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tealquacks · 2 years

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Piltovian Psycho

Written for day two of Arcane Halloweek! @fandom-events . The prompt was “scary movies”, so I decided to write an ode to one of my favorite horror movies, and my favorite girlboss— Mel Merdarda. Warnings for blood and violence. Enjoy!

Mel walked into the restaurant with a smile on her face and murder in her eyes. Normally, she’d never set foot in a place like this, but here she was, and there was Salo, sitting at a table in the middle of the restaurant. It was a good table, despite the restaurant being shit. The alcohol was cheap, though. Meaning it was one of Jayce’s favorite restaurants. Ever since Viktor quit the company and started working for that Silco freak, Jayce never seemed sober. Hell, he was so drunk that when Mel took him out, the poor thing believed when she said they were at Dorsia, even though they were at Barcadia.

Mel’s hands curled into fists at the memory. Barcadia was good and all, but it didn’t carry the prestige Dorsia did. She was a Merdarda for Christ’s sake, she should be able to get a table at Dorsia. She was just as good as these Piltover snobs. The restaurant— a dump called Texarkana— did serve her purpose, though. Low-key, filled with staff that weren’t paid enough to remember faces or names. It would be perfect.

Her nails dug into her palms and a smile fluttered to her face as Councilor Salo came into her sight.

He held himself with the effortless air of competence and intelligence that certainly required hours of practice to get right, especially since he had neither competence nor intelligence. Mel practiced that same air in front of her mirror while doing her skin routine. His suit was Armani. Perfectly tailored black suit jacket, a blue shirt, and an obnoxious blue and gold tie. His blond hair was done ever so tastefully, caked with so much gel it would crunch. The perfect, unshakable facade. Or maybe it wasn’t a facade; maybe he did have something underneath his business card pale skin.

He was already arguing with the waiter about how shit of a restaurant it was, how it was nearly empty, and that it was bogus they were out of crawfish gumbo or whatever slop he wanted. She sat across from him. She smoothed out her white dress pants and straightened her suit jacket. Tonight was special. She wore all Versace.

“J&B straight, and a corona,” she spoke.

“Double Absolut martini,” Salo snapped.

“Yes sir,” the waiter sheepishly said, turning to her, “would you like to hear the specials?”

Not if you want to keep your spleen, she thought. Instead, she gave a polite smile. Salo waved the waiter away. Of course, she couldn’t say it aloud. She had to keep her head, no matter what. One slip of the mask and it was over. Salo would march away and tell everyone that Mel Merdarda was a crazy bitch.

“We should’ve gone to Dorsia,” Salo whined, “I could’ve gotten us a table.

Pretentious prick. He gets one important job and he suddenly thinks he’s the king of the world. Dorsia took ages to get a reservation at, and here he was,

“Nobody goes there anymore,” she lied. Salo looked vaguely uncomfortable and took a sip of his drink. If her plan went well, it would be the first of many.

And it was. Mel kept the drinks coming, one after another until Salo was half in his chair and half over the table. Martini after martini came to the table, and Salo poured each down his throat like his name was Jayce Talis. She tilted her head.

“I like to dissect girls,” she said casually, “did you know I’m utterly insane?”

Salo only laughed.

“Where’s Jayce at? Are you two— how is he? Where is he tonight?”

“Jayce is Jayce. You know Jayce,” she said. Salo laughed.

“Yeah, you could do so much better than that alcoholic fuck,” he slurred.

Her eye twitched. It took every thread of will to keep from lunging across the table and grabbing him by the throat, deboning him like a trout in front of every single person in the restaurant. Jayce was a bit of a wreck, yes, an easily manipulated fool, but he was smart as a tack and twice the man Salo would ever be. Even more so, Jayce was the love of her life, the only thing keeping her from slaughtering Salo and every other pig headed asshole in Piltover.

She let out a slow breath.

“Why don’t we go back to my place?” She offered.

His grin became salacious. Mel entertained the fantasy of stabbing him with her fork. She tilted her head, and helped Salo up, outside, then into a cab.

The ride went surprisingly well. Getting him into the elevator took some effort, but soon enough, they were in her apartment. The floor had a coating of newspapers, and every piece of furniture was covered in a sheet. The only thing uncovered was a small crystal dish, which held a single cigar. Salo didn’t even seem to notice the state of her apartment, honing in on the bottle of brandy next to a chair. He sat down heavily. Mel walked next to him and poured him a glass. He took it and sipped slowly.

Mel walked over to her stereo.

“Do you like Huey Lewis and The News?” Mel asked, picking up the CD case. Salo shrugged sloppily.

“They're OK.”

She smiled.

“Their early work was a little too new wave for my tastes, but when Sports came out in '83, I think they really came into their own, commercially and artistically.”

She strut into the bathroom. Her heart pounded with manic energy.

“The whole album has a clear, crisp sound, and a new sheen of consummate professionalism that really gives the songs a big boost!”

The raincoat slipped over her shoulders like a second skin, covering her white Versace suit. Her hand fluttered to a bottle of pills. She poured two into her palm and swallowed them with a glass of water. She looked at herself in the mirror. A bloodthirsty creature stared back. She looked lethal. She looked like a Merdarda.

She picked up the axe and moonwalked out of the bathroom.

“He's been compared to Elvis Costello, but I think Huey has a far more bitter, cynical sense of humor,” she explained.

“Hey Merdarda,” Salo asked, staring at the bottle in his hand.

“Yes, Salo?”

“Why are there copies of the newspaper all over the place, d-do you have a poro? A little chow or something?” He joked, prodding the ground with his shoe. She smiled dangerously.

“No, Salo.”

He glanced backward, eyes half-lidded.

“Is that a raincoat?”

"Yes, it is!” She exclaimed patronizingly. Salo’s head lolled forward drunkenly. She started talking again.

“In '87, Huey released this; Fore!, their most accomplished album,” she said, cranking the volume on the stereo, "I think their undisputed masterpiece is ‘Hip To Be Square’, A song so catchy, most people probably don't listen to the lyrics.”

