to resume it. Or... to reinvent it into something else. As the rest of them is: slowly, surely, inevitably.
Again, Silco feels himself on the cusp of strangeness. And the same old certainty.
"Of course."
In Jinx's smile, he sees a reflection of his own relief.
Downstairs, in her little bower, she drags out the copper tub. He listens, behind the folding screen, to her splashing quietly, and singing under her breath: The Wave-Soaked Maiden, a ditty she'd outgrown years ago. He takes it as a sign that she's in need of more cosseting than teenaged pride will allow her to admit. The waft of candied cherry, and the sweetness of her croaky little soprano, are a balm to his own frayed nerves.
Then Jinx calls, "You can come in."
"Do you—not want to get dressed, first?"
"Pft. What's the point? It's nothing you ain't seen before."
"It hardly warrants revisiting."
"Gee. What a sweet thing to say. Besides..." The water sloshes as she settles. "I'm bubbled up to the gills. I've even got ol' Sharkie to play chaperone."
Silco hesitates. A week ago, she'd leapt from his touch like a scalded cat. Now, she is inviting him to do her hair while she sits bare-arsed in the tub. In what universe is this a logical progression? Then it hits. A universe where Jinx, too long at the mercy of the fates, is trying to call the shots.
And a universe where the fates, too long at the mercy of one jinx, are scrambling to keep up.
"Are you certain?"
"C'moooon! Before I go all prune-y!"
Silco parts the screen. Jinx is, indeed, modestly submerged up to her chin in fizzing bubbles. A toy shark bobs like a buoy at her feet. A comb, scissors, and small bottles of oils are already set out, waiting. Silco approaches sideways, and settles on the rim of the tub. Her hair, deep indigo like Lika's when wet, floats on the water's surface like the trailing end of a jellyfish. It has already grown down to her shoulders.
"Do you want a trim?" he asks.
"Just a little off the edges. And the split ends. They're driving me crazy."
"All right. Close your eyes."
Silco slathers a liberal dollop of oil onto his palms. Methodically, he works it into her scalp. Jinx sits hugging her drawn-up knees, her skull lolling between them. She sighs, eyelids drooping as she yields to the expert kneading.
Silco takes his time, massaging the paint residue from her scalp, before he applies the comb. The tines snag, once, twice. But the third time is the charm. The bristles glide, smooth as silk. He is careful not to tug too hard: Jinx's hair is fine as spun glass.
Sense-memory blossoms. The first time he'd ever washed her hair out. An accident at the pier: a tar-stained spill, and an unfortunate tumble into muck. Jinx, wailing afterward as the black goo hardened into a crust. Twelve years old, and possessing that natural adolescent sensitivity about her looks. She'd just begun braiding her hair in its signature style. She dreaded that the locks were unsalvageable.
Sevika's suggestion that they buzz it off, like at Stillwater, hadn't helped.
The only option was for Silco to take Jinx home. In an improvised act of generosity, he'd offered to scrub her clean. He remembers she'd sat in the tub, in a pose just like this. Shivering, because the water was ice-cold, but too proud to show weakness. Her body, layered in a tar-streaked tank and shorts, and riven with gooseflesh, was fragile as a baby bird's.
She'd been young for her age in many ways to begin with: most of her peers in the Lanes were already growing curves and cracking puberty like a whip to keep the boys in line. Jinx remained an eternal sprite: child-shaped and confoundingly innocent despite everything she'd endured.
Silco remembers kneeling by the tub, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Three jars of vegetable oil, costly as liquid gold, were lined up on the ledge. Three hours of scraping the filth away, while Jinx sat in lip-bitten martyrdom, and his back screamed from the strain.
It was, in every conceivable sense, tedious. Beneath his dignity, and a waste of time.
And yet, somehow, a necessity.
It was the first time he'd ever touched Jinx for such a sustained period of time. The first time he'd noticed her ears: delicate shells, like a sundial's shadow, and the little divots in her lobes where she'd recently had them pierced. The first time he'd noticed beads of vertebrae peeking like pearls from her nape down to her spine: a smooth line that telegraphed her every shudder. The first time he'd seen the scars, a pattern of tiny crosshatched seams on underfed young skin. The map of a girl's meandering journey toward adulthood, and all its attendant complexities.
A reminder, that in the Undercity, nobody stayed innocent for long.
In that moment, Silco felt the fullness of her fragility, and how much he wanted to safeguard it. The impulse defied logic. Eclipsed even his instinct for survival. YEt there it was: in the flesh. Jinx's flesh, and in the sheen of her hair, bluer and bluer with every rinse. By the third wash, the tar was gone. Her hair gleamed with a freshness that made Silco think of the Pilt in spring.
The clean-up cracked Jinx's shell. By the time he'd enfolded her in a towel, and hauled her shivering body from the tub, she was spilling over with glee. Her gratitude was a blossom unfurling. He'd never seen her smile so wide. For a moment, fragments of older memory intruded. Another life, another girl-child: red hair, blue eyes, and a smile so fierce it outstripped the sun.
Then Silco blinked, and Jinx's face was all he could see.
The girl who'd chosen him, and is choosing him again.
Washing out the oil, he follows up with the shampoo. Once every strand is thoroughly saturated, he begins to untangle the snarls. A dousing of cold water follows, before the scissors are surrendered to his slow and deliberate deadheading.
It's a time-consuming process. Of course it is, when it comes to Jinx's hair. Silco has always accorded it the respect due a living entity.
Once her shield, now her crown. Once a talisman; now his treasure.
"There," he says, setting the scissors down. Tiny blue cuttings float like kelp in the bubbles. "Now you resemble a more respectable breed of urchin."
"There's a respectable breed?"
"The bohemians, I believe, straddle a line between penury and privilege."
"I'd rather be a punk."
Silco hides a grin. There's his girl.
Passing over a small mirror, he lets her study the results. It's not quite the Hellion Cut of old; more a tousled gamine that flirts, subtly, with a more grown-up elegance. Jinx's silence is inscrutable as she studies her reflection.
"Do you like it?" Silco asks.
"It's nice. Nicer." Her fingertips play with the damp strands. "Not as cool as a bob, but maybe it's better this way."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. New hair. New me." A beat. "Maybe I'll go even bigger next time."
"Bigger, how?"
"Dunno. Maybe a buzzcut."
Silco can't conceal the spasm of dismay. "A buzzcut?"
"And maybe I'll grow out my eyebrows like antennae. Y'know. Embrace the freak factor. Jinx the Jitterbug. What d'you think?"
"I—" He catches the beginnings of her impish smile, and subsides into a scowl. "That's not funny."
Jinx's jag of laughter echoes off the Aerie's steel rafters. Her hands come up, submerged in the tub, to crown him in a garland of bubbles.
"Poor Silly. You shoulda seen your face. You looked like you'd just swallowed a live toad."
"Stop that." He swipes the bubbles from his hair. "You're making a mess."
"Awww. Lighten up. It was only a joke."
"Bathtime is concluded."
"Okay, okay. No buzzcut. How 'bout a perm?"
"No."
She laughs again. But the ritual, the ribbing, the repose: it stirs an olio of familiarity. Silco can't help but feel as if a page has been turned. So much, still, remains unwritten. And yet, he has faith that the right words will come. He and Jinx will unfold the next chapter in their story. They will write the ending.
Together.
Withdrawing, he listens to Jinx splashing out the bath. When she reemerges, folded in her favorite fuzzy pink-striped robe, she looks different. Less on edge, if not at ease. He watches her, perched on the stool of the little kitchenette, devour the remaining cherries, then top it off with a mug of hot chocolate. Magnus is sprawled, belly-up, by her feet; idly, she kneads his fur with one pale toe. The easy domesticity of the mise-en-scene is nearly natural.
Except, in her eyes, the coins are flipping again: heads, tails, heads. He has the sense of a question, poised on the precipice. Her hesitation, before the toss.
Then:
"Why didn't you tell me?" Jinx says, quietly.
"Tell you?"
"About her." Vi, she means. "Did you really think I was that stupid?"
The answer is a resounding yes. Silco can't think of anything less stupid than trusting Jinx with the truth. But it's also no, a thousand times over. Jinx has always been too clever— too intuitive— for her own good. But her blind spot—Vi—is a crutch she's never quite outgrown. All her gifts for subtlety devolve into a child's maze of make-believe, where monsters are slain, and princesses are crowned. A world where good is good and evil is evil and a lie is never the twain of both.
Except the world is no fairytale.
The only monsters worth slaying are the ones with the biggest teeth. And the only lies worth swallowing are the ones that keep you alive.
"It wasn't a matter of intelligence, Jinx," he says.
"What then? Pity?"
He shakes his head. The heat of her scrutiny reheats the guilt back into a scorcher. How to explain, when everything he's done—his greatest failures as a leader and his most abject cruelties as a father—have been for her sake? Even if he did not know it at the time. Even if it has taken a lifetime's mistakes, a thousand monstrosities, to parse out his own motivations.
Even if his love is an act of violence.
The last thing he wants is to break her between its jaws. And yet—selfish, selfless—he can't let her go. Because the world is no fairytale, and he remains what he's always been: the biggest monster of all. She is his glittering hoard, his bluest treasure, and what monster shares his spoils? What gambler squanders his lucky strike? What father gives up his flesh and blood?
Especially if the price is this: Jinx sprawled on the Bridge, oozing blood.
"Not pity," he says. "Never that."
"Then why the lies?"
Silco looks down at his hands, resting on his thighs. Hands that have seen days of dirty work: the blood of a dozen barroom brawls, the grime of a thousand axe-swings, the ink of a million black market deals. A lifetime of bad business, down to the bone. The scars and calluses are a language all their own. And the language says: unclean, unclean, unclean.
Then Jinx lays her own slender white fingers over his own. The dirty work is nothing to her: all that matters is his hands on hers.
A touch says: I forgive, I love, I need.
Gently, Silco curls his fingers through hers.
"Because it felt easier this way," he says.
"Easier for who?" The brightness of her eyes goes blistering. "You, or for me?"
"I'm sorry."
"Forget it. I'm sick of hearing sorry. I want the truth."
"Truth's a slippery blade, Jinx. It slips through the fingers and guts you as it goes."
"Then what's the point of trying to hold onto it?"
Silco is quiet. She's right, of course. But that doesn't make the telling less excruciating.
"The truth is... after Vi left, the last time, I wasn't certain. Of how you'd react. Or what you'd do. She'd hurt you. Badly. In ways I couldn't understand. But she's still your sister. I knew it'd cause you pain to see her again. To know, whatever her rationale, that she'd chosen to work with Enforcers, and turn her back on everything we'd suffered."
He looks away. The past is a dark, shifting sea, and he is still treading water.
"You've endured so much, Jinx. You've sacrificed more than any child should. I couldn't trust her not to hurt you again. So, I took measures. I did what I must, to keep you out of harm's way. It wasn't enough, but— "
"You're still lying," Jinx says flatly.
"What?"
"If you were trying to keep me safe, you wouldn't bother with any of that. You wouldn't need to. Because she'd be dead."
"Jinx..."
She nixes him with a headshake. Tears, glimmering, streak her cheeks. "I know you, remember? You don't stop at a threat, or a warning shot. You'd kill her. Like you killed Vander. Like you've killed anyone who's taken from us. Who's stood in Zaun's way. You'd kill her, and that'd be that."
There is a fatalistic finality to her words, and Silco feels the room, the whole world, slide sideways. Jinx's hand on his is the only anchor.
"Yes," he manages. "I would."
"So why didn't you?"
"Because I need her alive."
"I— "
The penny drops, and Jinx's voice dies. Her fingers, on his, tremble.
"Things are different," Silco says, "now that Zaun is in motion. We're no longer a nation of rabble, but a city of industry. The new order isn't built on violence, Jinx. It's built on leverage. The Council can't deny our existence anymore. But they can certainly plant obstacles in our way. Stall our momentum before we've had a chance to move forward."
"Through Vi," Jinx says.
"She's the one loose end they can use as a lynchpin. Their connection to our world, and their means of destabilizing it." He lays his other hand, with deliberate care, against her cheek. "That was why I needed to deal with her in private. To use her, in whatever capacity, to further our agenda. She is a threat to you, Jinx. The greatest of them all. But she's also Vander's girl. His legacy. That alone made her useful. I couldn't let her go."
"So you tried using her as a chesspiece. Even if it blew up in your face."
"Even so."
"Because you wanted the upper-hand."
"Because I can't lose you. Not again."
The muscle of her jaw goes knotted under his thumb. A tear splashes, cool, onto his knuckles. But Jinx's stare holds an alien intensity: those coins spinning clockwise in her eyes, heads, tails, heads. As if she is weighing his fate, and her judgment is the fatal throw.
"I'm not a child," she says. "I don't need you to protect me."
"But you are. And I do."
"Because I belong to you."
That word again. Belong. His grip tightens on her hand.
"Because we're family," he says. "Always."
The coin drops. The eyes settle.
"Always," Jinx echoes. "Even if you're a jackass about it."
"Especially if."
Her mouth shapes a raw little smile. Silco finds his own lips are doing something similar. Then her hand breaks free, and her arms are around him, and the embrace is fierce as absolution. All the air goes out of Silco's lungs. Jinx, in his arms, eleven again: a bundle of fragile bones and a savagely beating heart.
"Yours," she breathes, "to the moon and back."
"To a thousand hells beyond."
Silco closes his good eye. Jinx's hair, the clean fragrance of candied cherry, is an old friend. The mystifying musk from earlier is long gone. But the ripeness lingers. The same animal alertness awakens inside him. The instinctual bristle of threat. But this time, he feels readier to name the source.
Nothing more—nothing less—than Jinx's own blossoming claws.
"I can't sleep," she confesses, hoarsely. "Not since she's come back. Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Standing over me. Judging me. Hating me." She burrows closer. "Hating what I've become."
"You've nothing to be ashamed of, Jinx."
"I know that. It's just—" Her voice quavers. "—soon as I saw her, I remembered everything else. How she left me. How she picked that stupid Topsider over me. How she promised me the world, but in the end all she cared about was herself." The quaver deepens into a sob. "She never loved me. Not like you. Nobody does."
"Nobody will ever love you like I do, Jinx." His breath ghosts her ear. "But it's time you let go."
"Let go?"
"Stop giving her a place in your head. Stop letting her voice drown out your own."
"I was trying!" Her hands fist his lapels. "I was trying so hard! I didn't ask her to come back. I didn't want her to! Why didn't she understand? All I wanted was the future! You and me, and Sparky, and a world that was Zaun's. I thought, maybe, if I tried hard enough, and got Gemmie to shine, then I'd need nothin' else. She could have Topside and I could have us, and we'd go on." Her little fists tremble. "Why wasn't that enough?"
"There's no answer to that, Jinx. You'll be chasing ghosts, if you try to make one." He cups her cheek, thumbing away the tears. "Vi's choices have hurt you. I've hurt you. You deserve better. You deserve a chance to build the future you want. And I will do everything in my power to give it to you."
"My future," she repeats, as if sounding the words over, a meaningless memetic.
"Your future," Silco asserts. "You've gone through hell—and come back stronger. You've already gone farther than anyone could ask of you."
Jinx raises a hand to her mouth, gnawing feverishly at her pinkie nail. Just as abruptly, she stops. "I'm still not there. Not by half."
"You will be. You've accomplished so much. In time, you'll go farther still. You'll move forward."
Jinx shuts her pink-rimmed eyes. "...but never forget."
"Never. But don't let it chain you. Use it to strengthen yourself."
"And then what?" A brittle laugh. "Live happily ever after?"
"That is for you to choose."
Jinx snorts. And, because she is teary, ends up spraying snot onto her lips. With an irritable grunt, she saws her wrist under her nose. Silco proffers her handkerchief from his waistcoat. She accepts it, blowing with a sniffling slurp. Then, almost primly, she hands it back. He's not offended; he's had a lifetime of mopping up after her meltdowns.
The tears are like her trust: a precious, messy gift.
"My choice," she repeats. "That's the part Vi doesn't get, does she? I'm not the scared kid she left behind. I'm not. But she won't stop until she makes me one again. That's why I gotta shine. No matter the cost. I won't let her drag me down." Her nails sink into his chest. "Not when I'm so close."
"Close?"
"Ssh." Her palm covers his heart. "You'll see."
"See?"
She dares a stage-struck peek at him through her hair. Her face is still a tear-glossed mess. But the eyes hold a manic flame completely unlike her usual ferocity. Dozens of times he has beheld her every day for the past seven years. But now it's as if the scattershot particles are cohering into full-blown reality.
New shadows. New secrets. New selves.
And his own imprint upon them: a living brand.
"Do you..." Silco unhands her shoulder, regarding her closely. "...do you have something to show me, Jinx?"
"What d'you think?"
"Is it a prototype of the Hex-turbines?"
Coyly, she finesses with a stand of damp hair. "Maaaaybe."
Silco's head cocks. A slow smile spreads on his face.
"You little—! You've completed them already?"
"Just last night."
"But all that talk of unfinished work. Stabilizing energies. Kablooey and kibosh, etcetera..."
"Awww. That's what I like about you, Silly. You always listen to what I say." With a fey lightness, she leaps off her stool. Takes his hand in both of hers, tugging. "Anyway, I was tellin' the truth. The energies are far from stable. But I wasn't talkin' about the turbines."
"What then?"
In reply, she tugs again. The warmth of her two hands is a circuit all the way to his blackened heart.
Silco allows her to lead him up to the staircase to the top floor. The spy-post. Magnus, trotting behind, lets off an excited yip. The space is lit with a single lantern. All else is dark save for the shimmer-studded neon peeking through the skylight. The giant brass telescope sits at its usual spot like a hulking sentry.
Its crystal eyepiece reflects the city with its silent, cold regard.
Jinx's mural, covered beneath its tin screen, has been dragged from her atelier to keep the spyglass company. It is positioned before the floor-to-ceiling windows. The metal screen is still half-folded. Silco glimpses, in the gap, a patchwork of colors that resembles nature's diagrams in their wildest inklings.
A whorl of cerulean. A ripple of violet. A plume of pink.
The closer Silco looks, the more they seem... alive. The impression is of a dream-state: the fugues Jinx slips into whenever she is working. A space where time is fluid, and reality can be twisted it into the shape that best pleases.
A place where magic is born.
Jinx guides him to the mural. The night, stretching its arms, is reflected across the metal: a glittering inkwell.
Stopping by the edge, she swivels to face him. "Ready?"
Silco nods.
She tugs the screen away. The mural, bathed in secondhand neon, is exposed. Now Silco understands what he'd glimpsed earlier. The dimensions are unmistakable. Not a patchwork, but a city.
A map of Zaun.
Silco's eyes pass up and down the mural. The perspective is a mandala framed in bird's eye view: layers upon layers piled atop each other. But the depth, the density, is all true to scale. This is no impressionistic reimagining. It is a painstakingly precise replica spanning all three districts: the Sumps, Entresol, the Promenade.
At the mandala's edges, he sees the nearly fleshly decay of the Deadlands in heavily textured in granules of black and gray, like a pall of incinerated carbons. He sees the mines at the bowels of the Oshra Va'Zaun: blots of dramatic black and sulfuric yellow, their seams spreading through the terrain like the tentacles of a giant squid. He sees the Lanes, vast sloping landscapes practically pungent with gritty brown and burnt sienna, the tenements' southern extremes fading into the greenish-brown of the sludge-pits. He sees the Treatment Stump, in a palette of emerald, slate, and a deep blue, etched into a brutalist gridwork of concrete and steel. Then, the Skylight Commercia, its great glass dome like a bubble of fat floating in a sleek, blue-gray soup, the crystal obelisk a silvery stalagmite piercing the surface.
Beyond the mandala, straddling the divide between Topside and Zaun, is the Pilt. It is an undulating serpent of blue cascading into the murky greys and noxious browns as it sluices past the former Bridge. Every riverway and canal is an arterial path in the city's circulatory system, the veins and capillaries threaded into a vast lattice that sums up the city's pulsating, livewire heart.
The detail is not only devoted to the waterways. It is also in the architecture. He can pick out the exact dimensions of beloved landmarks. The wharves at the Riverside Harbor slotted neatly into the shoreline. The spire of the Old Hungry clocktower, like a needle, piercing the sky. The twin stacks of the Factorywood's most massive chimneys, and, far away, Dredge prison as a massive black smear, like the footprint of a giant. His headquarters, a many-turreted citadel, loom over the eastern edge of the river. And adjacent, like a crow's nest on a pirate ship, the Aerie, its skylight brilliant blue.
Silco, who knows every inch of the Fissures by heart, can spot no discrepancies. Everything is true to the millimeter. The city's anatomy is laid bare in a way that's both alien and awe-inspiring. It is, as if, Zaun is a living organism. And the mandala a blueprint of its internal wiring.A diagram of its soul.
Pentimento.
"This..." Silco breathes. "It's..."
"Not finished," Jinx interrupts. She points a finger to a blank space at the bottom: the deep-south quadrant of the old Oshra Va' Zaun tunnels. The place rumored to roost the Firelights. "I'll need to get closer to this zone. Take more measurements. Figure out the scale. And this part here—" Her finger jabs at the Pilt, at the basin between the Deadlands and a buncha mining settlements. "—it's a mess. Can't make out the rocks from the rubble. I'll have to figure out a way around it. Probably a drone. Or a remote-control boat. Maybe both." With a crooked finger, she taps her cheek, a gesture identical to Silco's own, and a fondness wells up in him. "Anyhow, this isn't about the city's landmarks. It's about the veins beneath. The lifeblood of Zaun. See?"
Silco follows her little poniard of a finger. It zigzags a line: a vein of emerald green. It's one of many. All throughout the city are a series of colorful webs, as if someone has injected a syringeful of ink into the skin of the city. Red, gold, purple, green, blue. They don't correspond with any canal or waterway. Some are interspersed. Others cross. A few cut straight through buildings or even roads.
In the upper levels, they're mere threads. In the lower levels, they are a complex network. Each one merges, at strategic spots, at a circular juncture. Like a node. They vary in size. But each one is stamped with a unique symbol. Some are replicas from the occult texts: a hexagon, a crescent moon, an arrow. Others are unfamiliar. A paw-print. An hourglass. A gear. A few aren't symbols at all, but sticky-notes with question-marks: spots where Jinx has failed to decipher the runes.