She emphasized the words with a little hip sway as she crossed the room. Salo stared at the newspaper-covered floor. He prodded the sports section with his foot. Mel continued, circling behind him to grab the axe.

"But they should, because it's not just about the pleasures of conformity and the importance of trends. It's also a personal statement about the band itself!”

She grinned wildly, baring her teeth. She hoisted the axe up.

“Hey, Salo!"

Mel raised the axe above her head. Salo’s head whipped around. His eyes lit up in desperate fear. His eyes were wide like a rabbit's. Mel brought the axe down. Hot blood squirted on her face, over the plastic poncho. It stained her skin. Ruined her makeup. Red and gold trickled down her face in thick rivulets. She yanked the axe out of him.

"Try getting a reservation at Dorsia now, you fuckin' stupid bastard!" Mel howled.

Salo’s body fell, and he bled all over the newspapers and her heels, painting the red bottoms redder. She snarled as the axe caught in bone. She yanked it out, shouting incoherently. The axe came down again. Again. Again. Her shoulders burned with the effort, but she couldn’t stop herself. The iron tang of blood filled the air, every breath tasting like she’d run her tongue over a nickel.

And the second she was done, all feeling left her body. Numb static crept over her. She unbuttoned the raincoat, stepped over the body, and sat on the sheet-covered couch. She took the cigar from the crystal dish on her table. She lit it. She inhaled a long drag of sharp smoke.

Salo’s corpse bled through the newspapers. She couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of his body laying there, even if it would stain her floors. A plume of smoke came from her nose, and . Catharsis flowed with the nicotine through her veins, heart a steady beat. Salo had died with his eyes wide open. Stupid prick. At least he didn’t stain her suit.

Mel crossed her legs, Louboutins dripping red, and smoked.

#arcanehalloweek22 #arcane #mel merdarda #jayce talis #meljay #councilor salo #jayce arcane #mel arcane #ya boy writes #tw violence #tw blood #tw death

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sabraeal · 5 months

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The Man of Progress, Chapter 2

[Read on AO3]

Written for @infinitelystrangemachinex, who is the whole reason this fic exists in the first place, since if she had not introduced to me the potential of Mel and Viktor to begin with I never would have watched Arcane, and then if she had not made this fic her birthday wish last year, the idea for it would have definitely moldered in my Potential WIPs files, neevr to be seen. This was ALSO for her birthday, but the draft did not stop at 6K, and so I decided to take my time with it 🤣

The glacial pace of progress might exasperate those more used to the churning cogs of commerce, ever ready to break the unwary between their teeth, but this is hardly the first time Mel has patronized one of these academy engineers. Oh, they might bow and scrape and extend their gratitude on bended knee before money has changed hands, but once that investment sits heavy in their accounts, well— there is a fine line between patron and employer. These engineers might tolerate the first, but under the latter, well…there are statues around the Academy of men throwing off their chains, as much warning to potential investors as it is a celebration of their achievements.

Innovation Does Not Suffer Tyrants. Neither, it seems, do their students suffer direction.

So Mel opens her purse when Talis shuffles up to her doorstep, wearing a smile that’s sure to have opened doors for him before, if not a couple of windows. For all his fresh-faced, boyish charm, he is a skilled negotiator— or rather, a skilled beggar; a talent he must have acquired from years of being under Councilor Kiramman's well-manicured thumb. In all his blustering talk of progress, he only obliquely brushes the angles of their meeting that fateful night, flattering her broad-mindedness and forward-thinking while also thanking her for her continuing interest. A neat little way to put her in a corner, provided a promise was made.

Which it was not. She’d been careful to hedge her bets with this boy wonder, no matter how prettily he performed that impassioned plea.

But there’s little harm in letting him believe that there’s an understanding between them, that her actions in that darkened corridor confer a loyalty that transcends simple business. On the contrary, that’s the currency in which these Academy engineers set their stock. Money may move mountains, may turn a floundering lab into foundry of progress, but these academics sank or swam on the height of their reputations, rose or fell on the strength of the hands helping them up— or shoving them down. A nice bit of seed money would see her a cut of the profits, but letting Talis think that a bond was forged in Hextech’s glow, well…

She couldn’t outbid Heimerdinger— not that he’d ever be gauche enough to put his own money down; he’d call it an Academy Grant and let himself be seen as a benevolent mentor rather than vile investor— but she could at least ensure that they played on the same field. A thing that mattered now, when all the other councilors raced to put their hats— and their wallets— into the ring.

Kiramman was already of the opinion that she owned him down to his hammers, eager to play mother and master in equal measure. And Hoskel, well— for a man whose fortune was made on sail ships and long-haul voyages across the Conqueror’s Sea, from Damacia to Lokfar and beyond, he’s strangely insistent on babysitting his investments on land, arriving for an hour every other day or so to wave his hands around and be seen, as if simply standing on the site made it his. Salo must be much the same, even if she hears less about it; slinking and sneering makes so much less of an impression than Hoskel’s huffs and haws. Why, he must be half covered in hives by now, surrounded by so much grease and dirt and work.

So Mel gives them their space. They have a lab to construct and wonders to build; they hardly need councilors swanning in day in and day out, demanding to be shown how every last bit of their investment was spent, down to the last Washer. She had to stand apart, to be the one that didn’t press. A councilor who understood the process. An investor they could trust with their vision.

To the assistant, at least. Viktor. No last name. Typical of the Undercity. Talis might glad-hand and rub elbows and kiss babies, but it’s Heimerdinger’s shadow who ensures that every Silver Cog received goes where it should instead of passing through that strange field of theirs, never to return.

“Not that one,” she hums, waving away silk and lace, as cunningly draped as it is. “What on earth was that man thinking? Really.”

Elora blinks, first at her, then at the dress, confusion weighing heavily on the corners of her mouth. “The designer had been sure you would like it. He said it fit your…aesthetic sensibilities.”

She trails a finger down the back line, lower and lower until she reaches its nadir, right where her low back would have turned to something lower still. Pity. “It’s white.”

“Well, yes,” Elora allows. “That is the primary color in your wardrobe. He must have taken your preferences into consideration when he made it.”

Mel arches a brow, a corner of her mouth following suit. “Yes, but what he should have considered is why.”

Where some might knit their brow, Elora’s only lift, a question even as she answers, “Because you like it?”

“Because I want to stand out,” Mel corrects her, amused. Only two steps takes her to the window, where Piltover spills out beneath her outstretched hand. “In a city of blue and brick and beige, white shines.”

“Ah. Right, I see.” Her head bobs, officious and efficient, as Medarda expects from their domestics. “Dressing to impress.”

“No, dear.” The phantom of her reflection smiles in the glass . “I dress to awe. Especially reclusive little inventors who don’t make a habit of going to these little soirées.”

Elora glances down at the gown, mouth furrowing at the corners. “I think Talis is already impressed.”

A snort spills out of her, quickly stifled. “No, no, not him. The other one”—her hand waves; elegant, simple, and completely dismissive— “Heimerdinger’s assistant. Former assistant now, I suppose. Of the two of them, he’s the one I need to convince into my corner.”

Too bad her own assistant hardly is. “That one? He doesn’t seem very…?”

“Personable? Sociable?” she offers, amusement dripping from every word. “Human?”

“Important,” Elora decides. “Talis is the one that has been meeting with their investors. He’s practically the face of Hextech. But his partner…”

Is no more than a blur in the papers, a face turned away when the shutters closes, a smear in the background of Talis’s singular achievement. If Jayce Talis has made himself the face of Hextech, then Viktor is the ghost that haunts it. The phantom that is churning out their prototype even now.

“All the more reason to catch his attention,” Mel hums, thumbing through the rack of gowns rolled against one wall of her office. “Talis is a known quantity. Academy engineer, scion of a minor house, has a jawline you could forge a hammer on. Handsome, clever, and sure to wave whichever way the wind blows. But the assistant…he can be managed.”

A corner of her mouth curls. “Who knows, I might even come as a relief, after being bullied around by the good professor all these years. I just have to…impress him first.”

Elora glances at the gown slung across her fingers, skepticism marring the smooth line of her brow. “And you think a dress will do it?”

“Not that one, certainly,” she snorts. “But another…that might put him off his guard. Let me insinuate myself a little more firmly into his good graces. A little novelty never hurts on that front.”

Neither does a little attraction, but, well, a woman must always leave a little mystery in reserve. Even with her most trusted assistant. “That’s quite a bit to put on a dress, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps.” Black and leather and silk slithers over Elora’s arms as she lays another across them. “But I think this one can handle it.”

On the hanger, the dress intrigued, a study of soft and hard, of supple and stiff, of structure and drape. A winner, the Revered Professor might say, so long as it was about gears and cogs, and not fashion and fabric.

But on a body— her body— the dress is less a work of art and more a marvel of modern engineering, a bulwark of leather and boning that somehow gives off the same gravitas as marble or granite, while yet still possessing the same ease of movement as water down a fall. It eddies around her legs, baring and concealing with each step, a come-hither wrapped in a stand back. Councilor Kiramman corners her not three strides across the floor, stemming the opportunity for compliments— on purpose, she’s sure— but by the palpable press of the stares on her back, it seems that it has achieved its purpose.

“Is that your plan then?” Elora murmurs at her shoulder as Kiramman holds court, words straining to bear her disbelief. “Shock and awe?”

Mel allows her head the barest tilt. “Are you worried?”

“Not so much worried as” —she hesitates, casting her eyes about the room, as if it might give some hint as to how to smooth the edge of this blow— “it’s putting quite a bit of cargo on one ship, isn’t it?”

Her mouth curls. “You’re not much of a gambler, are you?”

Elora’s brows raise, not impertinent enough to be reproach, but it was certainly a cousin. “I hadn’t thought you were either.”

“I’m not,” she hums, rolling the stem of the flute between her fingers. “But even I know that roulette can’t be won by going all-in on a single bet.”

Her mouth puckers, unease drawing heavy brows together. “Then how—?”

“There he is!” Councilor Kiramman tears herself from her sermon with a smile, arms falling wide as she calls out across the floor, “The man of the hour!”

“The trick,” Mel murmurs, only loud enough for Elora’s ears. “Is to know the man at the wheel.”

She prepares her own smile as she rolls her weight off the pillar she's attached herself to, one that’s both gracious and dazzling, designed to set the gold spattered across her cheeks shimmering and throw weary engineer eyes wide—

But when she turns, her night sky is occluded by an unexpected front of broad chest, barely contained by its waistcoat. “Mister Talis,” she hums, her dulcet tones hardly disguising the spines of her disappointment. “What a pleasure to see you here.”

“Of course it is,” Kiramman laughs, patting him right below the silken knot of his tie. “We can’t have a gala without its guest of honor.”

His grin tugs to a grimace, but with a face as fine as his, Kiramman hardly notices. He pats her hands absently, as an indulgent son might his doting mother— fitting, since the councilor has already turned her attention away, humbling boasting about his achievements, as if she were his.

But it’s Mel that his amber gaze fixes to when he rumbles, “I’m glad to hear that, Councilor.” He adjusts his tie, bashful, the way men who are certain of their welcome can afford to show. “I have to admit, it’s nice to see a friendly face here. I’m not used to fancy shindigs like this.”

That’s hardly what his suit suggests. Oh, it’s certainly a few years out of fashion, the cut not as close as the young men like to wear it now and the colors not as bold, but menswear changes by degrees, not entire angles. It’s still well within the bounds of modernity, hems and cuffs worn but well-repaired, every seam neatly tailored from the start.

“I would have never known.” She can spare him this little earnest comfort; he certainly won’t be seeing much more of it tonight. “You look like you could have been born with a champagne flute in your hand.”

“Ah…” To think that a boy his age could blush so completely, red from collar to hairline. “That’s kind of you to say. I feel like everyone in this room looks at me and sees hammers.”

Perhaps, but only the ones measuring the breadth of his shoulders and comparing it to the tuck of his waist. “How is your partner doing? I suppose he must be even more left-footed among this crowd.”

Talis blinks, bashfulness breaking under a boisterous laugh. “Oh, Viktor? He isn’t here tonight.”