The largest node is deep in the sunken bowels of the Deadlands. It is a veritable behemoth, shaped like a wagon-wheel. The gyre, he realizes, from which form all the veins spiral, no different than a conch shell.
At its nexus, the colors merge into one. A single, vibrant color.
Blue.
And there, Jinx has etched a symbol: XOXO.
"Sweet Kindred," Silco says. "This is it, isn't it? Your repository of runes."
Jinx's eyes are luminous. She nods.
"But if the map's incomplete..."
"Then so is the knowledge. There's still a bunch of runes I'm missing. But there's a pattern coming together. You see it, don't you?" She traces a spiral through the mandala. "The layout of each rune is sequential. Like Fibonacci. It's a perfect system. Each rune's connected to the next, and the one after that, by the leylines. The whole city's a fractal. Or a crystal. A really, really, really big crystal."
The hair bristles on the nape of Silco's neck.
He takes in the runes again, one by one. The incongruities—the hourglass, the gear, the paw-print—leap out at him.
"The symbols," he says. "What are they? These aren't any runes I ken."
"They're mine. A code." Her smile is a little abashed. "The old runes in those spots were all screwed. Demolished, or eroded over, or just gone. I made these ones up. To fill in the blanks. Runes are symbols of power, but not all symbols are runes. The difference is the meaning behind them."
"Meaning?"
"The story they tell."
Silco frowns. "I don't follow."
Jinx saws a hand under her nose: a girlhood gesture that presages a technical spiel. Silco braces himself.
"Magic's a lot like quantum algebra. In the quantum world, things aren't solid. They're kinda—fuzzy-wuzzy. Everything's particles and waves and probabilities. There's no set order. 'Cause nothing exists to order yet. But! If you know the right way to phrase the right question, then you can get the right answer. Like, 'if I don't know the value of X, I'll substitute it for Y.' It's not the X that's important, but the space X takes up.'"
"So your symbols are variables. What matters is their potential."
"Exactly!" A winsome wink. "That's the beauty of math. It doesn't lie. It only shows you what's missing. And what's missing can be substituted with what is. In this case, runes. I don't have the full map, but I know the sequence of the spaces. I can fill them in with my own made-up symbols. It's a meta-language of memory that magic understands. The only place I can't substitute the made-up runes is at the five main glyphs. The hubs that connect all the leylines, and where the energy intersects."
"Hubs... "
Silco looks again at the incoherent rainbow of whorls and webs. There are five distinct hubs, and he memorizes them. One at the Bridge: a red three-pronged glyph. One at the old Cannery: a jagged purple diamond. One at the Treatment Stump: four vertical lines with an arrow-shaped base in green. One at the old Abattoir: a three-star cluster of gold. The leylines, in the same color, sprout from their nuclei like capillary veins.
But the fifth, the big blue hub in the Deadlands, has no glyph. No ley lines. No landmarks.
Only Jinx's familiar scribble: XOXO.
"One is missing," he says.
"The Blue Chip. Yeah. No idea what the glyph is, or where exactly it's located. The X'ers couldn't find anything at the Deadlands. The books didn't cough up anything. So, my li'l placeholder: XOXO. My special kiss." Jinx tucks her hands behind her back, rocking back on her heels. The nonchalance is cultivated; underneath, she's a soda can ready to pop. "One thing's for sure. The missing glyph's the key. All the other hubs connect back to it, one way or another. So it's gotta be the biggest, baddest one. It's the one Gemmie needs."
"Like a circuit for her energy," he dares.
"Exactly!" The rocking becomes a restless bounce. "The old mages of Oshra Va'Zaun used to measure magical energy in terms of frequency. Each hub had its own signature frequency. They'd use relics, like crystals, to channel those frequencies into vibrations. The pitch would climb or drop depending on lunar phases, solar fields, planetary conjunctions. Blah blah. But the basic frequency, the one they used to kickstart their magic, was always the same." She points to the blue hub. "That one, though. The one was the lodestar. The fixed point. Once it woke up, it would trigger a resonance. The remaining glyphs on each nexus would light up, too. The magic would flow from them. It'd spread through the leylines, until all the Fissures danced to their tune. The mages were like maestros. They sang to the arcane, and it sang back."
Silco's skull throbs: the knowledge poured in is too much to take. He's seen Sevika perform feats of raw savagery; he's seen Singed reanimate corpses. He's never understood the nature of the magic, except as an unknown quantity.
Jinx, though, makes magic comprehensible: not only in its mechanics, but its moods. And she has put all that smarts, all that splendor, into the service of Zaun.
Pride swells, an ache like an aneurysm. The pain is sweet, and it is love.
"You've done well," he says.
Jinx preens. "Yeah?"
"I have no doubt. If you've made a connection, it is no fluke." His stare shifts to the empty hub at the Deadlands. "What do you suppose it's meant to be?"
"Dunno." Her good mood flags a little. "These glyphs were designed by old mages, thousands of years ago. The meanings changed, over time. So did the language. Standard's a bastardized version of Shuriman, Va-Nox, Demacian and Piltovan. But these glyphs are older. They predate even the Cataclysm. There's a whole lost dialect, and nobody remembers how to read it anymore."
"The occult texts—"
"Already tried. Zilch." Jinx picks glumly at her underlip. "It'd help if I at least knew where the last glyph was. But I got nothing. Gemmie picks up the resonance throughout the Deadlands. But she can't get enough juice to break through. She's strong, but not enough."
"Have you tried amplifying her power?"
"Tried the ruby crystals. Tried the Faerie charms. Tried the rejuvenation bead. Pbbbbbbt." Her raspberry is a deflated pop. "Zip-a-dee-doo-dah. Nothing." She gestures futilely downstairs. "That's why I had those vials at my worktable. I've been tryin' all sorts of catalysts. Something that'll charge the stone, so it'll hold more power in short bursts. But Gemmie's not havin' it. She doesn't wanna grow bigger. She wants something else. And I can't give it to her, because I don't have a clue."
"Perhaps," Silco says gently, "the process requires time. You've made so much progress in the span of months. It's only natural to hit a plateau."
"That's the problem! The more time I waste plateauin,' the more time Topside's gonna have to screw us over."
"Let me handle that."
"You got somethin' up your sleeve?"
"Perhaps."
Jinx's stare shifts, and the bite of her gaze is intense. She knows how to read him. The subtlest cadences and the smallest tells. A trick he'd taught her, but which, in reverse, now threatens to disembowel him. Threatens to—but won't, because he's letting her read. Letting her see.
Letting her know: whatever comes, he won't leave her out.
Not when she is integral to the endgame.
"Zaun," Silco says, "will receive visitors."
"Visitors?"
"Two. One, an emissary. The other, an ally." He lets that sink in. "It won't be long before the first arrives. The second is already here."
"...Here?"
"And they come bearing a gift."
Below, the gears of the elevator creak. The metal cage rattles, and the cart ascends. Jinx pays it no mind. The blackgaurds are always dropping off crates or picking up the latest batch of finished goods. The rhythm of give-and-take is routine.
But Silco is arrested by the shift in Jinx. The alertness; the intensity. A breeze from the half-cracked window stirs the hairs at the crown of her head. Her lips are not closed all the way. The upper lip, with its Cupid's arch, hides teeth sharp as tiny fangs. A rapid pulse beats in the hollow of her throat.
Every part of her: utterly honed to the moment.
A cusp.
Silco wants to cup her cheek and feel the wildness of her against his palm. The urge is visceral. But he holds back. He is a father, yes. But not just a father, not in this moment. Jinx catches it, then, his necessity in making her feel an official part of the operation. The money wasn't about the money. It was about establishing her at the helm of Zaun's Hex-tech endeavor; not a mascot, but a partner.
A co-conspirator.
And if he's taking pains to do so, that means—
"Silco?" For a heartbeat, the little girl is in her eyes. "Who—who's comin'?"
"Two lambs returned to the fold. One was lost. Now found. The other..." He pauses, "She's done her share of damage. Now, she's back on sufferance. She will do her part. She will make amends—to you."
The elevator grinds higher. Jinx barely registers. Her breath is a shallow drag.
On her tongue, the monosyllable trips. "V-Vi?"
"Yes."
"She—she's coming back?"
"By next week. She'll be part of a Peacekeeper envoy. Their objective is to establish closer ties between Zaun and Piltover. Or so they claim." Fingers on her chin, Silco tips her head up. "I have no doubt you know what that means."
Jinx's throat works. The cords vibrate like harp strings. "Leverage."
"Theirs over us." A mirthless smile. "Ours over them."
"Silco—"
"I don't pretend to understand half of what goes through your sister's mind, Jinx. But I won't underestimate her, either. She is Vander's girl, through and through. Her convictions are fierce. She believes her way—playing by Topside's rules—is the only way." His eyes lock on hers. "That is her mistake."
"What're you saying?"
"I am saying: whatever her reasons for returning, her allegiance is now Zaun's to claim. Her fate, yours to shape."
Her pupils dilate, a bloom of black ink. "Mine?"
"Your choice. I've made no secret of the rift between us. Your sister and I, we're opposed in every sense. But if she can be made to see the rightness of our cause, then the benefits to Zaun are incalculable. If not... " He lets his hands fall away, and her body jerks at the loss. "Then you'll choose. How best to handle her. Where she'll stand. Who she'll be. Who you'll be, in turn. With, or without her.
Jinx's jaw locks. A muscle bunches under pale skin. Her cheek is bisected by a single pink tear.
"My choice," she repeats.
"I know you're angry. I know her return will upset the balance. But you're no longer a child, Jinx. No longer a prisoner to your past. You've come far, and now you'll go farther. Whatever Topside's motives—whatever Vi's rationale—the future is yours. Don't let her take it away. Don't let anyone." His stare never wavers. "After all, what are you?"
Jinx's fingers are curled tight. The nails press half-moon divots into her palms. "Zaun's."
"Zaun's, what?"
A breath, sharp then steadying. "Zaun's champion."
"That's my girl." Their foreheads meet, and warmth spreads between them. "Just remember. Whether Vi stays, or goes, you'll still have me. I'll never forsake you, Jinx. Not for anything."
The air is charged as a thunderhead. The force of it gathers in Jinx's eyes. Secure in that moment of pure connection, she sways. Silco's arms fall open, and Jinx folds herself inside. Her shoulders tremble. Her tears soak through his shirtfront.
The ache of it is ten fingerprints seizing Silco's throat.
This, he thinks, is the true cost of fatherhood. He'd never expected to carry it. But here he is, and so is his child, and so is the road ahead. A long, winding road, full of blood and bones. But, in the end, a destination they'll reach together, hand-in-hand.
A future where Jinx is happy. Where Zaun is safe. Where they are free.
All the rest—the ghosts, the guilt, the girl—can go to hell.
(I won't lose my child again.)
Growling, Magnus nudges one paw against Silco's foot. In the background, the elevator's grinding to its zenith. With a groan, the gears unwind. Magnus' growl deepens. His tail snaps. Jinx, nestled close, falls still.
"...what...?"
Gently, Silco disentangles. Jinx's skin is blotchy from crying; he smooths a thumb over her wet cheekbone.
"Fix your face," he whispers. "Your gift is here."
"Gift—?"
The elevator grille shudders open. Footsteps echo—thud, drag, thud.
And a cane's tap, tap, tap.
Silco straightens, hands laced behind his back. The paternal tenderness bleeds out. In its place is an armature of cutting calm. Behind him, Jinx ducks her head. Several strands of her shorn hair, hanging down, tremble as she takes deep breaths.
By the third, her tears stop. By the fifth, her face has been scrubbed dry. By the tenth, her shoulders square, and weakness has been expunged from her repertoire. The woman who steps abreast is as different from his little girl as he is from the man who'd once been Vander's shadow.
"Jinx," Silco murmurs, "say hello."
Jinx pushes her hair back with both hands, revealing a face as smoothly calibrated as a bomb timer. The only giveaways are her humid eyes and the barest blotch on her cheeks.
Then the blotch blooms into something unexpected.
A blush.
"Vlčí chlapec!"
Viktor's canted silhouette looms at the threshold. The lamplight prowls over him: his body an unfleshed collection of pallid bone. It is swaddled into a badly-fitted suit: the lines fall over his underfed proportions like drapery. The collar, askew, is buttoned to the throat; the trousers, belted tight, pool at the ankles. The only pieces of the ensemble that fit are the boots: a pair of brand-new Fissure-issue kickers, with riveted roles for grip and an extra steel cap for added weight. His cane is not the old one, either. It, too, is Fissure-made: a telescoping rod of polished chrome, with a pronged handle that can double as a claw grabber. The tip ends in a wickedly-sharp spade, like a Devil's tail.
Atop his head, a black fedora casts his face in a half-shadow. Beneath the hat's brim, his eyes, set deep in the flesh-spared skull, hold a gleam so intense it borders on unnatural. From this distance, Silco cannot be certain, but he thinks Viktor's sclera has a queer yellowish tinge. It reminds him of cats: their slit-pupiled glow, and the way the shadows move around them.
The sensation is not entirely unpleasant. A sense of familiarity stirs, like the memory of a dream.
An undersea creature, full-fledged and fanged, glimpsing the vestigial fins of another.
Viktor's hands—both of them—are thickly gloved. With the right, he grips his crutch. The left is hooked around a strange contraption: a leather satchel with a spherical base, like a crystal ball. It's a heavy, unwieldy piece. Viktor's hold, though, is firm. A glow leaks at the corners of the satchel: a twilit aura, pulsing from cerulean to indigo. It bathes him in the ethereal shades of a living bruise.
At Jinx's greeting, his eyes chin dips: wary but not ungentle.
"Jinx," he says, the accented syllables neutral. "It has been a while."
"Your voice sounds weird."
"Does it?"
"Yeah. It's... " She bites her lower-lip with a canine. "Like gears grindin'."
She is right. The accent is the same: the rolling consonants of Drakkengate filtering into a soft purr through the Standard. But the pitch is slower. Like a phonograph recording played back at half-speed. No flaw in the intonation; no slip-ups in the vowels. Yet the words now seem a veneer over a subcutaneous layer. Beneath, the frequency is artificially flat.
A machine's register, not a man's.
"You must excuse me," Viktor says. "I've had... a medical procedure."
"What? You swallow a bucketful of tar or something?"
"Something." The pause could almost be humorous. "Strain on the vocal cords, you see, damages the cartilage. Sometimes the damage can be repaired. But there is only so much that can be done before... one has to settle for a workaround."
"Workaround?"
"It is not relevant. I have come to think of it as... a progression." He shifts his weight, and his bad leg drags. The spaded cane-heel taps the floor with a metallic clink. "Like our city, I am... always improving. No?"
Silco watches Jinx's blush darken under the stranger's regard.
Magnus's fur bristles. Jinx's hand shoots out and grabs his collar. He subsides, barely. For once, Silco understands the beast's impulse. He is the one who'd invited Viktor up to the Aerie. And yet the scientist's presence feels intrusive. A reminder of the world, outside their two-variable equation.
Except Viktor's gaunt silhouette is no harbinger.
His body remains beyond the ambit of lamplight thrown at his boots. His eyes pass, uncertain, between Jinx and Silco. He's overheard nothing of their conversation. The only thing he is cognizant of is the leftover fizz of high emotion.
In his eyes, Silco sees a blunt, clinical dissection. The evidence—Jinx's blotchy face, Silco's silence—and a swift conclusion: the pair have been quarrelling.
The knowledge is tempered by a wholly civilized compulsion.
He has no desire to pry.
"You're early," Silco says, letting the statement hang. "The hour isn't yet two."
Viktor's shoulders twitch, but he does not demur. "I took a speedboat from Piltover's harbor. Given the recent... blast, security was tightening at the ports. I felt it best to depart ahead of schedule." The barest quirk of lips. "Although I am not the Council's pet inventor, my face remains recognizable."
It's the mildest of jabs. The boy is taking significant risk—and risking significant rancor—by returning belowground. He's doing so not to curry favor. He is here to work. His presence demonstrates his commitment to the cause. In return, he is asking Silco for a measure of reciprocity: a solid base of goodwill. One that will help him regain his footing.
Typically, Silco gives no quarter. Not unless the investment proves its worth.
Yet Viktor's matter-of-factness, his sheer lack of fanfare, is a quality Silco appreciates.
"Your diligence is noted," he says. "I trust your accommodations are adequate?"
"I am sure they are. I have not yet seen them. I asked your second-in-command to direct me to the Doctor's laboratory. However, she informed me that I was to have my own workshop. A space under construction at Emberflit Alley. In the meantime, it was suggested that I set up temporary shop at the Aerie." His eyes flicker from Silco to Jinx. "Though it seems that the space is... occupied."
"Wait! Waitwaitwait!" Jinx's voice pitches an octave higher. "You'll be workin' here? In my space?"
"If you object—"
"Nooooo! It's cool. Absotively posolutely." The pink of her cheeks is nearly neon. "Oh—hey. Will you be eatin' here too? 'Cause I got lotsa snacks. Cheesecake and pickles. Hot pockets and sardines. Also tons of caramel-center cherries. They're the bestest. Like crack! Y'know, if crack tasted like cherries and gave you tummy-aches instead of holes in your gut. Say, will you be nappin' here? 'Cause I got an extra pullout." A sudden slyness: her toes point in, and her hands twist behind her back. "Or, um. You can borrow mine."
Viktor appears nonplused. "I appreciate the offer. But—"
"Viktor will be visiting the Aerie at scheduled times," Silco interjects. "His working hours will run in the evenings. There will be blackguards posted on the landing. Should you require assistance, or supplies, simply notify them."
Jinx's shoulders slump. "Huh? Why—?"
"A precaution. Your undertaking is volatile. Accidents—" Silco's inflection flatlines, "—are best avoided."
Jinx pulls a dissatisfied moue. She knows what he's saying, even if she's not fully cognizant of the context.
For Viktor, however, it is as blatant as a gunshot fired at fifty paces.
"Accidents," he says. "Yes. Fortunately, I have some experience with... unstable quotients." His eyes flick to Jinx. She is scrutinizing him, unblinking, from under her lashes. The effect is not sultry so much as unsettling. "They are best handled with a careful hand, and a clear objective."
The message sails over Jinx's head. But it pings off Silco's skull like a paper airplane:
I have no designs on your child.
Jinx's giddy little-girl crush is plain to see. But Viktor, as a born sumpsnipe, knows the dangers of playing with fire. He is also, as a newcomer, cognizant of his precarious position. He will be careful. He will cross no lines, no matter how many Jinx attempts to redraw. He will keep his distance, and stay true to the course.
With luck, they will each gain something useful from the arrangement.
A city reborn—with magic as its wings.
On his part, Silco senses that he owes Sevika a bottle of her favorite liquor—and a night on the town, at his expense. But he is already glimpsing—beyond the attendant headaches of Jinx's fancy—an opportunity. This alliance will facilitate something useful for Jinx's growth. In Viktor, she has something she's not had previously. Not a father figure or a big sister—a peer. Someone with whom she can share a language of invention. Someone who will understand the challenges of her craft.
Like any teenager, she's reacting accordingly: brass, high spirits, and a touch of self-consciousness.
Silco cannot say he finds the display becoming. But it is, at best, a phase. When the time comes—when her knowledge is complete and the last nexus is filled—the fancy will fizzle out.
He'll make damn sure of it.
Silco's fingers lace behind his back. His nod is cool. "Well said."
Jinx's mouth screws to one side, then the other. She looks from Viktor, to Silco, then back again. A tiny crease—nearly a dimple—appears between her brows.
"You guys are being weird."
Blandly, Silco says, "Not at all."
"Then what's with all the hush-hush?"
"I am keeping Viktor apprised of the stakes."
"Yeah." Her chin juts. "So why're you talkin' like I'm not here?"
For a moment, Silco swears there is a twitch at the corner of Viktor's mouth. But the rest of his features are too pinched for anything approximating a smile.
"I will be frank, Jinx," he says, and it's the tone of a tutor about to correct a pupil's arithmetic. "The circumstances that have led me belowground are... complex. They involve seeing Zaun prosper. But they also involve seeking a cure."
"A cure?"
Viktor steps forward.
As he crosses into the full lamplight, the shadows flee. The full picture of his change is revealed. Silco is not easily caught off-guard. But his good eye, a single flinch, is the only reaction he can afford.
Beside him, Jinx is less circumspect. Her eyes and lips round into shocked O's. One small hand claps over her mouth. Magnus whines: a wary sound.
Beneath Viktor's hat brim, his face has undergone a radical change. The sunken pits beneath his eyes are no longer bruised. His jaw, no longer an underhung blade, is now a firm plane. The cheekbones, which once cast pockets of shadow, have risen into a sculpted plateau.
But the overall structure, though still his, is not fully flesh.
Every contour, from the jut of jawline to the cleft of chin to the curve of throat, is etched with a surface of burnished steel. The sockets around his eyes are inlaid with a grid of tiny gold screws. The eyes themselves are bionic orbs: the sclera oiled smoothly black, with irises the color of topaz. The pupils are an aperture that adjusts, constricting and dilating, to the light.
The sum total is a cyborgian marvel: half-flesh, half-steel. A transformation so abrupt it borders on the fantastical.
Yet there is a precision in the augmentations. Every new feature fits seamlessly with the old. The symmetry is perfect. Self-determinism is at the forefront: not a single inch compromised.
Even so, Silco knows what the radical change implies.
"I see," he says.
Viktor nods. "Your Shimmer strain. It... held off the worst of the spread. But subsidiary infections had already taken root." His voice modulates: a machine's frequency, a man's memory. "My throat, my eyes, parts of my face... they were beginning to break down. The doctors at Piltover warned me. If it was not reversed, then the progression would reach critical mass. My heart, my lungs, my brain. Left to my own devices, I would be dead by summer's end."
"But you," Silco says, "will not be left to your own devices."
"Precisely." A gloved hand lays, almost possessively, over the satchel. The indigo glow deepens: a steady pulse, like a heartbeat. "There were no treatments for the condition. At least, none that would preserve the integrity of my faculties. No. What I needed was... an alternative. A way to halt the spread. To stymie the decay in its tracks."