“He” —her gaze falls to his elbow, lingering on the empty space where a scowl is conspicuously missing— “isn’t.”

“You know how it is.” He leans in, one side of his mouth hooked into a boyish smirk. “This isn’t really Viktor’s crowd.”

Only moments ago he had claimed it wasn’t his either. “I was under the impression that a guest of honor typically attends their own party. Especially one thrown by the patrons funding their research.”

“Ah…” Talis has the grace to look sheepish now, scratching at the back of his closely clipped scalp. “Well…when you put it that way…”

Kiramman laughs, a haughty little giggle that would fit better in her daughter’s mouth than her own. “Oh, come now, Councilor Medarda, I can hardly take offense. Jayce came, after all.”

“He did,” Mel allows with a smile so gracious her teeth ache. “I simply expected that at a gala to celebrate the future of Hextech, we would be able to see both men helming the project.”

“Oh, really. It’s not as if we don’t know who came up with the idea.” Kiramman hooks her hand around Talis’s elbow, giving him a pointed jostle. “When we honor Heimerdinger, you hardly invite his whole laboratory to celebrate.”

“Ah, but you see, Councilor…” Talis clears his throat, hesitant. “Viktor’s not some technician. He’s my full partner. There wouldn’t be Hextech, if he hadn’t—”

“Of course, of course,” Kiramman soothes with a motherly pat on his sleeve. “We all have our assistants, don’t we? I don’t know where I would be without Alannah keeping me on point.”

Those healthy cheeks take an ashen cast now, his gaze darting to her as if she might spare him some quarter. But Mel simply takes a sip of her champagne, making a mental note to compliment Hoskel on the vintage. “Yes, I’m sure that’s very useful, Councilor. It’s only…Viktor—”

“’Great minds must be free for greater ventures,’” Kiramman quotes, though Mel could hardly say from where. Perhaps one of Revered Professor’s contemporaries, by the way Talis jolts at her side. “Don’t you agree, Jayce?”

He laughs, one hand tugging at his collar. “Ah…of course. Great minds.”

“Is that so?” Mel raises her brows, utterly unimpressed. “And here I was, under the impression that it was action, not ideas that saved Hextech from the incinerator.”

“Councilor!” Talis practically chokes on the word. “I—”

“Oh goodness, is that Lord Albus?” It’s Lady Kiramman that tugs on Talis’s arm now, all gracious smiles as she peels him away from the councilors jockeying to get a word in edgewise. “Clan Ferros has been quite interested in your progress. If you talk to Albus now, I’m sure he would be quite amenable to working out a generous understanding…”

“But Councilor Medarda—”

Kiramman’s smile sharpens, carving a line in the parquet between them. “I’m sure she will excuse us. Won’t you, dear?”

“Of course.” She lifts a hand, the barest shrug. “Far be it from me to keep you from Lord Albus and his generous mind.”

And wallet, she doesn’t add, but by the desperate look Talis spares her over his shoulder, she hardly needed to.

Elora might marvel at her endurance when it came to wearing heels the length of her arch, or gowns with the sort of architecture that left marks as dark as a lover’s in the morning, but it’s always been the mask that has wearied her most, the unending strain of smiling where there was not a granule of good humor left in her hourglass. An actress might don a role for three acts, but a politician lived it for every waking hour of their day— and sometimes, well into the night.

There are moments, however, where she might let her cheeks rest, where her face might fall into its natural lines instead of to the ones her act demands. She locates one well into the night; a balcony left abandoned now that night had fallen and there was no sun to set Piltover glittering. This one would have been on the wrong side of the estate anyway; there’s only the suggestion of trees when she squints into the night, a handful of the hundred that flood the landscape this far from the city proper. Nothing that would interest any of the pillars of Piltoverian progress milling about the Kiramman ballroom.

So to find Talis there, tucked away in the shadows, is a surprise as well as a disappointment. Not much of one— she had expected him to find her later; there is nothing men love to do more than explain away their foolishness, especially in front of a woman— but she must admit, she thought he might be alone when he made the attempt.

“Councilor!” He straightens from his hunch, the bulk of his body no longer blocking the slim one curled beside him. “I, er…”

“I’m sorry,” she says, annoyance leeching sincerity from her tone. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t! It’s just…” He sends one of those helpless looks to his companion, and she huffs, unfurling all her coltish limbs until only Kiramman’s daughter remains. There’s none of her mother’s elegance in her— there rarely is, in fourteen year old girls— but there is her sheen of shrewdness, and the promise of her father’s height.

“It’s fine.” The girl’s chin tilts proudly, the familiar curl of her lip breeding true. “I don’t mind. I was done talking anyway.”

She wasn’t, and she does— at least, so the pouty pitch of her voice implies— but she’d die rather than admit it. Especially in front of her. Better just to pretend it was and sulk in private.

Mel’s mouth twitches. That girl would make a good councilor herself, in time. Or at least a very convincing cat.

“Caitlyn…” Talis may call out, but he doesn’t do much else to stop her, watching her walk out with little more than a wince. “Ah, sorry about all that. She’s just a kid.”

He shrugs, as if that should mean something to her. Perhaps it would, if she were used to children. Maybe more, if she had ever been a child herself. “I think my forgiveness is the last of your concerns tonight.”

Mel settles a hip against the balustrade, for once looking down on Piltover’s most popular lantern jaw. It brings her close enough to see the flex of his cheek, nerve jumping right beneath the skin. “Ah, don’t worry. Caitlyn’s a good kid. She’ll just be glad I didn’t talk over her head like everyone else.”

Her eyebrows arch. “I wasn’t talking about her.”

His head snaps up, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, reminding her of nothing more than one of Kiramman’s hounds caught stalking tonight’s entrée. “Ah…?”

“You let Cassandra Kiramman call him your assistant.” She snorts, one arm folding over her waist. “You better hope it doesn’t reach your business partner’s ears. At least before you can explain yourself.”

“Ah.” His teeth clack down in a grimace. “Yeah, Viktor won’t take that very well.”

“Great minds rarely do.” She hums around the rim of her glass, obscuring her smirk. “I hope you have a good excuse ready. I’d hate for your project to fall behind due to some…creative differences.”