Jinx says, "How?"
Both Silco's and Viktor's heads swivel toward her.
Jinx's face is transfixed. Excitement shines in her eyes, like a chemical effervescence. She's a girl with an affinity for machines, mutants, mysteries. In Viktor, she is being presented with a tantalizing enigma. Already, her mind is chewing on the changes, salivating at the possibilities.
Then—
"Shimmer," she breathes.
"What?" Silco says.
"Shimmer!" Her eyes go incandescent. Her hair seems to bristle electrically, and the rest of her lithe body follows suit. "That's what you used, didn't you? On the Hexcore-thingy! It's—it's the catalyst. It's what amps up the magic juice!"
Viktor's surprise is a subtle thing: a minute softening of the mouth. "You are aware that the arcane's power can be magnified through certain compounds?"
"Duh. That's what I've been doin'! Except, I didn't realize Shimmer could do the trick." She drums her knuckles against her skull. "Ooooh! Why didn't I think of it? 'Cause, yeah, Shimmer's pure. Not pure like nice. Pure like... like... uh. What's the word?"
"Elemental," Viktor says.
"That's it! Elemental. That's why the magic can pick up what it puts down! But—dang." Her face scrunches like an upset kitten. "It must've hurt like a mother."
Viktor's gloved fingers remain over the satchel. The indigo pulse deepens, and the air around him warps. "Pain is a transient state."
"An' the process?"
Discomfort doesn't alter Viktor's features. Rather, his new ones are too limited in scope to accommodate the subtler gestures. Even so, the hesitation is audible.
"Difficult," he says. "The process was... difficult."
Silco watches Jinx's hands small hands curl into fists. Her hair swings forward as she ducks her head. Silco knows she is reliving, behind its concealment, the night she'd been strapped down on Singed's table.
She'd died. She'd lived.
And the cost had been her innocence.
"I know." Her chin tips up. Her eyes are bone-dry. "No picnic, is it?"
"No," Viktor agrees, and the gentleness is a shock. "I etched the runes into my skin. My tools. My workspace. Every inch. Then I injected Shimmer into my veins. Once I was certain the runes were fully activated, I brought the Hexcore to the heart of it. I placed it upon the table and... " a breath, "...I cut myself open. I let the Hexcore feed off my blood."
"Blood." Jinx's echo is hushed. "Like a sacrifice?"
"In a sense. The arcane—the ancient source—operates in terms of equivalent exchange, like a battery. Energy in. Energy out. But the Hexcore's energy is... different. Hungry. It has a will. Like you. Like me. It seeks to live. It wants to be fed. And, when fed, it gives in return."
"Takes, and gives," Jinx repeats, as if this makes perfect sense.
"It was a major undertaking. The first hour, the magic did its work on the sly. For a while, it seemed as if nothing was happening. Then, gradually, I began to feel... altered. The pain receded. The pressure in my skull and throat eased. What followed was... a flash. The most blinding burst of clarity. Everything, from the hum of the engines to the whisper of a breeze, seemed more alive. More connected." The throat beneath the steel alloy shifts. "Then—I must have fallen asleep. Or lost consciousness. When I awoke, the worst had passed. The damage had begun to repair itself. No—not repair. My cells had been replaced alloy. My flesh, with..." He gestures at his augmented face. "...This."
Jinx inches closer. Reaching out with a fingertip, she taps Viktor's cheekbone. A hollow clink echoes.
"It's like a drum," she whispers.
Viktor doesn't flinch. Only his pupils—what passes for pupils now—contract.
"An alloy of tungsten, titanium, and chromium. Organic, in essence, but tempered to the consistency of steel."
"And underneath?"
"A matrix of Shimmer-infused gel. It regulates my temperature. It provides a barrier between the steel and the surrounding tissue." His mouth flattens. "The disease is still there. In my lungs. In my organs. The Shimmer will keep the spread in stasis. But only further... augmentation can reverse the damage. And the only means of achieving that is—"
"Finding a natural catalyst," Jinx finishes. "Somethin' the Hexcore can eat—without eatin' all of you."
Victor doesn't smile. But the corners his unnatural eyes crinkle. "Precisely."
Silco is finding himself, increasingly, on the fringes of the conversation. His own scientific understanding is limited. His comprehension of magic, likewise. But he has no desire to derail the dialogue. Jinx's fixation on Viktor is entire; Viktor's regard for her, likewise. He has forgotten to be wary of her, and she, in turn, is no longer coy.
Silco sees the way it fits: her intellect, and Viktor's expertise, slotting into one another. He can practically feel it: a current that runs between them, invisible, but tangible, like the magic in the leylines. They're alike, these two. They crave knowledge. And they'll stop at nothing until they have it.
Their convergence is no accident. Silco was only the force that orchestrated it.
The rest, he thinks, is a more complex calculus.
"In your notes, you mentioned runes," he says, when the conversation lapses. "The ones on your Hexcore."
Viktor nods. "They are the like keys on a piano. Without a structured melody, the magic is... random. Diffuse at best. Chaotic at worst."
The musical analogy—similar to the one Jinx had used—doesn't go unnoticed.
Silco's smile, bland on the surface, hides fangs.
"I believe," he says, "it might interest you to examine a similar set of glyphs."
"Glyphs? Where—?"
Viktor's eyes skitter past Jinx's head to the mural. He'd been too preoccupied to take in the full scale of Jinx's work. Now, his stare is arrested. The scattershot array of symbols, in his mind, come together like a puzzle. Something nearly trancelike breaks across the neutrality of his expression.
He steps forward.
"These—these are—"
"Runes," Jinx says, "all over the place. In every corner of the city. Somewhere in this mess, there's a pattern. It's tied to five main points. And each one—"
"It's the same."
"Huh?"
"The same." Viktor's accent thickens, his cadence picking up speed. "These are the same symbols as on the Hexcore."
"Huh?"
Viktor sets his satchel down on Jinx's workable. Unhooking the latch, he lifts the flap. A brilliant azure glow spills out, intense as the coldest solar flare. Jinx and Magnus are blindsided by the glare; Silco shields his good eye under a palm. But Viktor's cyborgian vision is unblinking. The satchel's contents are unveiled: a multifaceted orb, the rough dimensions of a Rubix cube, rotating inside a glass gyroscope similar to the one on Jinx's table. Its facets, ever-shifting, are etched with a dense script. And at the center, like a star, the Hexcore's true heart pulses. A crystalline nucleus, ultraviolet, floats in its own intense heat, refusing to melt.
Magnus growls. Silco lays a palm on the scruff of the dog's neck. For once, it is reassurance, not restraint.
Separated by a flimsy barrier of polymers and glass, he can feel the spectral force of the Hexcore. It is like the sea pressing against his skull. His eardrums throb; gooseflesh pebbles his skin. The static silence holds an eerie subcurrent. Like an infinite number of voices, overlaid on one another, all speaking in a single tone, barely audible to the human ear.
But not to Jinx.
Her head sways, following the rhythm of an internal song.
"It's humming," she breathes. "Like Gemmie. But louder."
Vitkor nods. His breathing, Silco notes, is a shade deeper. As the Hexcore's force exerts a pull it takes everything to resist.
"It's the frequencies," he says. "Before my... change...I could not hear them. But now... some days they are loud as a choir of bells. Other times, a single whisper. The pitch alters according to the runic patterns. But the base notes—four, in total—remain the same." His stare returns to the mural. "Four glyphs. The same as on your map."
"Five," Jinx corrects. "There's five glyphs in the city."
"You are correct. But I see the fifth glyph is missing." A minute tremor disturbs the smooth surface of his face. "If that is so, then it's the same theory. The fifth is the key. The final component, to complete the melody. It will allow the other four to resonate. Once harmonized, the city's magic will be primed for use."
"That's right!" Jinx's teeth, in the glow, are pure white. A row of tiny, hungry daggers. "Once we've got the song, the Zaun'll start dancing!"
"But for that to happen, we must decode the final glyph."
Silco's hand falls away from the dog's neck. His stare is a blade, aimed straight at Viktor's nape. The scientist is so focused on the exchange, he remains oblivious.
Until—
"Decode?" Silco repeats, lethally low. "What do you mean, 'decode'?"
The silence is a thunderclap. Viktor's shoulders stiffen. Slowly, he turns. The bionic eyes meet Silco's.
"I mean as I say," he says. "Decode."
"Your Hexcore—"
"Has the same runes. It functions, in miniature, on the same principles. But it is also missing a piece. The fifth glyph. The keynote. Before we wield the remaining four glyphs, we need to crack the last." His chin inclines. "Learn its song."
Silco's good eye slits. "Quite a feat, given the lyrics are lost to history."
"Lost, but not erased. I've studied the Hexcore's runes extensively. Their grammar is not entirely unlike modern-day Standard. The syntax is simple. The words, however, are more abstract. In the original tongue, they are phonetic shorthand. They convey meaning in a manner at once textual and spoken. Or, put another way, metaphorical and metaphysical."
"Such as?"
"In old texts, the word for 'cut' is also the word for 'precise.' In rune form, it manifests as a spellcaster refining the focus of his powers. Similarly, the word for 'dissolve' is also the word for 'resolve.' A spellcaster, through sheer force of will, unraveling an opponent's magicks and then recombining the raw energy into a different construct. A single rune; multiple meanings. In both cases, a spellcaster is able to harness the essence of the word. Its power. Its spirit."
"You said 'in old texts.' You mean, before the Cataclysm."
"Yes. The original dialect fell out of favor as Oshra Va'Zaun's civilization collapsed. But the runes themselves retained their potency. Their meaning. And their magic, even in a dormant state, remains. Waiting to be reawakened."
Silco glances from Viktor to Jinx. His child is rapt; hanging on to every word. The pedagogy, abstract to Silco's ears, resounds through her like a chord.
"The glyphs," she whispers, "is there a way to figure out the meaning? Without havin' to learn a language nobody remembers?"
"I believe so."
"How?"
"I strongly suspect it is as I said: a song. One that is sung through the medium of mathematics."
"Mathematics?" Silco's stare hardens. "Not magic?"
"Yes and no." A pause, while Viktor considers his words. "Magic, at its essence, is a science. One that predates the sciences themselves. Mathematics is an ancient discipline. It is the language of the cosmos. The study of patterns, and the formulae therein. The glyphs are no exception. They are symbols that, once arranged in a specific order, produce a harmony attuned to the natural order of the universe. A music, where each note is a variable, and each lyric is a code."
Jinx's eyes go round. "So maybe it's the old Oshra Va'Zaun songs we oughtta be looking at?"
"That was my thinking." Viktor's fingers flex, as if yearning for a pen and paper. "When you were younger, did your mother ever sing the local songs to you? Lullabies. Ballads. Old hymns."
Jinx's eyes flutter half-shut. Memories—sepia-washed—dull the brilliance of her eyes.
"Not local songs, no," she says. "My Mommy hailed from Drekkengate. She mostly sang stuff from the Old Country."
"As did mine," Viktor murmurs, and the lack of inflection speaks volumes. Then, rousing himself: "No matter. We've enough fodder, in the old Oshra Va'Zaun fables, to begin the experiment. We will categorize songs by the date of origin. We will match them to the timeframe during which the old empire was most wealthy, and the runes were most active. The lyrics, likewise, will be cross-referenced against the meanings of each glyph. From there, we can begin the process of elimination. Once we have a viable list of candidates, we'll test the songs against the Hexcore, until a resonance is triggered. From there, we can extrapolate the keynote of the fifth glyph—"
Silco cuts in. "This a hell of a lot of trial-and-error. How can you be certain it will work?"
Viktor's smile is an odd, flattening curve.
"I don't," he says, simply.
Silco's bad eye is a pitch-black forewarning, burning its glare into the man's forehead. "You don't."
"That is the nature of the endeavor. No certainty. Only the possibility." He gestures, heavily, to the mural. It is not a supplication. Rather, a reminder. "The magic is there. That much, is undeniable. I felt it, when I was first began studying the runes with Jayce. And you, I suspect, have felt the same. In a very real sense, the glyphs are calling to us. More importantly, the fifth glyph is calling."
"Our Blue Chip," Jinx says, nearly singsony.
"A strange moniker," Viktor says, but his mouth takes on a softer curve. "But: apt. The fifth glyph is necessary for the Hexcore to hit peak resonance. To transform the raw power of the arcane into something self-sustaining. An engine, not a battery. A force that gives, not one that takes. Once activated, the Hexcore can perform any number of functions. Stymie the spread of disease. Reverse the damage done by chem-fuel. Even, possibly, nourish life."
Silco's fingers interlock behind his back. The knuckles flex in restless reflex. "And the glyph's impact on the city grid?"
"If we are fortunate, the same."
"The city? Sustained, in perpetuity?"
"In perpetuity. If efforts are successful, the city will not be reliant on chemicals, or coal, or crude oil. The natural resources will be cleansed. The pollution cleared."
"A limitless power source."
"Limitless, yes. And Zaun's."
Silco's smile, this time, is not bland. The purplish light, playing across the contours of his face, is like the rime rising at twilight off the river Pilt. He thinks of the deceptively placid surface. The dark silhouettes capering at its depths.
Hidden marvels. Monsters.
"And if," he says, "our efforts fail?"
Viktor's expression is a study of iron. Only the Hexcore's radiance, bleeding around the edges, seems to liquify his silhouette.
"The consequences," he says flatly, "will be severe."
"Severe?"
"Like a firecracker detonating inside a gas tank."
This is Jinx.
Both men pivot. But Jinx isn't looking at them. Her rapturous stare is on the Hexcore. Her eyes, deep-set in the gloom, are two whorls of midnight. One small hand, with a gentle pressure, keeps Magnus leashed to her side. The beast whines, but Jinx gives him a reproving pat, and he subsides.
The other hand, she lifts, fingertips reaching as if for the Hexcore's heart.
"I heard it, remember?" she whispers. "Back in the Badlands. The voice, that talks through Gemmie. Open wide, she said. Open, and let it flow. All's we need is the fifth glyph. It's somewhere deep, buried under all those stones in the Deadlands. Waitin' for us to find it. Waitin' for the big light-up. The good kind." A pleasurable shiver. "The best kind."
Silco says nothing. Like Viktor, he follows the slow creep of Jinx's fingers towards the Hexcore. Its purplish aurora, with a deepening pulse, seems to shift to ultraviolet. Like a bruise, deepening into blood. Ready to spill. Her shadow, stretching over the floor, seems to spill too. Its shape recoalesces around her small body. For a split-second, Silco has the sense of wings unfurling at the juncture of her shoulderblades.
Solidifying.
Spanning wide.
Swallowing the breadth of a city.
Then it's gone. The shadow is shadow; the light is light.
Only Jinx remains: on the cusp.
"We'll find the glyph," she whispers. "Find out what it means. And soon, the whole place is gonna dance. We'll give Zaun a song. And they'll sing it, till the sky turns blue."
And Silco, in the shadows, wonders if hers is the song they'll sing.
Confidential: State Files – Piltover & Zaun.
Memorandum of Encrypted Telephone Conversation
Subjects: Councilor Mel Medarda & First Chancellor Silco
Declassified and De-encrypted Under Authority of the Intra-agency Security Panel
E.O. 12596 Section 5. B(y)
Councilor Medarda: Chancellor?
Chancellor Silco: Councilor. To what do I owe this pleasure?
Councilor Medarda: I am told Viktor has returned to Zaun.
Chancellor Silco: Yes. Two weeks ago.
Councilor Medarda: I am also told he has taken up residence at Emberflit Alley. With a secondary base of operations at your headquarters. Is that correct?
Chancellor Silco: I suppose. Then again, my intelligence network is not quite as nosy as yours.
Councilor Medarda: Don't be disingenuous.
Chancellor Silco: Disingenuous? What I am is monumentally busy. You know. With all the work that comes from having a city that isn't under someone's boot.
Councilor Medarda: Yes, it must be tiring indeed. So tiring that you neglected to mention that the Hexcore is now in your pocket?
Chancellor Silco: Is that what that Rubiks cube is called?
Councilor Medarda: Do not try my patience! It's no accident you kept the Council out of the loop. What does Viktor plan to do with it?
Chancellor Silco: From what I can gather? Improve the lives of Zaunites.
Councilor Medarda: And you expect me to believe that?
Chancellor Silco: Forgive me? Are you questioning my integrity—or his?
Councilor Medarda: Do not misunderstand. I hold great esteem for Viktor. But if the Hexcore is perceived to be under Zaun's control, it will rattle Piltover's investors. Already, they are expressing concern that Zaun's chem-tech will surpass theirs.
Chancellor Silco: The Hexcore is not patented by your city. Nor is Viktor's work tied to your jurisdiction. His liminal status as a Fissure-native saw to that. He has always been at liberty to take his inventions anywhere. Why not home?
Councilor Medarda: Existential arguments will not matter once stockholders turn tail. We are a nation of ideas. Hex-tech is our lifeblood. Now you've taken one of our pioneers. The question is, why? Is this the beginning of a hostile takeover? Or are you inviting economic sanctions?
Chancellor Silco: Neither. It is an overture of friendship.
Councilor Medarda: Friendship?
Chancellor Silco: If your investors are afraid that Zaun's profits will outperform theirs, perhaps they should consider giving our businesses a whack. Better yet, start a little friendly competition.
Councilor Medarda: Do not make a mockery of this!
Chancellor Silco: Mockery? I am deadly serious. As Chancellor of Zaun, I welcome all trade.
Councilor Medarda: Then you admit it? You lured Viktor away for economic benefit?
Chancellor Silco: Lure? Viktor is not a rabbit. He is a grown man. He has dedicated years of service to the Council, and to Piltover. Surely, he has the right to choose where he spends the rest of his time.
Councilor Medarda: You mean the last of his days. His health is in decline. Such circumstances drive men to dire straits.
Chancellor Silco: And that's where we must differ.
Councilor Medarda: What do you mean?
Chancellor Silco: Only that his mind is sharp. And the rest of him, still young. One may yet salvage the other.
Councilor Medarda: Do you realize the furor this has caused? Already, the Council are up in arms! The move will cut holes in our coffers. Coffers that, since Zaun's separation, are already hemorrhaging gold!
Chancellor Silco: I have made it no secret that Piltover must loosen its chokehold on the markets. What you decry as hemorrhage, I see as a balancing of scales.
Councilor Medarda: I have worked tirelessly to ensure that Piltover is a source of economic stability in Runeterra. A place where foreign traders can find new beginnings. You would risk decades of my effort with the stroke of your pen?
Chancellor Silco: If your stability came at our expense? Then: yes.
Councilor Medarda: Our partnership is mutually beneficial. To throw it away for petty conceit—
Chancellor Silco: But who benefits more? A war-gutted backwater finding its feet? Or a nation that sits upon the pinnacle of progress?
Councilor Medarda: It was my belief that you wanted Zaun to succeed. That you were working toward the same ends as I!
Chancellor Silco: I am.
Councilor Medarda: And yet you have taken advantage of Viktor's deteriorating health! He would never have returned had you not swayed him!
Chancellor Silco: The way you talk, it's like you think I slithered up from the depths, and hypnotized him with a bag of candy in my hand. With such paternalism, is it any wonder he left? Or did you pay him with head-pats and gold stars during his tenure as Hex-tech cofounder?
Councilor Medarda: If this snideness is a demonstration of your sincerity, then I will bid you goodnight.
Chancellor Silco: You may bid me whatever you wish. The fact remains that Viktor is free to move as he chooses. We spoke during the gala. I told him—plainly—that the doors of his hometown would remain open. And that, if he contributed to Zaun's development, he would have a seat at the table. He made his own choice. If his convictions are at odds with Piltover, it is because your agenda had no interest in including him.
Councilor Medarda: I am at pains to point out that an open door proves the most successful enticement of all. You lay your choicest cards on the table, and wait for the opponent to make the gamble.
Chancellor Silco: I am also, as you take pains to note, a zealot. I believe in Zaun. I believe in the Fissurefolk. Viktor is the greatest living example of our potential. He has contributed immeasurably to Piltover's success. Now, he has returned where he's needed. If Piltover is as great as you claim, it can bloody well manage without him.
Councilor Medarda: The Hexcore is integral to our projects! It was created in Piltover!
Chancellor Silco: Now Zaun will repurpose it.
Councilor Medarda: So you admit it? Your goal is to destabilize our markets?
Chancellor Silco: There you go again. If my city gets one-fifth of the pie, do you starve for the lack of the other four-fifths? If we have one brilliant engineer, and you have one hundred, is our innovation an impediment to your success? For a woman of such wealth, you are fixated on a fistful of coins.
Councilor Medarda: Coin is how you build a foundation. Without it, you have nothing!
Chancellor Silco: You have your mind. Your hands. You will. Coin is the means, not the end.
Councilor Medarda: And yet you risk the Treaty between our cities, in a bid for more!
Chancellor Silco: By what standard do you measure a Treaty? You've sanctioned fair trade between our cities. Our markets are now a two-way street. But yours has been the tight-fisted hoarder. Ours? The beggar with his hand out. Your Hex-Gates have kept our industries stagnant. Your decrees have kept us locked in. Your monopolies have kept our brightest from ever seeing the light of day. Now we are crawling our way out. But first, we must recover from the old scars.
Councilor Medarda: I have done my utmost to keep your city afloat! Referrals, subsidies, contracts. I've coaxed the Council to look past their prejudices. Cajoled the chariest stakeholders into lending coin to your industries. My efforts have been beyond reproach. And what do you do? Swipe my silver like a thief in the night!
Chancellor Silco: If Piltover sees the loss of one man as theft, then perhaps your faith in your city is unfounded. Zaunites are not thieves. We only take what we are owed. Now we will use it as we see fit.
Councilor Medarda: And how, pray tell, will you use the Hexcore? Sell its secrets to the highest bidder? Or hoard them, like a miser, to build an arsenal that reduces both our cities to rubble? If conquest was your aim—
Chancellor Silco: Conquest?
Councilor Medarda: You speak in absolutes. Winners and losers. Beggars and choosers. March forward—and damn the consequences!