“That won’t happen.”

He snaps upright, and she expects that stiff spine to radiate with earnesty, for those honeyed eyes of his to gleam with academic fervor, but instead there’s a sort of desperate calculation in them, the flywheels of his mind running an entirely different set of numbers.

“Listen…” Talis scratches at the back of his head, the line of his shoulders tense. “I know this party, well…it wasn’t really your idea.”

To put it mildly. A fund-raising gala might have been in her plans eventually, but was supposed to come after a working prototype, something she could arrange to show to its best advantage after a few drinks and canapés. But Kiramman had needed to flex her talons, showing just how deep she could sink them in Talis, if she had the interest.

“I’d like to make it up to you.” Talis favors her with his most charming smile, the kind that opened wallets as easily as hearts. “You were our first investor after all.”

She lifts a brow. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

“A personal tour. Tomorrow. All access.” She’s half tempted to shield her eyes from the way he beams, eager to please. “It’s the least we can do, considering how much you’ve helped us out.”

That’s certainly one way to refer to the small, personal fortune she’s put in their accounts. But she’s hardly going to quibble over verbiage when he’s offering what she’d been planning to charm out of him. “And you’ll be there? Both of you?”

“Sure.” His mouth tightens around the word. “Why not?”

For men who have walked the hallowed halls of the Academy, who are used to the great vault of its atria, filigreed columns stretching their ribbed arms toward the heavens, the warehouse is just as starkly humble as the day they bought it. At least it isn’t just as empty. When Talis comes to meet her, he emerges from one of the newly erected partitions, hurrying across the floor to clasp her hand.

“Councilor!” His greeting echoes from all directions, all-encompassing, with a smile just as overwhelming. “You made it.”

“How could I not when you promised to show me around personally?” She lets her mouth slant, teasing. “After all, everyone notices when the guest of honor doesn’t arrive to their own party, don’t they?”

“Right. Of course.” Talis’s smile wavers, just for a moment. “I’m just glad to see you were serious about this.”

“I’m not in the habit of making light of my investments, Mr Talis,” she assures him. Unlike some of my colleagues, she doesn’t say, but by the way his eyes tighten, she doesn’t have to.

“Ah, of course, councilor.” He claps his hands together, dispelling the awkward air that’s settled between them. “Well, I hope you’re ready for your tour! Everything’s still in development, but I think there’s some real exciting things I can show you if—”

“Just you?”

Talis blinks down at her, confusion knotting the space between his heavy brows. She peers pointedly at the empty space beside him.

“Ha, ah, yes, well, Viktor’s busy.” His tongue trips over the polite lies trying to rush off it. “We’re still trying to stabilize the spheres, you know, or well— their output at least. See what we can actually do with Hextech, once we can get it up and running on demand. I know that’s probably too technical for an excuse, but, er— lots of places we can improve. Lots of places we have to improve, to make our deadlines. You know how it is.”

Mel stares up at that simpering smile and bites back a sigh. “Well, then,” she manages, perfectly cordial as she winds her fingers around his elbow. “I’m glad that you could be spared, then.”

Pink tingles the highest arc of his cheeks. “Well, councilor, you’re a top priority to us.”

“Some people in this warehouse have a strange way of showing it.” She hums, letting her smile widen.

There it is, that grimace. That barest flash of apology in his eyes before he looks away. “Ah…I’m sure…er…”

“Don’t worry, Mr Talis.” She pats his arm, radiating confidence. “This will hardly be my only visit. I’ll have plenty of time to get to know your partner.”

“Right.” The word see-saws in his mouth, uncertain. “Next time, maybe.”

“Next time,” she agrees. “Definitely.”

Councilor Hoskel is the sort of man who prefers to attend parties, rather than host them; despite the decadent vintages he imports, he would rather sell them rather than serve them, mainly at exorbitant prices that make even the highest lords hesitate. And yet, he cannot squirm out of the duty entirely, not without earning himself a reputation as an unrepentant miser, a skinflint whose clan others should be wary of associating with.

And so when he must unbend, it is to this: not some gleaming gala or intellectually stimulating social, but gambling.

“Did you know that in Demacia, they race actual horses?” Hoskel’s laugh wheezes across his lap, spindly fingers sketching out the thinnest suggestion of a thoroughbred. “Barbaric, really. All down to the animal at that point. Nothing at all to do with the skill of the jockey.”

It’s a smaller track than the ones she’d chased Kino around as a child, his gold-banded coils whipping against the gleaming scale of his armor, smile made all the broader by memory. A place like this couldn’t fit the mounts they rode, prancing and proud, roan coats gleaming under a Noxian sun. Or Demacian, for one summer. Shuriman, for two years, as Mother painstakingly carved a red river between the dunes. It hadn’t mattered, just so long as there was space enough— and time enough, without Mother breathing down their necks— to have hooves wear down a track.

Mel’s read poets from Lokfar to the Shadowed Isles— required reading for the daughter of Noxus’s premier warlord— but there has never been a one who could do justice to the way the wind felt as it whipped at her cheeks, sand churning beneath her mare’s hooves, the taste of freedom clenched between her teeth. And so there is no hope for her, not here in this city that does not expand out but up, an endless stretch of stone and metal and miracles of engineering, ever reaching toward the sky.

Especially not to a man like Hoskel, whose eyes gleam not at the sight of a fine bit of horseflesh but at the delicate gearworks that replace it. Already it spins and sparks, a poor substitute for the prancing of a high-spirited mare, but its jockey gives its slender steel neck a pat anyway, form preserved if not function. There’s a team of engineers behind him— students, she understands, responsible for the maintenance of the track’s mounts for credit— running through the last few checks, but there is no shield science can provide these men, not when wheels might miss tracks, or sparks may catch cloth. Even if these horses have no legs, there’s still a half dozen ways to be trampled.

That’s part of the appeal, she knows. Not that any of the councilors here will admit it. But Mel has eyes enough to see how they lean forward, breaths caught as they wait for the starting shot. Oh, they might scoff at the Noxian compulsion for conquest, call them warmongers and barbarians and worse, but there’s hunger in there, a desire for blood beneath the thin veneer of civility.