Chancellor Silco: You are the one speaking in absolutes. I see a simple solution to all of this. Let Zaun keep the Hexcore. Because that's the only way we can achieve parity. Our economy has finally freed itself from your city's shackles. My Cabinet is undertaking reforms to stem excess liquidity. We're encouraging worker co-operatives by establishing a national credit union. We're offering incentives for independent start-ups. All of this is but a fraction of what's necessary to strengthen our markets. But we are trying. We are fighting every step. We are not asking for handouts. Only the right to succeed. On our own terms. With our own people.
Councilor Medarda: I have heard enough.
Chancellor Silco: Have you? Or are you afraid what I say makes sense?
Councilor Medarda: I expected, after everything, that we'd share a modicum of trust.
Chancellor Silco: Trust—or intimacy?
Councilor Medarda: ...
Chancellor Silco: Apologies. Was our encounter in the obelisk to go unstated?
Councilor Medarda: My feelings on the matter are not the issue.
Chancellor Silco: I think, by your silence, they are. What did you believe? A few kisses, and suddenly, I'd be yours for the taking?
Councilor Medarda: We did more than kiss!
Chancellor Silco: I didn't say we didn't. I asked what you believed? Did you imagine I would turn into a puddle, and fall at your feet? You, who have lacked for nothing and never been denied, thought a moment's affection would turn me into your lapdog?
Councilor Medarda: My affections were genuine! Unlike your reciprocation! You took advantage of my state of mind! My honesty, my trust—
Chancellor Silco: I did nothing of the sort. In fact, I gave you every opportunity to walk away. You chose to stay. I neither invited you, nor held expectations beyond the moment. You're the one who seems to think desire is a debt, and intimacy a contract.
Councilor Medarda: Intimacy? If the word were a dagger, you'd be holding it!
Chancellor Silco: It appears, then, that you've stabbed yourself.
Councilor Medarda: Why are you doing this?
Chancellor Silco: Doing what?
Councilor Medarda: Turning on me.
Chancellor Silco: I've done no such thing. I warned you from the outset that my first priority was my city. The welfare of my child. I will compromise neither.
Councilor Medarda: But you'll make a bedfellow of Viktor.
Chancellor Silco: Bedfellow? Is that what this is about? You believe my attention is suspect.
Councilor Medarda: Do you deny it?
Chancellor Silco: My dear, the boy is in poor health. I'm not sure what peculiarities you shared with Talis—
Councilor Medarda: Leave Jayce out of this!
Chancellor Silco: —But the fact is, I am not interested in seducing a man in his last days. In fact, the prospect is downright ghoulish. Unless, in Noxus, this is the done thing?
Councilor Medarda: Watch how you speak to me.
Chancellor Silco: You've accused me of taking advantage of a sick man. Seducing him, no less. What is this, if not a bid at easing your own guilt?
Councilor Medarda: Guilt? You dare talk to me about guilt? Do you realize how distraught Jayce will be, once he learns of Viktor's defection? This will wreck him!
Chancellor Silco: Nothing cuts deeper than a brother's loss.
Councilor Medarda: We made a bargain for Jayce's safety!
Chancellor Silco: And I am honoring it. Unless you believe Viktor is the latest in a line of hidden threats?
Councilor Medarda: ...
Chancellor Silco: What's the matter? No rebuttal?
Councilor Medarda: Do you mean to tell me that you of all people are unaware—?
Chancellor Silco: Unaware of what?
Councilor Medarda: The Wardens. They have been conducting a covert investigation into Viktor. They claim—
Chancellor Silco: Yes?
Councilor Medarda: A few months before the Siege, a lab assistant went missing. A woman called Sky Young. Her body was never found. No evidence of abduction. No signs of a struggle. She simply… vanished. The Wardens believe Viktor was responsible. That the Hexcore played a role in her disappearance.
Chancellor Silco: Now you would have me believe the Hexcore is a murder weapon?
Councilor Medarda: I do not know what to believe.
Chancellor Silco: This is not about belief. It's about trust. You're fine sharing a bed with Talis. You've no qualms stringing a dozen men on a leash for your agenda. But the moment you encounter a rival—a real one, not the puppets you call assets—suddenly the rules change. Suddenly you're accusing me of aiding and abetting a suspected murderer. Suddenly, your 'affection' is conditional, and there's conspiracies in every corner. That is not how fair trade is done, Councilor. You cannot play my equal one moment, and then clutch your virtue like a jilted little girl the next.
Councilor Medarda: Then return Viktor to Piltover! He must answer for his crimes!
Chancellor Silco: I cannot, in good faith, return my citizen to a city whose justice system is so... flimsy. Nor will I hand over the Hexcore. It is Viktor's to do with as he pleases. If you wish to prosecute him, then you will have to drag him kicking and screaming out of my city. I will not be the one to send him to the gallows.
Councilor Medarda: It need not come to that. The Council will overlook the circumstances behind the Hexcore's theft. I can persuade them. We will even negotiate a fair compensation for its exchange. Two million. Three, if you like.
Chancellor Silco: You'd try taking away our own, then attempt to pay us up front like at a fishmonger's?
Councilor Medarda: Four million. Five-and-a half. Any price—within reason. The Hexcore is integral to our city. It is a prime investment. If it is gone, our shareholders—
Chancellor Silco: Listen to yourself. Price. Investment. Shareholder. This is the not the vocabulary of partnership. It is the language of acquisition. The Hexcore is not yours to buy back. Nor is it mine to sell. It belongs to Viktor. He is a Zaunite. He is free to work wherever he chooses. His crimes, if indeed he is guilty, are his to face in Zaun. You have no jurisdiction here.
Councilor Medarda: You cannot keep him indefinitely! The Wardens will demand his extradition! If I give word for them to escalate—
Chancellor Silco: If your Wardens set foot on Zaunite soil, I will have their heads. I will have them mounted, and paraded through the streets. The rest of their remains, I will gift-wrap and return to the Council, with the message that if their dogs want a bone, they can bloody well come and get it.
Councilor Medarda: That would be tantamount to war! Your city is still recovering from the Siege! You cannot withstand a second attack! Not on Piltover's scale! You have no leverage!
Chancellor Silco: Don't I? Or would you rather I cooperate with the Noxian warmasons, and hand-feed them intel on Talis' whereabouts? Let them take a shot at Piltover's Golden Boy, while his lady is preoccupied? Because I assure you, Councilor. If your beloved is assassinated, Piltover will lose more than a few gold bars.
Councilor Medarda: ...
Chancellor Silco: Well? Is that leverage enough?
Councilor Medarda: If you believe threatening me is wise, you have misjudged me entirely.
Chancellor Silco: This isn't a threat, Councilor. It's a reminder. We both have equal stakes in the survival of our cities. But if you wish to see the Treaty dissolved, I will use whatever means necessary to protect mine. If the Council is threatened by that, it's their business. They can clutch their pearls and wring their hands. Or—
Councilor Medarda: Or, what?
Chancellor Silco: They can have their cake and eat it too.
Councilor Medarda: Meaning?
Chancellor Silco: Meaning the Hexcore is no bargaining chip. It is an opportunity, to build a foundation for our cities, on firmer ground. Zaun will reap its benefits, but it will not be the only one. If you are willing, we can open talks. Your Council will be invited to dip their fingers in the Zaunite pie. The chem-tech. The sextech. The medical Shimmer. Our market is open.
Councilor Medarda: You'll pardon me, if I have difficulty taking you at your word.
Chancellor Silco: Then permit me a gesture of good faith.
Councilor Medarda: What?
Chancellor Silco: You'll get to pop the cherry.
Councilor Medarda: ...
Chancellor Silco: Apologies. Is that vulgarism not permitted Topside? Should I say, You get to cut the ribbon? They are tantamount to the same.
Councilor Medarda: Namely?
Chancellor Silco: House Medarda will be the first beneficiary of our new tax policy. You'll have leverage over controlling shares in Zaun's biggest chem-cultivation companies. Medicinal, agricultural, cosmetic. No tax audits for the first five years. Free access to our ports. Unlimited export. Your name holds great clout with investors. Use it. Viktor's departure may well rattle the markets. But this way, Piltover will have a fallback. Your shareholders will rally. Your Council will be intrigued. You will have an unprecedented chance to share in Zaun's spoils.
Councilor Medarda: What of the Hexcore?
Chancellor Silco: Whatever Viktor does with his intellectual property is his choice, and his alone.
Councilor Medarda: If Zaun were to manufacture Hex-weaponry—
Chancellor Silco: We already possess an arsenal. The same we used to liberate our city. Since then, we've not fired a single shot against you. We've no interest in war. Our priority is progress. Shared progress. That's what the Treaty was for, after all.
Councilor Medarda: The Treaty was meant to foster trust between our cities!
Chancellor Silco: As equals. Now's your chance to prove it. Show the world that the Council isn't afraid of Zaun's independence. Demonstrate that you believe in your own philosophy. Allow Viktor to pursue his goals in Zaun. He'll still benefit both our cities, in ways we have yet to quantify.
Councilor Medarda: The Council will require surety. You cannot expect me to win your points by fiat. I am not a miracle-worker.
Chancellor Silco: Let me handle that.
Councilor Medarda: You've done little thus far to inspire my confidence. You've shown yourself to be untrustworthy, duplicitous, and cruel. Why should I believe you will keep your word now?
Chancellor Silco: The fact that I am even speaking to you should suffice. Had I plans to destabilize your city, I'd not be inviting empty conjecture. I would have acted already. And yet, here I am, negotiating. What you call duplicity, I call resourcefulness. And what you call cruelty, I call resolve. You can choose to be insulted by the way I do business. But here I am, still choosing to do business. With you.
Councilor Medarda: With threats against Jayce.
Chancellor Silco: Against an enemy state. There is a difference. You are not my enemy, Councilor. But I will not be your fool. I do not ask the impossible. Only that you meet me halfway. And, when it's time, have my back. If, as you say, you dream of shared prosperity, then let's make a show of it. With the Hexcore, and all it represents.
Councilor Medarda: What if Viktor proves unable?
Chancellor Silco: As in: dead? Or disinclined?
Councilor Medarda: The latter is a scenario. The former—a sad outcome.
Chancellor Silco: Then you'll have your Hexcore back. And a pile of coins to boot. I fail to see the downside.
Councilor Medarda: You have a diabolical habit of speaking in circles.
Chancellor Silco: Because the solution is obvious. Viktor will succeed. His work is the key to his longevity. And the breakthroughs he makes will be integral to our shared success.
Councilor Medarda: I'll expect to be kept apprised of developments.
Chancellor Silco: Naturally.
Councilor Medarda: I'll also expect a private tour of your chem-cultivations once they've ripened.
Chancellor Silco: With luck, they'll taste as sweet as you.
Councilor Medarda: That's quite enough.
Chancellor Silco: Deal or no deal, Councilor?
Councilor Medarda: I still haven't forgiven you.
Chancellor Silco: For neglecting to mention Viktor?
Councilor Medarda: It wasn't neglect. It was payback. I checkmated you with the Peacekeeper Exchange Initiative, and Violet. You did the same with Viktor.
Chancellor Silco: That's the nature of politics. But—if you'll forgive the crudeness—vis a vis myself and Viktor...
Councilor Medarda: Yes?
Chancellor Silco: Fuck, no.
Councilor Medarda: ...
Chancellor Silco: Your jealousy is flattering. But unfounded.
Councilor Medarda: It is not jealousy.
Chancellor Silco: What then?
Councilor Medarda: A woman in my position must defend it. And if she must do so with ferocity, so be it. It's the same way one defends a city. There is a saying in Noxus. 'A man who is not ready to die for his nation, is not ready to live in it.'
Chancellor Silco: Is that why you left? Was Noxus not worth the price?
Councilor Medarda: I did not leave. I was cast out. There is a difference. Noxus is my homeland. But Piltover is my home. I will not let her fall. Even if a little jealousy is what it takes to defend her interests.
Chancellor Silco: And Talis too, I'd wager.
Councilor Medarda: This is not about my relationship with Jayce.
Chancellor Silco: Isn't it? Everything you've said so far, can be traced back to it. You were his lover for nearly a year. His closeness with Viktor was common knowledge. I imagine you were sometimes put in an awkward spot. The unwitting Delilah. You are an intelligent woman. I don't doubt your political acumen. But you're not unbreakable. Whereas the bond forged between two brothers in the crucible...
Councilor Medarda: What are you implying?
Chancellor Silco: I'm implying nothing. I'm asking, plain. Do you fear the dynamic will replicate itself? That my interest in Viktor forebodes something deeper?
Councilor Medarda: Don't jest.
Chancellor Silco: It is a bit gallows, isn't it? Livewire urges and dying men…
Councilor Medarda: Gods, you are intractable.
Chancellor Silco: Then allow me to be frank. Your suspicions stem from hurt pride. You've been exiled from your homeland. You've struggled to achieve every inch of prestige. But belonging? That is the true challenge. With Talis, you had it. But his closeness with Viktor...
Councilor Medarda: ...
Chancellor Silco: Shall I drop the subject?
Councilor Medarda: No. You—
Chancellor Silco: Speak freely.
Councilor Medarda: You aren't wrong. Jayce and Viktor—
Chancellor Silco: Had a connection.
Councilor Medarda: Yes. Sometimes, Jayce would stay late at his lab. I was accustomed to finding him and Viktor together. I thought nothing of it. I had no reason to. They were as close as family. Like brothers. And yet...
Chancellor Silco: Hm?
Councilor Medarda: That closeness was extraordinary. They never touched. Not the way Jayce and I did. But their intimacy was more than skin deep. Deeper even than the heart.
Chancellor Silco: The soul?
Councilor Medarda: Perhaps.
Chancellor Silco: Did it trouble you?
Councilor Medarda: I envied it. It's easy, when one has prestige, to be desired. It's not so simple to be loved. Not that way. Between Jayce and Viktor, it was effortless. A fusion that went beyond flesh. And that... frightened me.
Chancellor Silco: Because your place with Talis was threatened?
Councilor Medarda: Because it felt like mine wasn't the love he needed.
Chancellor Silco: And you fear history is repeating itself.
Councilor Medarda: I—
Chancellor Silco: For a woman with everything, your estimation of yourself is low indeed.
Councilor Medarda: It's not estimation. Merely—
Chancellor Silco: Past experience. You've mentioned.
Councilor Medarda: You must find this a very peculiar conversation.
Chancellor Silco: It's not every day you're accused of seducing a dying man.
Councilor Medarda: I apologize.
Chancellor Silco: For what, precisely?
Councilor Medarda: My past entanglements have been—complicated. I'm afraid the wounds are rather fresh, and I—
Chancellor Silco: —Have the right to feel whatever you feel. You do not owe me explanations, Mel. But, if a listening ear helps to settle your thoughts, I am here.
Councilor Medarda: That's the first time you've called me by my name.
Chancellor Silco: Is it? I beg your pardon.
Councilor Medarda: Don't. I—I like it.
Chancellor Silco: So do I. Short for Melika, isn't it?
Councilor Medarda: Yes.
Chancellor Silco: Targonian for Honey.
Councilor Medarda: That's right. My father, in his wisdom, named me after his forefathers' bee farms. My mother, in her temper, would say: 'A Medarda needs no honey. Only an army of a thousand stingers.'
Chancellor Silco: And thus: Mel.
Councilor Medarda: Mmm.
Chancellor Silco: Honey hiding a thousand stings. How very apt.
Councilor Medarda: And you? What's your name short for? It's not a line I've heard of before.
Chancellor Silco: Zaun puts no stock in lineage. Our names are what we are born with. And, if we're lucky, what we die with. Mine is no different.
Councilor Medarda: Your mother never gave you a moniker? A pet name?
Chancellor Silco: None worth repeating.
Councilor Medarda: Surely you exaggerate.
Chancellor Silco: Would you prefer: "Bastard", "Motherfucker", or "Dirty Little Thing"? Take your pick.
Councilor Medarda: ...
Chancellor Silco: That'll teach you to pry.
Councilor Medarda: This isn't prying. This is conversation. Between equals. From a place of trust. Or is it easier to keep people at arm's length? To pretend you have no past at all?
Chancellor Silco: I've never made a secret of my past. Some aspects are simply best forgotten.
Councilor Medarda: Like a difficult mother. I can commiserate.
Chancellor Silco: Better a madwoman's son than a warlord's daughter.
Councilor Medarda: A warlord's leavings. House Medarda does not take its bloodline lightly. We cast out the unfit, lest they tarnish the family name. So, in a way, I put no stock in lineage, either. We are what we make of ourselves. That is the choice Piltover offers. It's why I love this city. Why I would fight to protect it.
Chancellor Silco: Something we've in common.
Councilor Medarda: Did we not always? From the moment of our parley, we've locked horns. But our ends are the same. A bright future. For Zaun, and Piltover.
Chancellor Silco: One where sons are not condemned to the fate of their fathers.
Councilor Medarda: Nor daughters, their mothers.
Chancellor Silco: Then we are in accord. The Hexcore, and Viktor, remain in Zaun.
Councilor Medarda: On certain conditions. First, we will establish a formal framework for collaboration between our scientific institutions. Second, all Zaun-based import and export of Hex-tech will be subject to inspection by a joint oversight committee. Third, there will be no development of Hex-tech weaponry without the prior approval of the joint oversight committee.
Chancellor Silco: Is this meant as a slap on the wrist?
Councilor Medarda: It is a gesture of trust. Repay it in kind.
Chancellor Silco: You mean: Welcome the Peacekeeper Exchange Initiative.
Councilor Medarda: Accept the officers as they are. A declaration of togetherness. And Violet—
Chancellor Silco: Ward of your state. Fruit of mine.
Councilor Medarda: Let her become the bridge between us. Let her reconcile with her sister.
Chancellor Silco: Violet is not a child. She is a grown woman. If she wishes to see her sister, she is free to do so.
Councilor Medarda: Does that apply to Jinx, too?
Chancellor Silco: I've never barred Jinx from anything. Only the dangers at the door.
Councilor Medarda: Then let's make sure they're gone. For good.
Chancellor Silco: You have my word.
Councilor Medarda: When you say it in that tone, I'd almost believe you mean it.
Chancellor Silco: You make it hard not to.
Councilor Medarda: And is it so hard?
Chancellor Silco: As the night.
Councilor Medarda: You are shameless, Chancellor.
Chancellor Silco: Silco. Let's dispense with the titles. Makes it easier to keep things straightforward.
Councilor Medarda: Or harder to forget.
Chancellor Silco: I'm from Zaun, Mel. Secrets born here have teeth.
Councilor Medarda: I am trying not to hold that against you.
Chancellor Silco: Try to understand. My city is at a… cusp. So is my child. Both need a close eye. Until the dust settles, any distraction would be a disservice. To them. To myself. To the future.
Councilor Medarda: Distraction?
Chancellor Silco: I mean no insult. But you are that. A maddening, delightful, and altogether impossible distraction.
Councilor Medarda: You flatter me.
Chancellor Silco: The truth flatters itself.
Councilor Medarda: I can't decide any longer if it's devilry or sainthood that drives you.
Chancellor Silco: Sainthood? Please. If I were, you wouldn't be half as interested.
Councilor Medarda: I'd be intrigued. But not compelled. Not—
Chancellor Silco: Go on.
Councilor Medarda: I did not grow up shielded with goosedown pillows. I've had my share of admirers. Most have been eager. Some, desperate. All have been... less.
Chancellor Silco: I'd wager that has more to do with the quality of the suitors, than any imperfections on your part.
Councilor Medarda: My point is that it's not easy for me to open myself. To give in to impulse. And yet, you inspire it. Effortlessly.
Chancellor Silco: I hope you know you're in safe hands.
Councilor Medarda: Skillful? Yes. Safe? Never.
Chancellor Silco: Best take care then.
Councilor Medarda: Am I in danger?
Chancellor Silco: Of succumbing? Time will tell.
Councilor Medarda: And trust?
Chancellor Silco: That, you must give willingly.
Councilor Medarda: Willingly, but with my eyes open.
Chancellor Silco: Always.
Councilor Medarda: Mine are presently growing heavy. I must retire.
Chancellor Silco: Schlaf gut.
Councilor Medarda: Not sweet dreams?
Chancellor Silco: Depends on where your imagination takes you.
Councilor Medarda: I'm starting to suspect you're a monster after all.
Chancellor Silco: Zaun has a surplus.
Councilor Medarda: And do they banish the darkness, or walk with it?
Chancellor Silco: That's not a question to ask in the dark, Mel.
Councilor Medarda: Am I forewarned?
Chancellor Silco: I'll let the darkness answer.
Councilor Medarda: Träum schön, First Chancellor.
Chancellor Silco: Pass gut auf dich auf, Councilor Medarda.
BLACKGUARD PERSONNEL FILE
RECORD FORM
NAME: VIOLET
PRESENTING OFFICER: MITRA, SEVIKA
DATE: 370 AN
PURPOSE: BLACKGUARD CIVIL SERVICE RECRUITMENT
Violet (no last name) is a former Fissure-born who grew up in the Black Lanes.
Biological mother: Lika Blazek.
Biological father: Unknown.
Raised by Vander (see separate personnel files) as his own, from the age of 9 years old. From ages 17 to 23, she served as an inmate in Piltover's Stillwater Hold, after being convicted for theft, arson, burglary, and destruction of public property. Released under the mandate of former-Councilor Jayce Talis.
Post-release, her records were expunged, and she was permitted to re-enter society.
She is presently a member of the Peacekeeper Exchange Initiative (P.E.I.). After passing an interview process and background check, Violet was hand-chosen by the Council to serve as their ward and emissary. The Peacekeeper Initiative was established as a collaborative project between Piltover and Zaun, in order to strengthen relations between the two cities. It is the first of its kind, and was conceived by Councilor Medarda and First Chancellor Silco as a means to foster greater trust and mutual understanding.
The Peacekeepers are tasked with the peaceful integration of Piltovan and Zaunite law enforcement, and the establishment of a unified judicial system between the two cities. They will function as intermediaries and enforcers, and are tasked with monitoring criminal activity and bringing it to heel. In order to promote transparency, each Peacekeeper will serve a six-month term, during which they will live within Zaun and be subject to the same laws and regulations as Zaun's residents. After the completion of their term, each Peacekeeper will return to their respective station and report back on their findings.
The P.E.I. is expected to be instrumental in strengthening the Treaty of Mutual Cooperation, Trade and Security, and establishing a firm foundation for its permanence. This will be done by ensuring the safety of Zaun's citizens and fostering greater understanding between the two cities. The long-term goal is to achieve an equitable and sustainable relationship between the two regions.
As a member of the P.E.I., Violet has received a full pardon for her criminal record. As a native Zaunite, and a Piltovan resident, she serves as a test case, and a demonstration of the Initiative's effectiveness. It is hoped that by the end of her term, she will have become an exemplar of cross-city cooperation and goodwill.
Violet has been described as: witty, observant, resourceful, and resilient. She is known to be a natural leader and a quick thinker. She has demonstrated an exceptional cool under pressure, and possesses a keen sense of civic responsibility. Her knowledge of the Undercity's geography is unparalleled, and she is able to navigate its terrain with aplomb. Notably, she also speaks a number of local dialects fluently.
STRENGTHS:
• Ability to think outside the box
• Flexible approach to problem-solving
Agile, trained fighter.
• Capable of taking initiative and showing independent thought
• Good communication skills and strong interpersonal skills
• Demonstrates a high degree of self-awareness and emotional intelligence
• Has a strong work ethic and shows initiative and dedication to her work
LANGUAGES SPOKEN: Piltovan, Zaunite (Standard), Va-Nox, Drekkanian.
WEAKNESSES:
Tends to be impulsive and can get easily frustrated when things don't go her way.
Has a tendency to get defensive when questioned.
Tends to escalate conflict instead of communicating effectively.
May be overly aggressive in the face of adversity.
Can have trouble accepting authority.
May have trouble seeing the big picture and focusing on the task at hand.
Violet is presently a Blackguard recruit, and has received thorough evaluation for her suitability to join the elite ranks. During the course of her training, she has proven herself to be an outstanding student and a capable combatant. She has shown an aptitude for leadership, and has excelled in the areas of fitness, tactics, and close-quarter combat. She has received top marks from all of her instructors, and has demonstrated an impressive ability to learn new skills quickly and efficiently.
At the recommendation of her supervising officer, she has been selected to undergo an intensive program of training, designed to hone her abilities and prepare her for her role as the First Chancellor's bodyguard. She will be tasked with representing the city, and is expected to set a standard for excellence.
Her evaluations, both written and physical, are attached below.
Evaluation, week 1
Evaluation, week 2
Evaluation, week 3
Evaluation, week 4
FINAL EVALUATION
Overall assessment: Highly recommended for inclusion into the blackguard elite unit.
NOTES:
Violet will be housed at the diplomatic quarters in Hotel Muse. Her utilities will be paid for by the state. She is entitled to 10 days off per month, and is required to give 24 bells' notice before taking leave. She will adhere to a strict code of conduct, which will be outlined in her contract. Her schedule will be provided on a weekly basis, and she will be expected to report for duty promptly at the stated time.
Until her six-month term has been completed, she is not permitted to leave Zaun's borders without written authorization from the First Chancellor.
Upon successful completion of her term, she will be eligible for promotion, and may be considered for a permanent position within the Blackguard.
APPOINTMENT LETTER
BLACKGUARD STANDARD UNIFORM
CIVIL SERVICE BADGE
WEEKLY SCHEDULE
SECURITY CLEARANCE
Caitlyn—
I got your message this morning. I'm sorry it's taken so long to write. It's been a crazy couple of weeks. Not sure where to begin, so I guess I'll start with the most important thing:
I've resigned from the Council.
As of last week, I'm no longer a Councilor. Just a regular citizen. I know the news isn't official yet. There will be a special announcement later this week. It's pretty short-notice. I'm sure the media will have a field day.
Your Mother knows; I'm surprised she didn't tell you. Then again, the Council's been busy scrambling to find a replacement for Professor Heimerdinger. They've been hogtied in a bunch of other issues since Zaun's independence, too. There's been nothing but emergency sessions with the Zaunite Cabinet. So it's possible she didn't get a chance.
The motion for me to step down was unanimous. It's the right choice, and I'm at peace with it.
I'm sorry to hear about yours and Violet's split. It sounds like the two of you had a good thing going. She and I didn't really see eye to eye. But you seemed to care for her a lot. I had no idea there was a Peacekeeper Exchange Initiative happening—or that she'd been reassigned to Zaun. I saw no preliminary memos on the matter. If I had, maybe I could've done something to prevent it.
Then again, I've been so distracted lately. It wouldn't have surprised me if a hundred things slipped under my radar.
I understand you're concerned for her safety. Near as my old contacts in the Council can tell me, her transfer has been approved. They've already conducted the ceremonial swearing-in, and the inaugural Peacekeeper Exchange Initiative has officially begun. They've been granted interim residency until the next rotation, six months from now.
There's not much that can be done to stop it. At least, not in the legal sense. My authority to intervene has run its course. And if the Council's being tightlipped, then Silco's people are pathologically silent. The details of Violet's reassignment—where she'll stay, her duties, her work schedule—is all being kept private.
I'm sorry, Cait. You're the last person who deserves this kind of heartbreak.
You've asked me to confront Mel. To convince her to stop Vi's transfer, or pull the plug on the whole project.
Sadly, I can't do either of those things.
Mel and I are no longer together. It was a mutual decision. She's no longer my mentor, and I'm no longer her protégé. She's made her position on forging diplomatic ties with Zaun's First Chancellor clear. I've made equally clear my distaste on trying to spin blood money into gold. We're both determined to follow through, and I don't see a way of changing that.
Guess it's heartbreaks all around, huh?
Maybe it's necessary. Maybe we're supposed to hurt so we can grow. I think I've gotten a little too comfortable in my cushy Council chair. It's high time I got back to the grind. I wanted to build a better world. That means I need to put the work in at HexCorp to make it happen.
We'll get through this, Cait. You and me. Let's meet up once things have calmed down. I miss our talks. I need some sane company after weeks of listening to politicians bicker.
If there's anything I can do, please let me know.
Fondly,
Jayce
Cait—
Viktor's gone.
He's been missing since last Wednesday. The reason the Enforcers haven't been informed yet is because the Council is keeping it under wraps. But they've alerted the Wardens, and they're conducting a private investigation. Viktor's notes are gone from the lab. His apartment has been ransacked. All the Hex-tech prototypes are missing.
So is the Hexcore.
I'm worried. Not because the Hexcore could be turned into a weapon of mass destruction. Viktor's been under a great deal of strain. He's not well. I don't want him getting hurt. The fact that all his research has been taken—it makes no sense. He could've been abducted, but there's no ransom note. None of his assistants noticed any signs of foul play.
There's also been no sightings of Sky Young. Or any traces of her remains.
Cait—I don't want to add to your troubles. But I don't know who else to share this with. I trust you. I value your insight.
And the truth is, I'm a little scared.
The Wardens are suggesting Viktor's gone rogue. More than that. They're speculating that he may be linked to Sky's disappearance. Their inquisitor told me that his behavior during their last interrogation was erratic. That he'd showed signs of paranoia. That he'd withheld key details about Sky's last bells, and lied about the last time he'd seen her.
They're considering the possibility that Viktor was involved in her disappearance.
Cait—I think it's bullshit. Viktor wouldn't harm a fly. He's one of the gentlest souls I've ever known. He's dedicated his life to serving Piltover, and making it a better place. And he's known Sky since they were children. I never saw anything but respect between them. Her disappearance hit him hard. I was with him when the preliminary investigation was being conducted.
I can tell you: he wasn't faking his grief.
Something else is going on. I don't know what.
But I'm going to find out.
In the meantime, I'm sorry I can't be of more help with tracking down Violet. I don't have any pull with the Wardens, or Silco's administration. And my contacts on the Council won't talk. Try reaching out to your mother. She's the only one I know who can reasonably intervene. At the very least, she can get her sources to conduct a quiet search.
I know it's not the solution you wanted. I know the stakes are high.
I just want you to know you're not alone.
Warm regards,
Jayce
Caitlyn—
It's late, and I know you're probably sleeping. Still, I had to write. Something happened tonight.
The Wardens found Viktor.
He's been located in Zaun. Specifically, at the headquarters of First Chancellor Silco. They're claiming he's defected. What's more, they're stating that he's in collaboration with a notorious chemist, formerly known as Colin Reveck, but currently known as "Singed." The doctor has a record for performing unethical experiments.
He's also rumored to be responsible for the creation of Shimmer.
The Wardens received clearance to access Viktor's medical records. They found traces of Shimmer in his blood samples. Apparently, Viktor's been on the drug for months. He's been hiding the side-effects. There is evidence that he's been taking massive doses. It's been compromising his mind.
And now, according to the Wardens, he's a wanted fugitive.
Sky Young's DNA has been found on his personal belongings.
I can't believe it, Cait. This isn't the man I know. Viktor would never harm Sky. Never. And with his medical condition, he'd be too weak to physically attack her. As for the Shimmer—he's always been adamant about never touching drugs. Or stimulants of any kind. One cup of caffeine was enough to get him buzzed.
He wouldn't take that poison, even in his darkest bells.
Something isn't adding up.
The Council are currently in talks with Zaun's Cabinet. They're demanding that Viktor and the Hexcore be handed over. The Wardens are pushing for extradition. Mel has been trying—unsuccessfully—to reach First Chancellor Silco. He's been unavailable since last afternoon.
This is bad.
I've got a sinking feeling. Viktor's research—the Hexcore—it's the key to unlocking a whole stratum of potential weaponry. The fact that he's now in Zaun, under Silco's aegis, isn't a coincidence. Silco's notoriously secretive, but we know that he has an extensive network of spies and informants. If he saw a chance to use Viktor's illness against him, and profit off his genius, he'd seize it without a second thought.
That's exactly what I think is happening.
Viktor's not a criminal. And he didn't disappear of his own volition. Silco must've had a hand in it.
I'm going to figure out how.
Take care of yourself, okay? Please. I've already lost my brother. I can't lose my best friend too.
Be safe. I'll keep in touch.
Jayce
Cait—
Sorry I took off so early yesterday. There was no time. The Council had an emergency meeting with HexCorp, and I was summoned as its representative.
Things have escalated. Zaun's Cabinet has denied extradition. They claim that Viktor's entry into Zaun was perfectly legal. What's more, they state that the Hexcore, as one of Viktor's primary inventions, is his to take wherever he chooses. They even claim that the Hexcore is a prototype and, therefore, not an official piece of HexCorp's patented technology.
I'd expected the Council to push back. Instead—and I can't believe I'm writing this—they've acquiesced.
I was speechless.
The Council's position is that, as a scientist, Viktor has a right to his intellectual property. I argued that we'd both worked on the Hexcore as a team. Therefore, it wasours. They pointed to our original patent agreement, and the fine print that gives us equal, but not joint, ownership. They also reminded me that, as Viktor was from the Fissures, he was legally a foreigner under Piltover's laws.
I remember, during my tenure as a Councilor, pushing for months to get that stupid provision removed, and having my proposal shot down.
Now it's bit the entire city in the ass.
Cait—I'm ashamed to say it. But I lost my temper. In the middle of the meeting, I slammed my fist on the table and demanded to know why the hell they were backing down. Didn't we have the resources, and the right, to protect those who'd served us? Even if Viktor had exited under a cloud, didn't his deteriorating health and the danger the Hexcore posed justify both their retrieval?
Why, I wanted to know, weren't they summoning Silco here to account for his actions? Why weren't they threatening his administration with military force if he refused to cooperate? Didn't he owe us an explanation as to how our greatest innovator had come into contact with him?
It was Mel who answered. She explained that Silco's administration is a sovereign entity. We don't have the authority to demand an audience, nor the leverage to force his cooperation. We're not even legally bound to warn him. Zaun's Cabinet has the right to act independently of our influence. And, as for Silco's personal agenda, that is beyond the Council's purview. He's not obliged to share his secrets. It's his prerogative, not ours.
In other words, we don't have a leg to stand on.
I was so mad. So mad. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe them. It was the same shit I'd had to deal with when I'd first been nominated as Councilor. Except that time, it was the bureaucracy that was hamstringing me. This time, it's the people who I worked with. People who swore to protect our citizens. Who pledged to defend Piltover's principles.
And who are now acting like cowards, unwilling to do what's necessary.
I called them on it. In front of the entire assembly. I asked them where their courage had gone. Why they weren't fighting. Why they weren't even trying. Was this what Piltover was going to become? A society that allowed its greatest minds to be suborned? What the hell were they planning to do when the next inventor came under Silco's spell?
The meeting ended shortly afterwards.
Mel tried to catch me in the hallway, but I was having none of it. She cornered me by the stairs. She wanted to know if I'd reconsider resigning. If we could talk.
I'll admit I was tempted. I haven't seen her since our split, and it's been hard. I miss her. It'd be nice to just hold her, even for a few minutes. To feel sane again. Safe. I know we can't rekindle things. Not with her position, and mine. But a hug, a kiss, some conversation...anything would've been good.
I turned her down.
I said we had nothing to discuss. That she'd made her position clear, and it was not one I agreed with. I asked her what the point of continuing the conversation was if we couldn't agree on the most fundamental matters. If we'd end up arguing over the same things again. I didn't have time for it. My focus had to be on Viktor. On finding a way to bring him home
She told me I was being foolish. That I'd let my emotions blind me. That my stubbornness was going to be the death of me.
I told her I was fine with that. Because the alternative would be dying inside. That I wasn't willing to let Silco's take everything from me.
Especially not Viktor.
Cait, let's meet. Soon. We've got a lot to discuss. And I can't do this alone.
Jayce.
Cait—
This is going to be a quick one.
The Council and Zaun's Cabinet have arranged a summit. It's slated for next week. Silco is going to attend. We'll be discussing the terms for Viktor's return, and the repatriation of the Hexcore. Mel has been working to make it happen. It's the first sign of progress. It gives me hope. And it's a chance for me to confront Silco directly.
I'm not going to rest until Viktor's back where he belongs.
I'll ask Silco about Violet. I'll corner him in private, if I have to. I'm not sure how the two of them are connected. If they are, at all. But it can't hurt. And the more I can get him talking, the more opportunities I'll have to figure out what the hell is really going on. What he wants. And why.
I'll send a follow-up letter once I've got more information.
Stay strong. And, whatever happens, please don't lose faith. Piltover needs your courage. So do I.
Jayce.
Caitlyn,
I'm so sorry. I need to vent. Too much has happened.
Viktor's staying in Zaun.
So is the Hexcore.
Negotiations fell through. I don't know why. Silco showed up, and he was civil. More than that, actually. He was polite. He shook hands. He thanked the Council for reaching out, and expressed his appreciation at their willingness to compromise. He'd brought along his Deputy and a few members his Cabinet. They were well-dressed, professional. I was impressed. I was relieved. I'd come prepared to do battle, but he seemed determined to cooperate.
Then it all went to shit.
Cait, I can't explain it. But the whole thing felt... staged. Like Silco already knew how it was going to end. Like the Council had already signed off on some private deal, and were simply going through the motions. Mel opened with the usual pleasantries. She asked Silco about his health. His administration. His relationship with Zaun's citizens.
The latter question was a nod to me. A subtle signal that she was leaving the floor open for me to address him.
I did. I'd been preparing for weeks. I'd even gone over my questions with some of the other Councilors. They'd all agreed that the issue had to be addressed. If the Council was serious about building diplomatic ties, and creating a sustainable rapport with Zaun, then Silco's conduct had to be taken seriously. And he couldn't be given an inch.
He needed to be confronted.
So, as soon as the pleasantries were finished, I asked him what his plans were for the Hexcore. For the Peacekeeper Exchange Initiative. Why, if he was a man of the people, was he taking a magical relic that was potentially volatile out of our control? How was it serving his citizens, or the people who'd been entrusted to his care? How was it serving his principles?
And, most importantly, where the hell was Viktor, and what the hell was his game?
Silco smiled.
The bastard actually smiled.
Then he showed me a letter, in Viktor's handwriting, addressed to the Council. It stated that, because of his deteriorating health, he'd chosen to relocate back home. He wrote that there was only so much treatment the doctors at Piltover could provide. Eventually, he'd need more intensive care. And, as a Zaunite, he was entitled access to the physician of his choosing.
His physician was Colin Reveck.
Singed.
Apparently, if Viktor's letter was to be believed, Singed had known Viktor for years. As a chemist, he had a keen understanding of the disease affecting Viktor's lungs. And he'd been working with him on an experimental treatment. That was the reason Shimmer was in Viktor's bloodstream.
It was an integral part of the therapy. Without it, he'd have died long ago.
Silco also presented records of his conversations with Viktor, during which Viktor had confessed to feeling ostracized in Piltover. To having been made to feel bypassed, not only by the Council, but by his own peers.
By me.
Sky's disappearance had hit him hard, and the strain of maintaining his career and his health had left him emotionally depleted. He'd been forced to make a choice, and he'd chosen life.
He'd chosen Zaun.
I demanded proof. I said there was no way Viktor would write a letter like that. No way he'd willingly choose to work with someone like Singed. He'd always despised putting morality aside for progress. He'd never approved of using animals as test subjects. Or people.
I accused Silco of lying. Of blackmailing Viktor, or worse.
Silco showed me a photo.
I'll spare you the worse details. It was Viktor, yes. Definitely him. But the man in the picture looked nothing like my friend. He was... augmented. All over. He had metal plates across his face. There are mechanical appendages in place of his hands. There's gears, and cogs, and wires, on his torso. His throat is encased in a tube, and there is an equalizer outfitted to his chest.
Even his eyes are different. They're no longer his natural color. They're yellow and black. Like hazard lights.
And they glow.
Cait, it was like something out of a nightmare. He looked—he looked like an automaton. Like a cyborg. It wasn't a person anymore. It was a machine. Something created by a mad scientist, and brought to life by evil sorcery.
The timestamp on the photo was two weeks ago. When Viktor was first reported missing. That meant that, between then and now, Viktor had undergone a terrible transformation.
He'd become something inhuman.
Cait, I've known Viktor for years. I've known him better than anyone. But right then, I didn't recognize him. Not even a little bit. And, when I looked up at Silco, I saw him watching me. Watching the horror in my face. Smiling.
Smiling like the Devil himself.
I could've hit him. I would've hit him. Right then and there. But the Councilors intervened. Their security pulled me back. Mel tried to talk me down, but I was too furious. I couldn't believe what I'd seen. I couldn't believe he'd had the nerve to show it. To shove it in our faces. I couldn't believe the Viktor he'd shown me was real.
But it was.
The photograph's been vetted. It's the real deal. So is Viktor's signature. His handwriting hasn't changed. It's been matched to several official documents. His letter, which was accompanied by a medical report from Singed, has also been examined. And, while we've been unable to corroborate its contents, the letter itself has passed a rigorous authenticity test.
Viktor is alive.
And he's staying in Zaun. Under Silco's care.
He's been provided an apartment, a generous stipend, and a state-of-the-art lab. He's been placed in charge of an expanding Hex and chem-tech research division, and given a team of assistants. He's been granted unrestricted access to Zaun's medical facilities for his treatment, and all the resources necessary to conduct his experiments.
All of which are in collaboration with Singed.
There's nothing we can do, Cait. Absolutely nothing. Silco's got him locked in a golden cage. He's using Viktor's genius to advance his agenda, and the fact that he's been augmented is proof that he's not above forcing him into compliance.
Viktor's a casualty. And we're the ones who lost him.
It's all my fault.
They've scheduled a forty-five-minute recess. We'll take a break, then resume for the next session. After that, there'll be a dinner. And more discussions. I can't. I just can't. This is all wrong. Everything. My best friend is gone. Mel and I are no longer together. And the Council. They've failed. Failed us. Failed the city. Failed Viktor.
And something tells me it's going to get a whole lot worse.
Cait, please be patient. I still need to ask Silco about Violet. And I'll do everything I can. You have my word.
Jayce.
Cait—
The summit's over. Silco and his people have left.
And good riddance. I never want to see his rotten face again.
Cait, the whole thing was a sham. A total sham. From beginning to end. Nothing meaningful came out of the meetings. Silco didn't answer a single question. The Council wouldn't hold him to account. Instead, they started discussing the crisis as if it was a business merger. As if it was some kind of deal to be brokered, and a mutually beneficial arrangement to be made.
Silco had the gall to suggest a compromise. He said that Viktor, as a Zaunite, should be allowed to continue his research on the Hexcore. In return, the Council will be permitted to oversee his future Hextech projects. Both cities will collaborate to conduct a monthly audit via a joint Oversight Committee. They'd guarantee a set number of patents, and a share of the profits, and even provide funding for further innovations.
I argued that this was unacceptable. It would give the Council no actual leverage, and would only make them complicit in Viktor's subjugation. That they'd be signing a blank check. And that, by working with Silco, we'd be condoning his crimes.
The Council said nothing. They didn't support me. They didn't even try.
Mel agreed with Silco.
I couldn't believe it. I still can't believe it, Cait. She sided with him. With him!
She said the Council had to think long-term, and that, if we wanted peace, we needed to start acting like the world leaders we claimed to be. She pointed to the economic benefits, and the opportunities the new alliance could create. She reminded everyone that Viktor was a free man, and that he was the one who'd made the decision.
As far as she was concerned, it was his right.
I was outraged. I told her this wasn't the time for political theater or corporate speak. This was a human being's life we were talking about. And Viktor wasn't free. He was a hostage. If the Council really wanted to serve their citizens, they'd stand up to Silco. They'd demand the repatriation of the Hexcore. They'd demand Viktor's release.
Then Silco dropped a bombshell.
He said, as thanks for the Council's cooperation in facilitating Viktor's "return" to Zaun, he'd make a gesture of goodwill. He'd draft legislation to outlaw the production of Shimmer as a narcotic, and to ban its distribution for recreational purposes. And, to prove his intentions were sincere, he'd have the new law approved by a vote, and the legislation made public. Only medicinal uses, he stressed, would remain legal.