But it would be rude to speak of it, beyond the pale for the squeamish Piltoverians. So instead Mel smirks, adopting a casual lean against the curved arm of her seat. “And not a poor way to pick out talent from the Academy’s pool either, I suppose. A pity I paid so little attention to it last year.”

Hoskel might find challenge in a children’s toy, but he divines her meaning easily enough. “Ah, yes, I’m sure Talis must have made a good go of it more than once. Can’t remember it, of course, but— must have been a winner, whichever one it was. Really shown these boys how to put one of these fillies through their paces!”

A cackle wheezes out from that too-wide mouth, punctuated by a chummy slap of his thigh. “He’s a good chap, that one. Took me around the whole lab just last week! Showed me all the new fangled doodads they’ve been cooking up in there. All highly secret, of course,” he confesses humbly. “But if there’s anyone who can keep his mouth shut, why—”

“The whole lab?” Mel asks, alarm sharpening her question to a point. “Even the workshop?”

Hoskel scoffs, wrist swiveling dismissively. “As if I’d go in there! There’s smoke and grease and who knows what else in a place like that! Do you know how much these trousers cost?”

She’s quite tempted to ask if he does, but instead she simply smiles, enjoying the way he squirms underneath it. “A small price to pay to be at the forefront of progress.”

“Ha! Progress, you say?” That narrow neck shakes. “It’s work that’s done in those laboratories, my dear! Grimy, filthy work, done by bodies made for the business! If you’re looking for progress, well, that’s what comes afterward, when the men with great minds decide what to do with it!”

Her brow twitches. “Is that so?”

“I even told Talis to get a few more people manning the place.” He huffs, arms crossing over his chest. “Boy like him shouldn’t be getting his hands dirty.”

“Really.” It’s a struggle to keep her mouth from curling. “I thought his family made hammers?”

“They hire people to make the hammers.” Hoskel’s bulging eyes roll. “Clan Talis simply decides what to do with them. I understand he’s an engineer” —how quickly a vaunted profession can sound like a disease caught from Midtown whores in his mouth— “but really, there’s no reason for him to bother with all that labor. Beneath him, really.”

“Of course.” Mel hums, too amused. “Not like Viktor.”

Hoskel squints at her over his glass. “Who?”

The first time is excusable; there are deadlines to make, more than a few she’s had a hand in setting herself. An abbreviated tour is only to be expected, to be later expounded upon in reports. If she is not allowed access to the workshop, it is a small price to pay for steady progress. One she’s happy to pay, since it seems few of their other investors make it past the showroom floor.

But when it becomes a second, a third, a fourth— well, let it never be said a Medarda can’t pick up a hint.

However, that doesn’t mean she’ll take it. Not quietly, at least.

“Councilor.” Talis is at his most ingratiating this morning, anxiety palpable as her mouth settles into something just short of a scowl. “You’re here! Perfect timing. We just just put a little something in the showroom that might interest—”

“Ah.” Mel cocks a hip, impatient. “So you’ve been sent to get rid of me, I see.”

His smile stutters to a stop, just like his steps. “Ha ha, get—get rid of you? No, no, of course not. It’s just…”

She knows what ‘it’s just’ all too well, but she only folds her arm, waiting. If he’s been sent out here to be bait, then he can squirm on the hook like one too.

“Well, you know how Viktor is.” His arms spread, half apology, half shrug. A gesture that’s so familiar fatigue rolls over her in anticipation. “Doesn’t like distractions.”

“It’s impossible for me to know how Viktor is,” she informs him with no little venom, “because he won’t ever speak with me.”

“Ah, ha ha.” Talis rubs a broad hand over the back of his even broader head. “Now, that’s a good—”

“I am not being funny, Mr Talis.” If only he were smaller, more engineer and less blacksmith, he might find out just how far past humor Mel has traveled. Even still she has to clasp her hands to her elbows just to keep from shouldering past to get her glimpse behind the curtain.

With a steadying breath, she forces her fingers to relax, to let the line of her shoulders ease to a sultrier slope.

“Jayce,” she sighs, letting one of those fingers raise to her cheek. “I am one of the main investors in this little venture of yours. If you are going to insist that this is a joint project, one in which this…Viktor is an equal partner…”

“He is.” His jaw sets with all the implacability for which his clan is known. “There wouldn’t be Hextech without Viktor.”

She allows her face to soften, to imply that she’s dropped her guard, just for him. “Then I would like to meet him one day.”

“Ah…” Guilt hikes his shoulders, but the gaze he gives her is soft— no, fond. Perhaps more than she would like. But she’d have to be a fool not to be grateful for the advantage. “Understood, Councilor. I’ll, ah, try to talk to him about it. Maybe for today we could—?”

“I’ll call ahead next time,” she promises, turning her back on him. “Then maybe Viktor can pencil me in properly.”

“Right.” He deflates. “Of course. Have a, er, nice day, Councilor.”

It’s at another one of Kiramman’s interminable teas where the woman corners her, smile all edges, and says, “It seems like those boys are coming along now, aren’t they?”

It’s a surprise, an ambush, and for once Mel is happy she’s been caught with her mouth full, if only to give her a moment to push past the shock to a smirk.

“They are, aren’t they?” Mel tilts her head, the very picture of graciousness. “Jayce was just giving me a tour the other week to show me what they’ve been working on. Those little— what does he call them? Beads. They’re quite impressive, aren’t they?”

“Jayce?” Kiramman’s mouth purses sourly, gaze scouring her from head to toe. Mel only smiles. Let the woman think what she likes. Talis would certainly love for her worst imaginings to be a reality. “I believe he calls them…spheres.”

“Ah, yes, spheres.” Though with all those rough edges, they hardly resemble one. “Clever little things, even if they are still wickedly dangerous. Hate to see what one of them might do to the neighborhood now, if they got out.”

“I must admit, I haven’t gotten to see their latest prototype. Jayce told me that they weren’t quite ready to take out of a lead lined box.” The councilor may throw her head back, may laugh like a little lark, but her eyes narrow above it, skeptical. “I suppose you must have been in the workshop…?”