The Council, he went on to suggest, could enact a blanket embargo on Shimmer's importation. Points of entry would be monitored, and Piltover would take steps to crack down on illegal trafficking. It would send a message to Piltover's allies, that Zaun was serious about pursuing the path of legitimacy. And that its partnership with Piltover was a symbol of that intent.
I was shocked.
So was Mel. And the rest of the Council. This wasn't what anyone had been expecting. This wasn't the Silco we'd known. He was offering to put himself in our debt. To cut ties with the illegal drug trade, and to allow the Council the opportunity to enforce sanctions against bad actors.
It was a major concession. It would effectively eliminate a key revenue stream in Silco's operation, and cripple the underworld's most valuable market.
Cait, I'll admit it.
I didn't see the trap until it was too late.
Silco doesn't need to distribute Shimmer within his city anymore. Because he's got the Hexcore. And it's capable of making breakthroughs in science and magic, beyond anything we've ever known. He's got some of the world's greatest innovators under his thumb. The only limits are their imaginations.
With the fruits of their labor—and the Council's backing—investors will flock to Zaun. Capital will pour in. The city will grow. Its economy will flourish.
No drugs needed.
I was the only one who spoke out against it. I felt like a complete jerk. But I had to state my case. I argued that the Council had to consider the risks. That we couldn't trust Silco, no matter how immaculately he dressed up his proposal. Who was to say he wouldn't take the Council's investment and put it into other ventures? What if he began funneling the investors' coin, and used it to finance bioweapons? What if he turned Zaun into an armory, right under Piltover's feet?
And, even if he did give up the drug trade, what about his human trafficking? His smuggling? The brothels, and the casinos, and the illegal fighting pits?
What about his ties to organized crime?
The Council dismissed my concerns.
They were eager. Eager to shake hands. Eager to sign on the dotted line. Eager to move forward.
The deal, Mel explained, would be the cornerstone of a lasting relationship between Zaun and Piltover. The Council's approval was vital. It would lend a stamp of legitimacy to Zaun's new order. And, she stated, it was the only way to avoid future conflict.
I was disgusted.
She was trying to sell the summit as a success. Like we hadn't given up a critical piece of our national defense, and put it into the hands of a foreign dictator. Like Silco hadn't blackmailed Viktor, or taken advantage of his illness, or exploited his vulnerability. Like he wasn't an abusive tyrant who ruled by fear, and murdered in cold blood.
Like he hadn't just gotten away with everything.
Cait, I can't tell you what happened. I don't have the words. I was angry. So, so angry. And disappointed. With the Council. With Mel. With myself. I couldn't stand to be there a moment longer.
So I walked out.
After the summit, I waited to catch Silco in the lobby. He was heading towards his limo. There were no security personnel. Just him and his Deputy Chancellor and a blackguard. He was smoking a cigar, and strolling like a man with all the time in the world.
I didn't say a word. I didn't hesitate. I grabbed him and pinned him against the wall.
I told him he had a choice. Either he could hand over Viktor and the Hexcore, or I'd beat the truth out of him.
The bastard smiled. Hesmiledat me.
Then he said, "Pet."
Someone grabbed me from behind. An arm went around my throat. A hand wrenched my elbow behind my back. I struggled, but couldn't break free. The grip was like iron. I half-turned, expecting to see Silco's Deputy. It was the blackguard.
Cait...
It was Violet.
She was in a full-on bodyguard get-up. Black suit. Black shirt. Black visor. Black boots. Her was cropped short, and she'd gained muscle. She looked lean, and hard, and strong.
Like a soldier.
She didn't say a word. She kept me in a sleeper hold, until the Deputy arrived with security. I don't know how many Councilors saw me in that position. I don't know what they must've been thinking, or what they must've been saying.
I was seeing stars. I was dizzy. I could barely breathe.
Then Silco said, "Drop him."
Violet obeyed.
When I came to, I was on my knees. My neck hurt. My arm hurt. My head was pounding. It was hard to focus. Then two steel-tipped boots materialized in my line of sight. I looked up, and there was Silco, looking down on me.
He was calm. Collected. Completely at ease.
"You'll have to forgive her," he said. "She's still being trained."
Cait, he knew.
He knew I'd ask him about Violet. He knew you'd placed inquiries looking for her. He knew we were concerned for her wellbeing.
So he'd had her accompany him to the summit, as a deliberate provocation.
He was taunting us both.
"I'd advise you, as a personal favor, to not try this again," he said. "If you do, you may find the outcome... less forgiving."
I told him to go fuck himself.
I think he smiled again. It's hard to remember.
With a fingertip, he gestured Violet over. She came. I'll never forget that. The way she obeyed. Without hesitation. Without question. Not once did she acknowledge my presence. I still remember when I'd drop by for tea sometimes at your flat, and she'd scowl when she saw me. Or roll her eyes. Or say, "Oh, look. Pretty-Boy's here."
There was none of that. Nothing. Just total silence.
Then Silco took her by the chin.
"There's a good girl," he said, and stroked her cheek.
It made my skin crawl.
I told myself it was because of Silco. Since the Siege, I'd been looking into his past, and there's enough material in the dossiers to turn your blood to icewater. I can't imagine the psychic price of serving that monster. I can't even imagine the pressure of being a blackguard at his beck-and-call.
I told myself it was the thought of Violet at his mercy, night after night. I told myself it was because she'd lost her autonomy. That she was trapped. That she was under duress.
I told myself that's why my gut was churning.
I'm sorry, Cait.
That's not the truth.
The truth is, I wasn't scared of Silco.
I was scared of Violet.
No—I was terrified.
Cait—there was a look in her eyes. I don't know how to describe it. A coldness, almost. Like she wasn't seeing me, or the Deputy, or anyone. Only Silco. She didn't flinch when he touched her. She didn't even blink. She was completely unmoved. Like a soldier on the parade ground.
Like a weapon waiting to open fire.
The limo pulled up. Silco and his Deputy got inside. I remember Vi holding the door open for them. And I remember her turning, one last time, to look at me.
There was nothing in her face. No emotion. No recognition. No regret.
Just empty.
Then she got inside, and the door swung shut. They drove off.
I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. Cait, it's all I can think about. How different she looks. How hard she seems. And that stare. That terrifying, horrible stare.
What the hell did Silco do to her?
Cait, I'm coming to visit. We have a lot to talk about.
Jayce
Cait—
I have news.
Big news.
After I left your flat, I went straight home. A courier had just dropped a missive off at my place.
It was from the Wardens.
Their theory on Viktor being responsible for Sky's disappearance is crumbling. Despite their suspicions that Viktor was the last man to see her, their investigation has been unable to locate a single shred of evidence.
Viktor's laboratory is clean. No fingerprints, no signs of foul play, no indication of a struggle. Even the cameras, which the Wardens have accessed using a subpoena, showed no signs of her leaving with him. Her clothes, and belongings, were still inside the building. And her bike was still parked outside.
They're still not sure how she vanished. It's like she was swallowed up by a black hole.
As for the DNA—a secondary lab test revealed it was a mistake. Just a case of cross-contamination. They'd mistaken an old sample from a previous search in Sky's apartment. The report had gotten mixed up with Viktor's case file. The mistake had been made by an intern, who'd mislabeled a sample, and the senior investigators had simply repeated the error.
All in all, it was a complete botch-up.
The evidence is circumstantial. There's nothing that implicates Viktor.
For now, they've dropped charges.
I should be thankful. I know Viktor hasn't committed any crimes, and there's no concrete evidence of his guilt. It was a stretch to accuse him of involvement in Sky's disappearance.
But now there's a nagging doubt in the back of my mind. The timing's too convenient. First the Council caves to Zaun, and lets Viktor remain as Silco's prisoner. Now the Wardens have decided, of their own accord, not to press charges.
It makes no sense.
Worse, my own mind's playing tricks on me. I keep replaying the night Sky was reported missing. How distraught Viktor was. How he could barely speak. Barely look at me. He was a wreck, and I believed his distress was sincere. I'd told the Wardens, time and again, that there was no way Viktor had done anything to harm Sky.
I'd vouched for him.
Now, though...now, I'm not so sure.
The thing is, we still don't have all the facts from that night. Sky was last seen exiting her office at eight o' clock. The cameras see her walking down the main corridor. Then, at nine thirty, her assistant goes in to check on her, and finds her gone. Her bike's still there. Her street clothes are still on the rack. All her possessions are still inside.
But no Sky.
Where the hell did she go?
The cameras don't show her exiting the building. Which means she must still be in there. Except there's no trace of her. None.
Then it hit me.
The Hex-lab—mine and Viktor's workspace—had no cameras. A security camera had been installed, but Viktor had requested it be removed. He'd said, and I quote, "We are scientists. Our work necessitates a degree of privacy." It was part of our terms with the Council, and an addendum to our patent agreement. The lab would be kept off-limits, except to those involved with the project.
Viktor, Sky, and I were the only one who had the keycard.
And Viktor was the only person in the lab that night.
Caitlyn—I'm worried. It's possible I've made a terrible mistake. I've been so fixated on finding Viktor, I haven't stopped to ask myself why. Why would Viktor disappear without a word? Why would he take all his notes, abandon his post, and go into hiding? Why wouldn't he ask me for help? Or at least leave a note?
I've been thinking—what if he doesn't want to be found?
What if something bad happened between him and Sky? Something so terrible, he had no choice but to run?
Cait, please—help me figure this out. I feel I'm on the cusp of something awful.
Your friend,
Jayce.
Cait,
I had a fight with Mel.
I'm ashamed to say it. To be honest, it's embarrassing. I've never raised my voice at her before. Or sworn at her. Or, frankly, behaved like such a prick.
Here's what happened.
After my talk with you, I went straight to her penthouse. I was in a bad place. I'd hit the bar—awful idea, I know—and then gone for a walk. It was raining. I ended up in one of the city's parks. It's near her place. I sat on a bench and tried to get my thoughts together. Everything—why Viktor could've left, why Sky might've disappeared, why the Council were so willing to negotiate with Silco—was running through my head.
I just wanted to talk. I wanted a friend. I wanted her.
Cait—you told me how hard it's been since Violet left. How much you've been hurting. Not the everyday stuff. I know about that. But it's the other things, too. Like how you don't feel like yourself anymore. Like there's something hollow in you, that only she can fill. And nights are the worst. You miss the closeness. You miss the warmth.
And, Gods help me, the sex.
That's the part I miss the most. I can't tell you how many times I've woken up at night, dreaming about Mel, and I've had to stop myself from calling her up at four o'clock in the morning.
It's hard, Cait. Being apart. It's really hard.
I know how you feel. So you'll understand perfectly why I went to see Mel. I know we broke things off. I know it was my decision. And, no, I didn't expect us to pick up where we'd left off.
I just wanted someone to talk to.
Before I knew it, I was at her penthouse. I was soaked, and cold, and drunk. It was the middle of the night. But the doorman recognized me. He let me in, and called ahead to let her know.
She was waiting for me.
I'll never forget how she looked, Cait. She was wearing a silk robe. One of my favorites: all white lace and gold brocade. Her hair was loose, and it smelled like hyacinths. You know, I've never told you this, but I used to comb Mel's hair before bed. I wasn't very good at it. Sometimes I'd end up pulling too hard. But she'd smile, each time, and show me the trick to gently working through the knots. She'd kiss my hands. Then she'd kiss me.
Then—
Well, I think you know.
Seeing her again. Seeing her so soft, and warm, and lovely. It took my breath away.
It took everything.
Cait, I'm not going to lie. We ended up in bed. She said she'd missed me. And, damn it, I'd missed her. So much.
So very, very much.
I can't say I don't love her. How can I not? She's smart, and gorgeous, and funny. She's passionate. She's fearless. And I admire her. She has a way of commanding a room, but also of making every single person feel heard. She makes me feel heard. When I talk to her, I feel like I can say anything. Do anything. Be anything.
I needed that. I needed her.
She felt the same.
It was beautiful. Intimate. Wonderful. Sure, at first, we were both a little awkward, and I'd forgotten to shave the past few days. But, after a few minutes, we were like two people who'd never left each other. Two people who'd never been apart.
Two people in love.
When we finished, we held each other. Then she kissed my cheek, and whispered in my ear, "Jayce, darling... you're home."
And, Cait, it felt like it. Like I'd finally come home.
It's not until after I'd showered, and was heading back into the bedroom, that the doubts crept in. Those nagging little doubts. Things I'd pushed down. Things I didn't want to confront. Like how the Council and Silco seemed to be on the same page in advance. Like how they were giving him carte blanche to exploit a man's genius, and use it for their own gains.
Like how Mel, out of everyone, seemed to know exactly what Silco was thinking.
Like she was expecting it.
I slipped back into bed with Mel, and I held her. Still, the questions came in my head. They came quietly. Softly. Then, as the silence between us grew, they began to gain volume. Until I was sure she could hear them too.
Then I asked her the question.
"Why didn't you fight?"
At first, she pretended not to understand. So I said it again, louder.
"Why didn't you fight, Mel? Why didn't the Council?"
She turned. She was looking at me. Searching my face.
"You had a chance," I told her. "You could've fought for Viktor. You could've fought for me. Why didn't you?"
There was a long silence.
"I didn't have a choice," she said.
"Bullshit."
"It's the truth. I didn't. Jayce—you don't understand. There's more at stake than just the Hexcore. It's a small piece of a bigger issue. That issue being—how can we maintain our peace with Zaun. You have to understand. It's not only about your friend."
"Viktor. His name is Viktor."
"Viktor, yes. But we need to think of the whole picture. It's not just him. It's our trade agreements. It's our economic stability. It's our reputation as a city. As the City of Progress."
"So it's not important, what's happening to him. Because he's not a Piltovan, he's expendable."
"That's not what I'm saying. Please. Don't twist my words."
"Then what are you saying?"
"I'm saying that a single man, or his personal rights, cannot eclipse the good of a city. You've been obsessed. You've been chasing shadows, instead of addressing the real problems."
"Like the Council selling out their best innovator to a dictator."
For the first time, her eyes disconnected from mine. "He isn't a dictator."
"Isn't he? What do you call someone who murders his way to the top, and uses his power to enslave his citizens?"
"We've held discussions, Silco and I. He wants prosperity for his city. Freedom for his people. I want the same for ours. To achieve that, we must compromise on certain issues. He's no model of merciful leadership, I grant you. But he's a pragmatic man. A visionary. Someone who can bring lasting change."
"He's a monster."
"Jayce. Darling. Your anger blinds you. I know he's committed terrible crimes. And yes, we've made deals that neither of us is pleased with. But, in the end, the outcome is worth the price. Our cities will grow together. We'll create a lasting, sustainable peace."
"At the cost of my best friend'."
"Viktor chose to leave. It's his right."
"Only because he had no choice. He couldn't stay in Piltover. Not with the Wardens falsely accusing him."
"Jayce—" A shadow fell across her face. "Please. Stop. This isn't getting us anywhere. Can't you see that? If you keep on fighting, you'll only make things worse."
"Worse for who? The Council?"
"For Viktor. And… for you."
There was something in her eyes. Something dark. Almost desperate.
"Please, Jayce. You need to trust me. I've been working to protect you. You've no idea the things I've—" She cut herself off.
I asked her what she was talking about. I asked her what the hell was going on.
That's when she told me.
Cait, the Warden's investigation? Mel is the one who called it off. Not because of circumstantial evidence. Not because of the waste of resources. Not because the security camera footage was inconclusive.
She called it off, because the Wardens had irrefutable proof that Viktor had killed Sky.
It wasn't just the fact that he was the last man to see Sky alive. Or the fact that she was last seen near the corridor to the Hex-lab.
It was the fact that, in the lab itself, they found Sky.
Or rather, her bone dust.
It was everywhere. Motes of it, on the floor. On the chairs. On the workbench. Someone had tried to clean it up, but not thoroughly. Not enough to remove the residue. And the forensics team had been able to confirm, using chemical analysis, that the samples were mixed with Viktor's DNA.
His, and no one else's.
The Wardens had issued an arrest warrant. Then Mel had intervened.
"It would've been a disaster," she told me. "A disaster for him. A disaster for Zaun. And for us. I had no choice, Jayce. None."
I was shocked. My brain couldn't comprehend what she was saying. It was impossible. Viktor wasn't a murderer. He couldn't be. He just couldn't.
I asked her if Silco knew.
She admitted that he did. He was the one, in fact, who'd tipped the Wardens off. Apparently, a remark Viktor had made during a conversation with his Deputy Chancellor had caught Silco's attention. He'd sent a blackguard to Viktor's lab, on the pretext of collecting leftover notes. During a search, the blackguard found traces of bone dust. He collected the sample and turned it over to the Wardens.
There were no signs of tampering. The evidence was months old. And it was damning.
"I can't believe this." I whispered.
Mel put her arms around me. She held me tight.
"Jayce," she said. "I'm sorry. Silco and I—we decided that the best thing would be for Viktor to remain in Zaun. For the charges to be dropped. So long as he confines his work to the Fissures, he'll have complete freedom. But should he return to Piltover..."
She didn't finish.
She didn't need to.
Cait, the Council and Silco. They've conspired against Viktor. Against both of us. They're letting him remain in Zaun, so that he can continue his research on the Hexcore. But, should he return, he'll be arrested.
And I'll be forced to testify.
It was too much. The idea that my best friend could be a killer. The fact that Mel knew. That she'd been complicit. The betrayal, by the Council, who'd gone along with it all. The duplicity. The corruption.
It was just too much.
I couldn't stop myself. I lost control. I leapt out of bed. I shouted. I called her a liar. I asked her how she could do it. How she could let him stay, and put him in danger. How she could be so calculating. So cold.
So much like... Silco.
She didn't answer. She was crying. I've never seen Mel cry. Never.
And, Gods help me, I didn't care.
Cait, I stormed out of her flat. I left her there, in tears.
I can't go back. I can't forgive her. I can't forgive myself.
I'm writing you now from a bar. It's three o' clock in the morning. I can't go home. I can't bear to sleep. I can't stop thinking. About the summit. About Mel. About Viktor.
About the future.
Cait, please help.
I'm lost.
Jayce
Jayce—
Destroy this message the minute you read it. You're being monitored.
Your apartment is being watched.
Your office, too.
I know, because so is mine.
Silco knows you're trying to make contact with Viktor. He knows I'm trying to reach out to Vi. The only reason he's permitted you to communicate with me is to bait a trap. I've gone back and deleted every missive I've written to you. Do the same. You need to watch your back. If the Wardens find out you've been trying to make contact with a suspected killer, it's not just your career.
It's your freedom.
You're a private citizen now. They won't hesitate to arrest you. And I won't be able to stop them.
Jayce, this is serious.
You're a hero. You're the face of Hextech. You've changed the world. You can't afford to throw it away. If you get caught, it'll be catastrophic.
Please. I'm begging you. You have to stop.
We can't contact each other via missive. Not until I can figure a way out of this.
Caitlyn
Caitlyn,
Don't worry. I won't put you in danger. I've found a workaround. I've created a secure channel, which will allow us to correspond without being intercepted. I've also modified the pneumatic tubes. It will take some time, but I can rig a system, which will ensure the messages are delivered directly to your desk.
I need a favor.
Your department has access to the Warden's database. How high is your clearance? Can you get access to their records on Sky? I'd like to have a look at their files.
I'll explain when I see you.
Jayce
Jayce,
I got in.
Here are the files.
Hurry. I don't know how long the clearance will last.
Cait
Cait—
Thank you.
This is incredible. You're amazing.
I've been reading through the records. It's difficult, because a lot of stuff has been redacted. But I've managed to piece together the timeline of Sky's disappearance. It's hard to believe, but the case has been open since the day she went missing. It's bigger than the Wardens let on to the Council.
There's more here than I expected.
According to the records, the Wardens were already investigating Viktor. He'd been placed on their Watch List, under suspicion of having ties with the Undercity's chemists. It was a flimsy pretext, and he wasn't a suspect. Just a person of interest.
They were tracking his movements, to see if he had any known associates belowground.
Then Sky was killed.
By now, I know she was killed. It's hard to watch. There's security footage, from the night she went missing. It's in black-and-white, and it's grainy. You can see Sky, exiting her office, and walking down the main hall. She's still in her lab coat, with her notes under her arm. Her hair's up, but her ponytail's slipping. She's got a smile on her face, and a spring in her step.
It's strange, Cait. But I can tell, even though she's just a shadow on the screen… she's happy.
She's going to see Viktor.
I know she's going to see Viktor, because the security cameras are tracking her movements. They show her walking down the main hallway, past my office, and into the stairwell. From there, she goes to the third floor. The cameras lose her there. There's no coverage inside the Hex-lab.
It has no cameras, remember.
But something happens six minutes later. There's a—a fluctuation, almost. In the video. The image blurs. It's like the camera's glitching.
Except it's not the camera.
Cait, I've seen that fluctuation before.
It's a Hex-field.
I can tell because, while the image distorts, the edges of the hallway remain sharp. Which means the field's expanding outward, in a dome pattern, from a central source. The source, in question, is the Hexcore.
It's been activated.
I've checked the timeline. The hex-field is only active for a few seconds. Then it's gone.
But Sky never returns.
I've been over the footage a hundred times. And the conclusion's always the same.
Sky entered the lab. She met Viktor. Then he killed her.
Why, I can't say. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it was something else. The point is, her remains were never found. Only traces of her bones.
I've got to find him, Cait. I've got to talk to him.
I've got to understand what happened.
Jayce
Cait—
It's a trap.
You were right.
I did something stupid. I didn't think. I took a risk, and it's backfired.
I went into Zaun. I had no formal dispensation; no notarized travel pass; no clearance from the Council. I was, effectively, trespassing on foreign soil.
I didn't care.
I was going to find Viktor. I needed answers on what had happened. I wasn't going to let him stay down there, hiding from what he'd done. I was going to make him tell the truth. Then, maybe, we could figure out how to fix this mess.
So, in the middle of the night, I armed myself with my hammer. I went down to the harbor. I was careful to avoid the usual checkpoints you'd told me about. I headed for a small, out-of-the-way pier, where the patrols were less frequent. I'd borrowed a friend's boat. It was small, and not the fastest, but it's quiet. I managed to sneak past the harbor's first buoys.