If only. Then Kiramman’s guests could have seen some real entertainment.

“Hardly. Jayce brought out the case from the lab so I could see it in better light.” For your eyes only, he’d said with a wink, but she knew better to trust a face as handsome as his. And one so well-connected. “But you, surely…?”

It’s a gamble— for all that Viktor has seemed to have forbidden her from the lab without so much as a word, Mel cannot assume he could manage the same stolidness with Cassandra Kiramman. She’s Talis’s long-term patron for one, with far more cause— and inclination— to bustle her way in, so long as Talis didn’t put up a fuss.

But she only huffs, waving a hand. “Only a peek,” she admits, annoyed. “But that’s fine enough for me. I’ve never been much interested in that sort of thing— machinery. Dreadfully dirty. I much prefer to see what’s been polished.”

“Of course,” Mel hums, suppressing a smile. “And Jayce is so good at showing it off to its best angle.”

“Isn’t he though?” She puffs up, like a proud mother hen. “I’ve always thought he was quite charming, just the way a peer should be. And so obliging…”

That, Mel thinks, is exactly the problem.

It’s not Talis who meets her when she sweeps into the laboratory. No, it’s some gawky girl, half-hidden behind a set of squared-off spectacles, shrinking smaller behind her clipboard by the second.

“Councilor Medarda,” she gasps, knuckles white around the hardboard. “We, uh, didn’t know you would be coming by today.”

Mel stares down at her, mouth pursed. Talis had mentioned they would be taking on new staff, but she hadn’t heard of any new hires. “And just who are you?”

“Ah…I’m the n-new assistant, councilor. Sky,” the girl murmurs, feet shuffling beneath the white of her coat. “I-I’m afraid Mr Talis isn’t here at the moment, but if you’d like—?”

“I’m not here for Mr Talis.” He’s charming, of course, handsome. A clansman in his own right, however small the line— and entirely too eager to please. Enough that even the likes of Salo or— heaven forbid— Hoskel has sniffed it out. However finely chiseled that jaw is, and however easy— or pleasurable— it would be to turn it, Mel knows: a pawn liable to switch sides makes for a poor playing piece.

Let all the other councilors waste their time wooing the boy wonder, hoping to catch an edge over their peers. She, however, has options.

Or at least she will, if she can get past this girl.

She’s a shivering little thing, quailing beneath her bite. A thing Mel might feel bad about, if Talis hadn’t hired her for the sheer purpose of having an assistant to put her off, instead of doing it himself. “I-if you need any help, I-I’d be glad to, um, help you. The showroom has several of our—”

“No, thank you.” Mel is in no mood to be managed. Not by Talis, and certainly not by this child. “Is Viktor here?”

The girl blinks, eyes giant behind her frames. “Well, yes. He’s in the workshop—”

Her smile hones to a point. “Perfect.”

It’s nothing to sidestep the girl, striding with the purpose to where the workshop door looms, a heavy, leaden thing only Talis could possibly open with ease. When her hand clenches around the handle, she’s half-convinced it won’t budge, preemptively locked against unwanted distraction. But it opens easily beneath her touch, swinging wide on well-oiled hinges as Talis’s new assistant stammers after her.

It’s cavernous, walls stretching high above them, catching echoes in its vaults. There’s windows too, placed so high only the sparest light illuminates the dusty floors, but where they do sits a strange stand of arches, almost organic in the way they fold together— and the bent man working on them.

Viktor isn’t dressed for company, that’s to be sure. Jacket and tie have long ago been discarded, decorating a chair half-tipped against the wall, leaving only shirtsleeves and vest. Which are hardly more modest when he’s got the first buttons of his collar popped, sleeves rolled nigh up to his elbows.

“I see we’ve relaxed the uniform,” Mel observes, heels echoing in the empty space.

To his credit he doesn’t even stiffen, doesn’t even pause when he tells her, “Progress doesn’t have a dress code. Only results.”

Mel smothers her smile to a smirk as he stands, wearily submitting himself to her attention. She's won their little contest of wills, after all, and an audience with him her prize. With a sinuous movement, she slips between man and machine and takes it. “The results could be wearing their shirt properly.”

He hesitates now, mouth pursed, sparing her only the sourest of glares. “I wasn’t aware we’d be having a garden party amidst the gears and soot.”

But even still, a palm runs down his front, subtly adjusting the set of his shirt, fixing the skew of his vest. Mel’s lips twitch. Not so shameless as he would like to pretend, then. “Hardly.”

He flinches when her hand lifts, but it’s not him her fingers wrap around— she’s pushed far enough on that front for a first meeting— but the arch of his strange machine. If anything, his discomfort deepens, the smooth space between those heavy brows furrowing more profoundly with every minute she weaves through his portals, strolling casually as if it were just another turn about the room.

“But your investor has come calling,” she reminds him, peering at him through one of them. “You might try to look presentable.”

He frowns, pulling his already gaunt face tighter still. “I have more important things to worry about.”

“Like this?” She runs a finger down the arch, biting back a grin at his twitch. “What is this anyway?”

He heaves a sigh, setting aside his spanner, or, well, whatever it is he’s been working with. Mel knows quite a few things, but tools are hardly one of them. “An attempt to stabilize the hex field.”

She arches a brow, and with an even more aggrieved huff, he explains, “I’m trying to remove the boom.”

“Ah, yes.” Her finger flits away on reflex. “I have noticed there aren’t many windows here.”

One spiny shoulder lifts. “They’d be a pain to replace.”

“And expensive,” she huffs, thinking of the bill the council had dickered over for the ones in the library.

Viktor grunts. “That was included in the aforementioned pain.”

She steps out from the frame, taking a wider look at the wrought metal monstrosity before her. It’s familiar, in a way; she’d hardly had time to look closely at their initial prototype, not when security had herded all of them out from the glass and shrapnel made by it, but if she tilts her head, letting the vague film of memory fall over her…

“So.” Her heels clack as she paces, coming to stand behind where he’s crouched, already back at work. “You went…bigger?”