Then, I crossed the border.
Zaun's different now.
I remember the last time I was in the Fissures to get supplies. Back before the Siege. It was rundown. It was rancid. The streets were in disrepair. The people were sullen. There was poverty and sickness, and a sense of despair.
Things have changed.
The Promenade's undergone a transformation. It's like a state-of-the-art motherboard framed in multicolored neon. They've repaired the streets. The buildings are lit up like stars. They're clean. Pristine. Even the air smells different. Less acrid.
It's almost... pleasant.
It was late, but the shops were open. The crowds were out in full-force. They were mingling in the plazas, drinking at the bars, dancing in the squares. I passed an upscale club, and there was a line snaking all the way around the block. There were people of all classes and creeds, and they were dressed up, and celebrating.
Like it was a holiday.
I couldn't believe it. After everything that monster's done, the people of Zaun are out, and living it up, like it's the greatest carnival in the world. Like they're grateful. Grateful to have Silco in charge.
Cait, it's surreal.
It's as if, after years of fear, they're finally free. Not only free from Piltover's control—from its judgment, its oppression, its prejudice. It's like they're free in their souls. They're happy. Joyous.
But I can't shake the feeling that they're in a trance. As if, with the bright lights and poppy colors, Silco is hypnotizing them. He'd holding them in thrall, so they'll worship him, and not notice the bodies he's left in his wake.
That's how I felt, walking through the Promenade. Like I was following a parade of automatons, fueled on sensory ecstasy.
I tried talking to a few passersby, and they seemed nice. Friendly.
Some of them, too friendly.
I'm not sure how, but they knew I was a Topsider. A couple of them offered to give me directions. Others were eager to buy me drinks. A few asked if I'd like a dance.
One thing's for certain: they're much more welcoming now. Like, now that Zaun's nearabouts Piltover's equal, bygones can be bygones, and no one cares about a bit of old history.
I wasn't there to debate history, though. I was there to find Viktor.
I asked a few of the locals if they'd heard of him. It didn't seem to ring any bells, though a few said he sounded familiar. Then I mentioned he'd worked on Hex-tech, and a chorus rose up.
"Oh! The Machinist!"
That's what they call him in Zaun. They've forgotten his name. Or maybe they don't care.
What matters is that he's terraforming the urban landscape. Changing the city. Bringing the Fissures up to par. Creating a new Zaun, and building it up from ground-zero
I was shocked. He's already begun work? It's only been a few weeks.
But it's true. Apparently, Silco has put him in charge of a full-scale revitalization project. He's using the Hexcore to create new infrastructural designs. Changing the way the city is laid out, and making the Fissures over from a mud-hole into a metropolis. He has a whole team of engineers, and an entourage of blackguards. Every week, they're working on a new layer of the city.
A fresh coat of paint, if you will.
This week, they were overhauling the turbines. The next, the power grid. The one after that, the sewage system. By the time the Expo's begun, Zaun will be a chromed-up paradise.
And Silco will be lauded as its liberator.
The irony.
I was told he'd be working on the turbines this week, and to head toward the eastside. So, that's where I went.
The zone was a hive of activity. Tremors from power-drills under my feet; sparks from welding torches in the air; bodies swarming over scaffoldings. It looked like a small army had been drafted, and was working their hands to the bone. The entire sector had been cordoned off.
The turbines stood on platforms, towering over the street. They were colossal works-in-progress: rivets the size of hubcaps, steel girders dense as concrete blocks, pistons the width of my chest. They were astonishing, Cait. The scale of them was unreal. Their alloy-shelled interiors seemed to be a combination of metallurgical compounds and Fissure-seam crystals, the two meshed together into a seamless matrix with a shimmery-green tint.
There were runes, too.
Hex-runes.
They were inscribed all over the turbines. And, judging by the way the technicians were treating them, they weren't simply decorative. They were a critical component of the new design.
I'd never seen anything like it.
I couldn't help but admire Viktor's work. He'd done all this in less than a month. Except it wasn't just him. Here and there, I saw a familiar monkey motif scrawled into the blueprints, or decorating the turbine's frame.
It was Jinx's signature.
It hit me, then, like a gut punch. Viktor hadn't done this alone. Jinx was collaborating with him. Her notes were scattered throughout the designs. This wasn't a solitary operation with a spur-of-the-moment breakthrough. This was a joint venture, between two rogue agents. One that must have been in the works for months.
Or longer.
I felt a chill go down my spine.
Silco had likely planned this—this coup—from the moment of the Peace Treaty.
And there was no telling what he had planned next.
Cait, I had to stop him. I had to find Viktor.
I asked a few technicians if they'd seen him. I was directed to the south end. I didn't have a plan. All I knew was that I had to find him. Confront him. Demand an explanation.
Then I saw him.
He stood in the middle of the mayhem, directing the crew. At first glance, he seemed the same. Same height. Same build. Same accent. But that was a trick of the eye. Like my memory was a distorting medium, and my mind had supplanted an old image onto a new reality.
Because, when he turned, it was like he'd been replaced by someone else.
Someone I barely recognized.
He seemed taller, somehow. His movements were more fluid; his stiffness less pronounced. He didn't walk. He glided. The balls of his feet seemed to float a bare millimeter above the ground, as if the air itself was propelling him forward. And the way he carried himself, with such confident assurance—it was like his world had expanded, in the span of a few weeks, from a sickbed to a stage.
That's when I noticed his cane was different.
It wasn't the ergonomic model he'd designed for himself, as his mobility declined. This was a prong-tipped rod, polished black, with a barb at the base. Like a javelin. It was a definite case of function over form. No aesthetic appeal. No concession to comfort.
Just a weapon.
But, Cait, that's not what unnerved me the most.
That was Viktor himself.
Because he wasn't Viktor. He was some unnervingly close approximation dressed in patches of Viktor's skin, with steel seams running through the missing spots. His skull, torso and limbs are half-cybernetic. The right leg—the one that 'never behaved' as he'd sometimes put it—has been replaced with a mechanical prosthesis. It's got a titanium exoskeleton, a carbon-fiber frame, and a hydraulic heel. The knee's a ball joint. The thigh's an articulated piston. It's like a work of art. The most horrifying work of art you could imagine.
But it's not just his leg.
His right hand—the one he'd taken to wearing a glove on—is now a four-fingered steel claw. It's hinged at the wrist, and the phalanges are articulated, and the palm's been fitted with a projectile port.
I know, because I watched him fire it.
It was a blackguard, one of the many onsite. The guy was being a dick. He was bullying some of the workers, and shouting at them, and generally harassing everyone within earshot.
Then Viktor walked up, and calmly ordered him to stand down.
The blackguard laughed.
Viktor didn't hesitate. He didn't say a word. He lifted a hand. The steel palm opened, and the projectile port spun, and the muzzle flared, and a blast of hot green light shot out, and blasted a hole straight through the guy's sleeve. It must have singed his skin, too, because the blackguard let out a howl.
Then he fell to his knees, groveling apologies.
Viktor, with terse instructions to the rest of the crew, turned, and left.
I couldn't believe it.
He'd shot at a man.
Without flinching. Without pausing to consider the consequences. Without even acknowledging the guy's pain.
He'd changed, Cait.
The Viktor I knew was gentle. He had a self-effacing slouch, an earnest smile, and an uncanny ability to see the best in people. He was always questioning, always second-guessing, always willing to learn.
This man was nothing like that.
This man was... hard.
As if the softness had been drained from him.
Just like Violet.
As he strode off, I was able to catch strains of conversation. Cait—his voice has changed completely. He's got an equalizer attached to his mouth, which runs on a small internal pump, and has an integrated voice modulator. It's the reason his accent's less pronounced. His tone's deeper, too. It's more authoritative. More commanding.
Less human.
The rest of his face is the same as the photograph. There are sensors on his cheeks, and his jaw is augmented with a cybernetic clamp. Then there's the eyes. The sockets are lined with a copper alloy, and the lenses are bionic. No pupils; no sclera. Just two reflective orbs with a glowing core. Golden and black.
It's like looking into a pair of glowing embers.
Except they're cold.
I followed him. He wasn't going far. There was a trailer nearby, where blueprints were spread out over a makeshift table. He stepped inside. I'd expected to see Jinx. I was sure she'd be there. After all, she was collaborating with him. She'd drawn up half the diagrams, and, by the looks of things, had helped him implement them, too.
But the trailer was empty.
Viktor was alone.
Then I realized Viktor knew I was there.
"Jayce," he said, without turning around. "You are trespassing."
His voice, even through the equalizer, was the same.
Except it wasn't.
It was cold, too.
"Viktor," I said. "We need to talk."
He still didn't turn. "If the blackguards find you, they will arrest you. And, should they do so, I cannot guarantee your safety."
"I don't care."
"You should."
"I know what happened to Sky."
There was a prolonged silence punctuated by the distant sound of power tools. Then, very slowly, he turned. Our eyes met, and even though every muscle and nerve ending in my body fought it, I couldn't stop myself from flinching at the totality of his transformation.
At the eeriness of it.
"Sky," he said, at last, "is gone"
"I know. She's dead. The Wardens found her bone-dust in your lab. You killed her."
"Jayce, you don't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
"I didn't kill her. Not in the way you think."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Viktor, you were the last person to see her alive. She was last seen near the Hex-lab. There are traces of her DNA mixed in with your own. What the fuck am I supposed to think?"
He said nothing. His breathing rasped like an iron file through the air. It was a strange, grating sound. His lungs, I understood, had been augmented, too. The extent of the mechanization, in such short a time-frame, couldn't be man-made.
Then I understood.
"Magic," I said.
He didn't answer.
"That's what happened, didn't it? You were using the Hexcore's magic. Not on tools. On yourself. And you didn't want anyone to know."
Still he said nothing.
"But it went wrong, didn't it? The Hexcore did something to her. She was in the lab, and something happened, and she got hurt. Badly. So badly that you had to dispose of her. And you thought, if you were careful, no one would ever find out. That you'd get away with it."
"Jayce—"
"Is that why you left? Because you were afraid of being caught? Dammit, Viktor, answer me!"
He looked at me, and the stare was preternaturally calm. But I could feel an intense heat cooking the air around him. He didn't raise his voice, or gesticulate, or make any move against me.
He kept on staring.
"Jayce," he said at last, "before I left Piltover, I was working on a theory. One involving the Hexcore. I had discovered that, with the right runic sequence, it was possible to channel its subatomic energies into living flesh. Through an organic compound as the catalyst, and the correct sequence as a stabilizer, the Hexcore's powers would no longer be tied to its physical matrix. We'd use it to augment living things. Restore damaged muscle. Heal sick tissue. Repair a faulty organ. Even..."
"What?"
"Prolonglife."
Dazed, I shook my head. "Viktor, that's impossible. That level of transfiguration—"
"Can be achieved. All that's necessary is for the Hexcore to sustain the right frequency, at the correct resonance. A harmonic pattern, if you will."
"We tried, remember? We tried, with plants and fungi. We couldn't even manage to make a weed grow. The results crumbled, or rotted, or—"
"—died. Yes." His breath shivered like a metal grate in a storm. "That is because the runic sequence is incomplete. To channel the Hexcore's power, a keystone rune is needed. Something to anchor the harmonics. Act as the focus. Without it—"
"Viktor, please. You're not making any sense—"
"I was trying to extend life, Jayce!"
For the first time, the flat dial tone of his voice shifted. I heard, subaudible but discernible, a quaver of grief.
"Extend life," he whispered. "Not take it."
It took a moment for the meaning to sink in. My breath came hot, nauseous. "You messed up. Didn't you?"
"Jayce—"
"You screwed up. Something went wrong. You did something to Sky. You killed her."
He gave a single jerky nod.
My guts turned over. The fear had been replaced with disgust. With anger. I couldn't stand to look at him. To see what he'd done.
What he'd become.
"Where's her body?" I demanded.
"It's gone."
"Gone? Gone where?"
He rubbed his jaw, the bones grinding side-to-side. It was old gesture. The one he'd make, whenever he was uncomfortable. Or guilty.
"It was consumed."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Jayce, please. You must believe me. I—I did not intend for her to die. I did not even realize she was there until after—"
"After?"
The glow in his bionic eyes dimmed. "The Hexcore, when it opened, created a feedback loop. The catalyst in my blood was to be the sensor, absorbing the concentration of the energy's signals. The runes on my body were the integrating centers, the medium through which the feedback would be channeled. But—but there was not enough of one to balance the other."
I understood. "The Shimmer. That's why it was in your bloodstream. It interacts with the Hexcore's harmonics. Instead of destabilizing the resonance, it amplifies the feedback. It's what allows you to maintain a stable connection."
"Yes."
"And the runes. They're not for stabilization. They're for augmentation. For transmutation."
"Yes."
"And Sky? Where did she fit into all this?"
A strange darkness filmed Viktor's bionic eyes. "She was not meant to be there. I should have—should have locked the door. Should have—but no, I did not think. It was too much, the moment. The chance, too great. If it had worked—" He broke off. His head drooped, slowly, as if his neck was made of wires stretched too taut. "She was there. The Hexcore's field was activated. It took her."
"Took her."
"Blindly. As a mouth takes in food. She was trying to pull me away. She was saying my name. Viktor. Viktor. She did not understand." His cybernetic fingers flexed around his cane. "I could not stop it. Could not shut down the Hexcore. The energy—it was too strong. Too much."
"You're saying the Hexcore absorbed her?"
"Her flesh. Then her bones. Then her essence. Until nothing remained." His chest vibrated, like an engine winding down. "Nothing but dust."
A cold fist gripped my heart. I thought of the security footage. The fluctuation, and the blur. It hadn't been a camera glitch.
It had been the Hexcore.
"Viktor," I breathed. "My Gods."
His head remained bowed.
"This is why, isn't it? Why you asked me to destroy the Hexcore. You knew, then. Knew how powerful it was. How dangerous. You wanted me to shut it down."
"Destroy it," he whispered. "Yes. But that was before—"
"Before, what?"
"Sky. In her notes. She'd left me a—a message. Only, it was never intended for my eyes." He unstuck his jaw with effort, as if his teeth were glued together. As if the words themselves were too heavy to shape. "Sky was working on a project. One I'd encouraged. Every week, she would show me her findings. I would provide suggestions, or offer assistance. She was a brilliant researcher, Jayce. And unlike myself... she never forgot her roots."
I swallowed. It was hard, around the knot in my throat. "What—what was her project?"
"Life." The word was soft, almost reverent. "Here, in Zaun. She'd designed blueprints for a filtration plant. Something to purify the water. Sewage removal. Runoff collection. All to make the streets where she—where we both—grew up, safer. A habitable home for the people who needed it most."
"And now... you're building it."
"Yes."
"With Silco's blood money."
He lifted his head. The contours of his expression iced over, remote. "The blood money is the Council's. Silco is only the siphon."
"What—?"
"Or do you not hold the Councilors complicit in the Undercity's degradation?"
"That's not—"
"Not the same?" Something in his bionic eyes crackled. It could've been anger, or amusement, or a thousand other emotions, and I wouldn't have known the difference. "Tell me, Jayce. Why are you here?"
I was taken aback. "Because—because I needed to know the truth."
"You know the truth." The last humanity dissolved out of his voice, leaving a mechanical buzz. "You wanted to hold me accountable."
"If you'd killed Sky—"
"You've killed too, Jayce."
A stone lodged in my chest. It was cold. It was hard.
It was the truth.
Cait—only you, Violet and Mel know what I did. That night, at Silco's Shimmer factory. The boy caught in the crossfire. The boy who'd died because of my recklessness. I've lived with the memory of his face ever since. It's haunted me. Night and day. No matter how much I've tried to justify it. No matter how many good deeds I've done.
The fact is, I took a life.
And Viktor knew.
For so long, I'd kept it from him, out of shame but also fear. The fear of him judging me, as no different from the other Topsiders. The same ones who'd mistreated him as a boy; who'd buried his city under their refuse and left the people to rot. I was afraid, Cait, of him hating me. Of him realizing how little I deserved his friendship.
And now he did.
Silco, I thought, icy splinters of rage in my gut. He knew too.
He knew—and he'd used the knowledge to turn Viktor against me.
"Viktor," I began.
"Jayce." His voice was dead as the grave. "Do not."
"Look, please, I—"
"You should not have come. Your presence will be construed as hostile. There will be consequences."
"Then let's leave. Come back with me. I can protect you. The Council, they'll—"
"Forgive me?" His lips approximated a smile. "No. That, I think, will not happen."
"You can't stay here. Not under Silco's thumb. He's using you, Viktor. Using the Hexcore. You can't trust him. Can't you see?"
"I can. You cannot."
"Viktor—"
"I cannot return to Piltover, Jayce. My mistakes have made it impossible. I understand that." The mechanical ruthlessness returned to his voice. "You, in turn, must understand. I will not return, because of your own."
My entire axis tilted. I couldn't believe my ears. I was reeling.
"You—you don't mean that."
"I do."
"You'd really choose Silco, over Piltover?"
"I choose neither."
"But—HexCorp. Our research. Me. Us."
"I am sorry, Jayce."
And for the barest moment, the briefest heartbeat, his bionic eyes seemed wetly sheened. As if he was still human.
Then it was gone.
His cane tapped, twice.
A heartbeat later, blackguards melted from the darkest corners.
I counted four. They'd been posted all around. In the shadows.
Waiting for him to give the signal.
I knew, then, that I'd been set up.
Silco had goaded me into coming. He'd known I'd confront Viktor, and Viktor would reveal what had happened to Sky. Then the blackguards would appear, and there'd be arrest warrants. Public censure. Tarnished reputations.
All the while, Viktor would remain in Zaun, free to pursue his work.
I'd played right into his hands.
"Viktor," I said. "Please. Don't do this."
"Goodbye, Jayce." He turned. "You must not return."
"Viktor—"
"Take him."
Cait, I barely had time to react. The blackguards closed in, and my hammer was out, and the energy pulsed, and I managed to get off a shot, and send two of the men flying back, until—
A blow to the back of my skull.
The ground rose up, and slammed into my face.
The world went dark.
When I woke, I was in a holding cell. A dank, cramped space, with a barred door and a cot, and a bucket in the corner. My head throbbed. My hammer had been confiscated. My wrists were chafed from old shackles.
But, other than that, I was unharmed.
I wasn't sure how long I was kept there. Time passed strangely, in a fog of disorientation. It felt like days, but couldn't have been more than a few bells. Finally, a guard appeared. He escorted me out. We took a lift down to an underground garage, where a limousine was waiting. He shoved me in, and I braced myself for the worst.
Maybe Silco would have me strangled. Maybe they'd put a bullet through my skull. Maybe they'd dump me in the river.
I had a dozen scenarios running through my head. None of them ended well.
None of them came close to reality.
Mel was sitting inside.
Silco had informed her, via a confidential courier, of my entry into Zaun. That I'd gone across the border, unsupervised, armed, with no clearance. That I'd trespassed, and threatened Viktor. And that, in doing so, I'd violated the terms of the Peace Treaty.
Politically, it could've been catastrophic. Months of negotiations—the careful cultivation of trust, the fragile bonds of diplomacy—all put at risk. If Silco had decided to press charges, to use the incident as leverage against Piltover, or retaliation for a perceived slight, the Council would've been hard-pressed to respond.
But he hadn't.
Mel told me, afterward, that the crisis had been resolved behind closed doors. She'd taken the ferry to Zaun, requested a private meeting, and met with Silco in his office. There, after some back-and-forth, she had convinced him to drop the charges. In exchange, the Wardens had agreed to a temporary suspension of my duties at HexCorp. It was, in effect, a forced sabbatical. One I was to spend, for three months, under house-arrest.
During that time, I was forbidden from entering Zaun.
Mel told me all this later. In that moment, sitting beside her in the car, I couldn't bring myself to speak. I was too ashamed—too overwhelmed—to say a word.
We rode in silence.
Cait—I've been such an idiot.
I've gambled too high, and I've lost. And because of that, Piltover had nearly lost, too. I'd put myself before my city. Before the safety, the security, the future of our people. I thought of how I'd exploded at Mel, that night in her flat. How I'd left her there, in tears. How I'd jeopardized everything she'd worked so hard to achieve. Everything I'd fought so hard to create.
All because of my own blind, selfish, outsized ego.
All because I thought I could swoop in and save the day.
Gods, what an ass I've been.
Throughout the ride, I kept looking sidelong at Mel. She sat, straight-backed, her hands in her lap, her eyes cast forward. Her dress was immaculate, her hair was coiffed, her makeup was impeccable. To the untrained eye, she looked flawless.
I knew her better.
I saw the way her hands were a white-knuckled twist. I saw the subtle quiver of her lower lip. I saw the shadows under her eyes.
The guilt was suffocating.
She'd saved me. She's always saved me. And how have I repaid her? With scorn. With mistrust. With disrespect.
I wanted to fall at her feet. Beg her forgiveness. Tell her how sorry I was, and how stupid I'd been, and how wrong.
I didn't.
Instead, I sat there. Staring at my shoes.
We pulled into her driveway.
"Jayce," she said. "Go. Rest in the guestroom. I'll have the maids bring up some tea."
Her tone was polite, but distant. Reserved.
I nodded. "Thanks."
"Jayce?"
I paused, halfway out of the car. "Yes?"
She turned, at last, and met my stare. Her eyes were dark, and sad, and tired.
"I'm glad you're safe," she said.
Cait, I couldn't say a word. I could barely breathe. I hesitated for just a second, then pulled her across and into my arms. She embraced me, and as soon as I felt her warmth, smelled her perfume, I couldn't stop myself. The past few weeks—Viktor's departure, the truth of Sky's death, the realization that I'd nearly ruined everything—everything came rushing back.
I broke down.
I was crying, Cait. Crying in her arms. Like a child. She held me. She didn't say anything. Just held me.
I don't deserve her.
I truly don't. But having her close, and knowing she cared, was a lifeline. Since the Siege, it's like I've lost a tiny bit of my reality. My grasp on the world. Every day, it's been a little harder. Then Viktor left, and Sky died, and the pieces of my world started falling apart.
Mel is the one of the few people still anchoring me.
I wanted to tell her this, Cait. I wanted to tell her, how much she means to me, and how sorry I was, and how grateful. I wanted to tell her, over and over, that I didn't deserve her, and how, despite it all, I was never going to leave her side.
I didn't, though.
I kissed her.
It wasn't planned. It just... happened. I kissed her. She was still in my arms. We were still in the car. I was still crying.
Then I was kissing her.
She let me, for a little bit. Then she broke, gently, and turned her head. Putting a palm on my chest, she nudged me back.
"No, Jayce."
"Mel..."
"You need to rest. We'll talk, later."
"Mel, I..."
"Later," she said softly.
It wasn't a request.
And so, I let her go. I walked into the penthouse, and was escorted upstairs. But, Cait—it was the loneliest walk of my life. Because I realized why, when I'd kissed her, she'd withdrawn.
Not because it was the wrong time.
Not because I was in shock.
Not because she was mad.
Cait, she's seeing someone else. I can't say how I know. Just that I can sense it. And, the worst part is, I can't blame her. After the way I've treated her—blowing hot, then cold; pushing her away, then pulling her close; accusing her of things she'd never do, then expecting her to help me when the shit hits the fan—it's no surprise she's moved on.
And how can I expect this gorgeous, sophisticated, brilliant woman, with her head screwed on straight, and her heart in the right place, and the courage to speak truth into power, to stick around?
Especially when I'm acting like a selfish asshole.
She's better off.
But not me.
I've fucked up, Cait. I've hurt people. I've hurt my friends. I've endangered Piltover. All because I've been too caught up in myself. Because I've let my pride run wild.
Because, at the end of the day, maybe I'm still just a boy meddling with things I don't understand.
I think it's time that boy grew up.
It's time he made the world a better place.
P.S.
This will be my last correspondence for a little while. I'll be going upcity to my mother's place. I've got a few projects in mind, and if I'm going to be under house-arrest, might as well put my time to good use.
Before I go, though, I want to thank you.
For your support. Your honesty. Your friendship.
For everything.
Cait, you're the best.
Your friend, always,
Jayce
To Jayce Talis, Esq.
Sir,
You will oblige me to ask the following: Are you out of your fucking mind?
First, you attack the First Chancellor in plain view of half the Council. Then, you decide it would be a good idea to traipse across the border, unescorted and armed with Hex-tech, without a notarized travel pass. Then, not satisfied with having broken one law, you have the gall to threaten one of our citizens—our brightest minds—with abduction and bodily harm. Then you injure two blackguards, and thereby put yourself, and the integrity of the Peace Treaty, at risk.
Now, you have the balls to write to me—demanding an audience with the First Chancellor, once your house-arrest has expired.
Your arrogance knows no bounds.
Read carefully, sir. Because I will only say this once:
No.
No, you will not have an audience with the First Chancellor. No, we will not divulge the address of the Machinist, Viktor. No, we will not disclose blackguard Violet's current location. And no, you will not be given leave to enter the Fissures, unsupervised and with your hammer.
That is final.
Your last letter, demanding a 'sit-down' (you have, evidently, been reading too many tabloids) is not only a grave presumption. It is also a threat against the integrity of this office. Your future letters, from here on out, will be marked as "Return to Sender." The prior ones, we've already compiled and forwarded to the Council, who have assured us will investigate.
I trust they will take the proper disciplinary actions.
Janna knows, you deserve a slap on the rear. A hard one.
Given your tenure as a former Councilor, we are prepared to show a degree of leniency. You are a prominent figure in the public eye. We recognize the emotional impact of your mentor, Dr. Heimerdinger's, passing. We also know that you have suffered the loss of Viktor's partnership, and are under intense strain in your private life.
In light of these facts, the First Chancellor has agreed to overlook your invective. We will not press charges, and will not seek punitive action, so long as you cease any and all communication with the First Chancellor. You are also instructed to desist any further inquiries into the whereabouts of the Hexcore.
If you continue to persist in your obstinate line of inquiry, the First Chancellor will no longer be inclined to clemency. You will find yourself facing multiple felony charges, which may carry a term of imprisonment.
Consider carefully.
The Man of Tomorrow, Piltover's brightest mind, would look pretty dim in a prison jumpsuit.
Kindly refrain from further correspondence. Unless it's in the form of an apology. A similar letter of warning has been forwarded to Enforcer Caitlyn Kiramman. In light of your close personal relationship, we request you relay the message next time you meet.
Regards,
Sevika M.
P.S.
The First Chancellor has also requested we share the following message:
"The boy's letters are charmingly feisty. The girl's, surpassingly eloquent. I am delighted to know that two such exceptional young individuals are among our neighbors. My only regret is that they spend more time throwing rocks, and less time building bridges."
"When their aim improves, they will be welcome to visit. Until then, they are advised to keep their distance."
Confidential: State Files – Piltover & Zaun.
Memorandum of Encrypted Telephone Conversation
Subjects: Councilor Mel Medarda & First Chancellor Silco
Declassified and De-encrypted Under Authority of the Intra-agency Security Panel
E.O. 12596 Section 5. F(o)
Councilor Medarda: Silco?
First Chancellor Silco: Councilor.
Councilor Medarda: I trust the late bell isn't an intrusion?
First Chancellor Silco: Far from it. I was expecting your call. Has Talis been successfully repatriated?
Councilor Medarda: Yes. He will be staying at his family residence for the duration of the suspension. Three months, as agreed. I wanted to—
First Chancellor Silco: Yes?
Councilor Medarda: I wanted to thank you. For your discretion with Jayce. He—we—I appreciate it. I know it would've been tempting, politically, to make an example of him. To leverage the incident against Piltover. But you didn't. So, thank you.
First Chancellor Silco: Temptation has nothing to do with it. Talis made a mistake. It is unfortunate, but hardly uncommon. He is young. Headstrong. But that's the marvel of youth. It has the capacity to grow. As I did. In time, Talis will too.
Councilor Medarda: He will. He's... had a difficult time, since the Siege. And it's only gotten worse, with the loss of Viktor. He's not himself. But he's coming around.
First Chancellor Silco: Hm. A blow to the head can have a clarifying effect.
Councilor Medarda: I beg your pardon?
First Chancellor Silco: A joke, Councilor. Do excuse me.
Councilor Medarda: Mel, remember? We've talked about this.
First Chancellor Silco: So we have.
Councilor Medarda: If, in time, you feel comfortable with it, I'd like us to continue on a more informal basis. I'd like us to be friends.
First Chancellor Silco: Friends, hm?
Councilor Medarda: Does it sound childish when I say it out loud?
First Chancellor Silco: Childish? No. Strange? Quite. I've limited experience with friendship.
Councilor Medarda: That makes two of us. But I want to try. I want—
First Chancellor Silco: Go on.
Councilor Medarda: I wanted to talk about what happened in your office. When I came to you about Jayce. When I asked you to—help.
First Chancellor Silco: You didn't enjoy my brand of help, Mel?
Councilor Medarda: That's not—no. I meant—
First Chancellor Silco: No need to whisper. The line is safe. Tell me. What would you have of me? Did I displease you? Are you unhappy with what transpired?
Councilor Medarda: No, you did not displease me. It was—
First Chancellor Silco: It was?
Councilor Medarda: Please don't mock me. I'm trying.
First Chancellor Silco: You have my undivided attention. You've had it, since the moment we met.
Councilor Medarda: You don't need to do that.
First Chancellor Silco: Do what?
Councilor Medarda: Flatter me. I'm on your side, Silco.
First Chancellor Silco: I am not saying these things to flatter. I say them because I want to. And because I enjoy the effect they have on you.
Councilor Medarda: Silco...
First Chancellor Silco: You're flustered, aren't you? I can hear it in your voice. I can picture you in your penthouse: curled up in that big, soft bed of yours. It's quite warm Topside. The sort of weather where one can do without a robe. Or a nightgown. Or anything at all. Just you and the night air on your skin. I like the thought of that.
Councilor Medarda: I am trying to have a conversation.
First Chancellor Silco: So am I.
Councilor Medarda: No, you are being purposefully evasive. Just to see if you can make me angry.
First Chancellor Silco: You're getting better at this.
Councilor Medarda: At what?
First Chancellor Silco: Reading me.
Councilor Medarda: Then you admit that you're being difficult?
First Chancellor Silco: Only because I can. It's a novelty. Having Piltover's crown jewel wanting to be my friend. And me, in my empty office, recalling the sight of her on her knees. How she looked up at me. So determined. So full of fire. And her mouth... so soft. So eager to please. I've been thinking about that mouth all day. Did you think about mine?
Councilor Medarda: I can't talk if you're like this.
First Chancellor Silco: Like what? A man who is interested in you? A man who'd like nothing more than to sit you down on his desk again, peel up that dress of yours, and taste you one more time? Feel your juicy little cunt tremble around his tongue? See that haughty look on your face melt as you come? Gods, the sounds you made...
Councilor Medarda: You're doing this on purpose. You're trying to push me away.
First Chancellor Silco: I'm trying to get you out of my head. But I can't. I'm sitting here, thinking about you: your eyes, your hair, your mouth. I've imagined you in a thousand different ways, in a thousand different places. And every single one of them ends the same way: you, spread out on my desk, sobbing and tossing your pretty head as I eat your cunt like it's my last meal on earth. Then out of nowhere, you call me. I can't help but wonder if it's a sign.
Councilor Medarda: We—should talk. About Jayce. About everything.
First Chancellor Silco: If you'd rather. I'll leash my tongue. What do you wish to discuss?
Councilor Medarda: What happened. I wasn't—
First Chancellor Silco: You're whispering again. Is someone with you?
Councilor Medarda: No. It's just—I wasn't expecting that. What happened. I'd come to Zaun thinking I understood the stakes. Thinking I knew how to play the game. And I did. But you—you surprised me. You let Jayce go. You were understanding. You were—
First Chancellor Silco: I was being your ally.
Councilor Medarda: Is that why you kissed me? Why you—held me, after? Or was that part of the game?
First Chancellor Silco: I'm not sure. Maybe it was both. You bargained with me to protect Talis, so I did. You bargained with me to help you, so I did. You looked at me with those lovely golden eyes, and I found myself wanting to help again. In different ways. Ways you'd enjoy. Ways I'd enjoy. Do you regret that?
Councilor Medarda: I don't. I just—want you to understand why.
First Chancellor Silco: Why, what?
Councilor Medarda: Why I... responded, the way I did.
First Chancellor Silco: Why you cried? Why you refused to call me after, and are calling me now?
Councilor Medarda: I felt... afraid.
First Chancellor Silco: Ah.
Councilor Medarda: Not of you. Of myself. Of what you made me feel. What I wanted you to do to me. To keep doing to me. I've never felt like that before. So—out of control.
First Chancellor Silco: It's disorienting, isn't it? The realization of just how little ownership we have over ourselves? How our bodies can betray us, in a single moment? How one touch can bring us to heel? It's petrifying.
Councilor Medarda: That's why I didn't call you back. I needed to process it. I was afraid of what I'd say to you. Afraid I'd come off as a girl, needing reassurance. I'm not a girl. I have not been one in a very long time.
First Chancellor Silco: I disagree. I think you are exactly what you appear to be: a girl who's undergone a great deal of change in a short amount of time. And a woman who is struggling to find her footing in shifting sands. There is no shame in either.
Councilor Medarda: That's not why I'm ashamed.
First Chancellor Silco: Then?
Councilor Medarda: I'm ashamed because it's the first time... since Jayce and I ended things... that I've wanted someone else. That I've felt drawn to someone else. It's not that I've been alone since Jayce and I parted. I haven't. There have been men. Some better than others. But none of them have—I don't know. They don't stir me. Not the way you did.
First Chancellor Silco: Stir you? That's an interesting choice of words.
Councilor Medarda: I don't know what else to call it. What it is that—draws me to you. You make me feel like I don't know the stakes at all. Like I'm playing by rules I don't understand. And I hate it. I hate not knowing the score. But I hate the thought of being denied you even more.
First Chancellor Silco: Shall we end it then? This game we're playing?
Councilor Medarda: I—
First Chancellor Silco: Say the word, and I'll hang up. You return to your life, and I to mine. Our bargain will stand. The rest? Water under the bridge.
Councilor Medarda: Is that what you want?
First Chancellor Silco: I am not the one who called, Mel.
Councilor Medarda: Are you saying it's my lead we're following?
First Chancellor Silco: I'm saying the next step is yours to take.
Councilor Medarda: Now you sound like a politician.
First Chancellor Silco: I've been learning from the best.
Councilor Medarda: But what do you want? Really? Be honest.
First Chancellor Silco: I've always been honest, Mel. My wants are my child's safety. My city's prosperity. My goals are their future. But the future of both rests in a fragile, temporary alliance with Piltover. That is my bed, and I must lie in it.
Councilor Medarda: I see.
First Chancellor Silco: Don't misunderstand me. I would have you in my bed, too. Or my desk. Or my carpet. Anywhere you'd allow. You have an effect I do not care for, but I will not pretend I do not enjoy it. I want you. I've made that plain.
Councilor Medarda: You have.
First Chancellor Silco: And yet?
Councilor Medarda: You've also made it plain you'd rather not act on that desire. Not all the way. Because of your city, and your child. You say it's because of the bed we've made. But what if it were my bed instead? What if I invited you into it? Would you come then?
First Chancellor Silco: Mel...
Councilor Medarda: You say the next step is mine to decide. What if I decided it was yours? Would you deny me?
First Chancellor Silco: ...What is it you're asking me?
Councilor Medarda: As I said. I'd like us to continue the alliance we began. On a more informal basis. I want to see you again. Not to talk politics. But to be together. Just us. The way we were before. And—more.
First Chancellor Silco: You're asking me to enter into a clandestine affair with the Councilor for Piltover. An intimate relationship with a rival state.
Councilor Medarda: No. I'm asking you to be with me. Mel.
First Chancellor Silco: What's your definition of "with?"
Councilor Medarda: I—I will be candid. My feelings for Jayce did not end with our time together. Nor did my desire. It lingers. I'm not sure it will ever go away. I held out for six years, waiting for him to catch up to where I was. I did not wish to lose myself in that love. I did not wish to exploit him. And so I waited. I kept my distance. Until I couldn't. And then he was there, in my arms, in my bed, in my life. It was—wonderful. Then it wasn't. And I lost him.
First Chancellor Silco: Do you regret it?
Councilor Medarda: The loss? Every day.
First Chancellor Silco: The choice. Do you regret choosing Talis?
Councilor Medarda: I don't know if it was a choice at all. Jayce and I—we found each other. I could no more deny him than I could deny my heart. That is the way of love. And I loved him. I still do.
First Chancellor Silco: I see.
Councilor Medarda: Have you never been in love, Silco?
First Chancellor Silco: That is not a story for such a time.
Councilor Medarda: So you have.
First Chancellor Silco: In a way.
Councilor Medarda: Then I'm sorry.
First Chancellor Silco: What for?
Councilor Medarda: Because I know what it's like to lose it.
First Chancellor Silco: My dear girl. This is precisely why I am not so eager to leap into your bed.
Councilor Medarda: I'm not a girl, Silco.
First Chancellor Silco: You must be. Only girls talk of love as if it were a matter of loss or gain. A pretty trinket you can trade. The real nature of love is more dangerous. It cannot be bought or bargained with. It comes on its own terms, and it exists in defiance of every attempt to kill it. It's there at the bottom of our basest impulse. It gnaws at the darkest corners of our minds.
Councilor Medarda: You make it sound like a monster.
First Chancellor Silco: All monsters are byproducts of love. Every single one. For love, they excuse for the ugliest crime. They justify the grandest atrocity. It's the means by which they convince themselves to do the unthinkable. And once they're in, they cannot get out. Ever.
Councilor Medarda: So love, in your mind, is war.
First Chancellor Silco: It is revolution.
Councilor Medarda: …
First Chancellor Silco: Have I upset you?
Councilor Medarda: Yes.
First Chancellor Silco: Why?
Councilor Medarda: Because you reminded me of... someone else.
First Chancellor Silco: Who?
Councilor Medarda: It doesn't matter. I will only say again: I am sorry.
First Chancellor Silco: Why are you sorry?
Councilor Medarda: Because an existence like that sounds brutally lonely. There is a place in you, I suspect, where the memory of a gentler love once lay. It must hurt, else why would you speak of it so harshly? But it must have been beautiful once. Powerful. A force to be reckoned with. I can see it in the way you look at Jinx. All the lessons you've poured into her, so now she is the force that moves you. Your war. Your revolution.
First Chancellor Silco: You've a poet's heart, Mel.
Councilor Medarda: But a politician's mind, is that it?
First Chancellor Silco: Poets and politicians have much in common. Their words invariably twist into knots.
Councilor Medarda: So do yours.
First Chancellor Silco: I've no wish to cause you pain. But not for all the gold in Piltover will I lie to you. That is not the way I conduct business. Or pleasure.
Councilor Medarda: Do you think I am looking to use you?
First Chancellor Silco: I think we ought to proceed with caution.
Councilor Medarda: Because of Jayce?
First Chancellor Silco: Because of us.
Councilor Medarda: Then there is an "us?"
First Chancellor Silco: You tell me, Mel.
Councilor Medarda: ...
First Chancellor Silco: Still there?
Councilor Medarda: Yes. I'm... thinking.
First Chancellor Silco: Take your time. I'm a patient man.
Councilor Medarda: You're toying with me.
First Chancellor Silco: I am not. I've a dozen other duties to fulfill. But I'm waiting for you.
Councilor Medarda: Will you?
First Chancellor Silco: Will I, what?
Councilor Medarda: Wait.
First Chancellor Silco: Do you want me to?
Councilor Medarda: There is wisdom in proceeding with caution. We've been thrown together by circumstance. If it weren't for the Siege... who knows where we'd be right now? If we'd have even met at all?
First Chancellor Silco: Would that've been such a tragedy?
Councilor Medarda: I don't know. It troubles me. What I feel. What I want. How quickly it happened.
First Chancellor Silco: From here on out, the pace is yours to dictate.
Councilor Medarda: And you?
First Chancellor Silco: I will follow your lead.
Councilor Medarda: Will you promise me something?
First Chancellor Silco: Hm?
Councilor Medarda: That this, between us, will be ours? Beyond politics. Beyond Piltover and Zaun. Beyond anything else that may come to pass.
First Chancellor Silco: If that is what you want.
Councilor Medarda: It is.
First Chancellor Silco: Then I promise.
Councilor Medarda: I can trust your discretion?
First Chancellor Silco: I trade in secrets, Mel. I know their value.
Councilor Medarda: Then I have a favor to ask.
First Chancellor Silco: By all means.
Councilor Medarda: Can we... begin again?
First Chancellor Silco: You wish to start over?
Councilor Medarda: No. I mean—yes. But not completely. I want us to share what we did before. Just us. When we were alone. I—I enjoyed that. Very much.
First Chancellor Silco: So did I.
Councilor Medarda: But I also want to... go slow. To talk. To explore. To learn about each other. I want us to be friends. I want to be able to call you, as I have, and not fear every word being held against me. To have no doubt in my mind that what I say is true, and not some lie to further our political agendas. I want...
First Chancellor Silco: Say it.
Councilor Medarda: I want you to see me. And for me to see you. As we are. And not as the world expects us to be. I want you to be Silco. And I want to be Mel. And I want us to do it together.
First Chancellor Silco: …
Councilor Medarda: Have I frightened you off?
First Chancellor Silco: Not at all.
Councilor Medarda: Then why the pause?
First Chancellor Silco: I was wondering what you were wearing.
Councilor Medarda: You're evading again.
First Chancellor Silco: It is an honest question.
Councilor Medarda: I'm afraid I must disappoint. I am in bed, yes. But in my nightgown. A very unglamorous one: full sleeve, high neck, loose fit. No nonsense, and comfortable.
First Chancellor Silco: And your hair?
Councilor Medarda: Let down.
First Chancellor Silco: I wish I could see it.
Councilor Medarda: Would you like to?
First Chancellor Silco: I'd like a great deal of things. But for now, I'll settle for your voice. Shall I bid you good night?
Councilor Medarda: Not yet.
First Chancellor Silco: No?
Councilor Medarda: I'd have a kiss first.
First Chancellor Silco: Then come and get it.
Councilor Medarda: When do our schedules next align?
First Chancellor Silco: I was thinking something more immediate.
Councilor Medarda: Like?
First Chancellor Silco: Put the receiver down between your breasts.
Councilor Medarda: Surely not!
First Chancellor Silco: Surely yes. Tell me when it's in place.
Councilor Medarda: It—it is.
First Chancellor Silco: Good. Now. Close your eyes.
Councilor Medarda: Silco...
First Chancellor Silco: Sssh. Do as I say.
Councilor Medarda: They're closed.
First Chancellor Silco: Good. Listen.
Councilor Medarda: ...
First Chancellor Silco: Can you feel that?
Councilor Medarda: I feel my heartbeat. And the vibration of your voice. It's… strange.
First Chancellor Silco: Good strange?
Councilor Medarda: Yes.
First Chancellor Silco: Imagine it's my mouth on you. Imagine I'm kissing you there, just between your breasts. Imagine I'm pulling aside the fabric of your gown and pressing my face against your skin. All that sweet, soft skin. I bet you smell like hyacinths.
Councilor Medarda: Mmmm.
First Chancellor Silco: Imagining me?
Councilor Medarda: Yes...
First Chancellor Silco: Slide the receiver lower. Slowly. Down your belly.
Councilor Medarda: I—
First Chancellor Silco: Down between your legs.
Councilor Medarda: ...
First Chancellor Silco: There. Can you feel my breath? My lips? My tongue?
Councilor Medarda: Gods, yes.
First Chancellor Silco: There's your kiss. A placeholder for the one I owe you.
Councilor Medarda: Silco...
First Chancellor Silco: Sweet dreams, Mel.
Councilor Medarda: Oh, they will be now.
First Chancellor Silco: As will mine. Schlafe gut.
Councilor Medarda: Schlafe gut. Oh, and Silco?
First Chancellor Silco: Yes?
Councilor Medarda: I look forward to our next meeting.
First Chancellor Silco: As, my dear, do I.