“Scale matters,” he explains, impatience underpinning his words. “Smaller is easier to power, but bigger makes more visible mistakes.”

She leans down over his shoulder. “Or makes a bigger boom.”

This time, he does flinch, rubbing at his neck as he mutters, “I don’t make things go…boom.”

“More’s the pity,” she says, stepping away. “But the question stands. You think that increasing scale will solve issues, rather than create more dangerous ones?”

“Small requires attention to detail. It requires fussing.” He sits back on his heels, scratching behind his ear. “We are still dealing with functional issues. It’s better to see them writ large than to miss them in the fine print. Missing the forest for the trees, as they say.”

Not here. It would probably be something about…cogs and gears, if she were to take her guess. “Then why was Jayce’s prototype so small?”

A breath hisses through his nose. “Because no one wants a tool the size of a room.”

“Oh.” She frowns, remembering the glass that had littered the library floor. She’d had to throw out that dress; it cut her every time she wore it after. “Are we putting these in houses?”

That shoulder lifts again, wearier this time. “To the man who makes hammers, everything fits inside a toolbox.”

Mel steps into the barest edge of his vision; he turns, just slightly, to keep her in his periphery. “And what about the man who makes progress?”

Silence stretched between them, too long. “That’s yet to be seen.”

She takes the arches in again, slowly pacing around their perimeter, thinking of hammers and boxes. Of what might not fit in them, and whether they should. Of whether there was profit to be had in moving things from room to room.

"I have to admit, I can't quite see the purpose of it." His hands suddenly still over his tools, as if so long as he didn't move, she couldn't take their funding away. "What I saw...that doesn't seem like something that will want to fit in a box."

"That was proof of concept," Viktor assures her, flitting back to fuss with a set of cogs. Clever as those hands of his are, he can't quite get them to mesh. "What happened that night-- that's not all Hextech can do. Floating and explosions and pretty lights."

"And things moving from one place to another." Mel can no longer remember which hand reached out to the coin, but she knows at one moment it was there, and with a shiver, it was somewhere else.

He snorts, shaking his head. "Teleportation is not an avenue we're moving forward with."

She blinks. "Why not?"

"Hextech is supposed to put power in the hands of the everyman, whether they're born it the highest penthouse in Piltover, or the dirtiest gutter of the Lanes." His mouth hooks into a rueful smirk. "Now imagine every one of them with the ability to be anywhere they want, whenever they want."

It's a struggle not to let her mouth thin, to let the grimace grit behind her lips show. "But surely there's useful applications of that power. Ones that might better more lives than simply...lifting boxes."

There's a twitch at the corner of his jaw; subtle, lost in the angles of his chin and cheeks, but there. A purse to his lips, a faint furrow to his brow-- the marks of an argument long lost, but not forgotten. Or perhaps, she thinks, watching how his face smooths to glass, never had.

"That may be," he allows, the tone all but removed from his voice. "But Jayce would prefer to focus on something that would be useful at a personal level. Handy. We aren't trying to cause chaos, after all."

"No," she agrees, letting her mouth linger around the word. "Just a revolution."

That gets him to look at her now, lips slightly parted. Surprised, maybe. Seduced. Looks like she didn't need the dress after all.

“Pity your partner is so limited in scope,” she muses, once more tracing the edge of an arch. “I wonder how far this could go if you weren’t limited to a box.”

For all the girl's protestations that Mr Talis was unavailable, he's waiting for her when she steps out of the workshop, hands wrung so tight they've gone white in his grip.

"Councilor Medarda," he gasps, falling breathlessly into step beside her. "How was...? Did Viktor...?"

He puts a hand on the door to open it for her, the sounds of the street rushing in. His throat clears, and his mind must as well, since he manages, "I hope you're happy with our progress."

“Me?” Mel turns he head, obscuring her smile. “Yes, I think my investment is coming along quite nicely.”

#melvik #arcane #the man of progress #my fic #god FINALLY this is finished. I wanted this to be out in june originally #and then everything got shunted last second so i was like #andi will ask for it for her birthday! it's fine! AND SHE DID AND IT WAS GREAT #but this thing was supposed to be 6K on the outside. it's like 7.5 now #was editing down to the wire on this one too because the last scene needed some clarification #ending up adding a WHOLE NEW SCENE #anyway deeply sorry to my melvik fans for having to remove what was originally her fixing his shirt #but since she touches his machine i figured that would be just as good 🤣

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matchamilkislover · 6 months

Text

In The Darkest Corners, 10.

pairing: vi x fem!oc (reader with a name)

warnings: mature themes, just an overall minors beware, violence, just general arcane-ness.

word count: 2,009

synopsis: the infamous council meeting - and the aftermath.

author’s note: it’s going down, i’m yelling timbeeeerrrrr

don’t forget to read the other parts first!!

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ

Olive and Vi were just leaving Olive’s old house when they heard running footsteps on the sidewalk, coming closer. Soon, Caitlyn came into view, and gestured for them to hurry up.

“The next council meeting. They moved it up. To tonight,” she said, opening the gate for them. “We need to be ready.”

Olive’s heart felt ready to beat out of her chest. She and Vi were waiting just beyond the doors to the Council’s meeting room, waiting for the signal for them to enter. Vi stood beside her, her face unreadable. The only hint Olive had to how she felt was the subtle sign of Vi’s clenched jaw that she could see out of her peripheral vision. Before she knew it, Cailtyn was leading them into the room where each council members’ eyes instantly latched onto the three of them. Olive could feel their eyes burning through her skin, reopening searing wounds that had barely healed. Vi’s hand suddenly clenched around hers for a moment, a reassurance Olive didn’t know she needed. Caitlyn introduced Vi but then trailed off as she turned to Vi.

“Olive Whitlock…” Salo murmured. His piercing eyes were slowly looking her and Vi up and down.

“This is ludicrous!” Hoskel suddenly thundered, pounding a fist on the table. “You have some nerve-”

“Excuse me!” Mrs. Kiramman cut him off with a sharp tone. “Calm your temper, Hoskel,” she hissed.

“Please, we just need your ears, only for a moment,” Caitlyn continued for her mother, stepping forward. She nodded towards Olive to signal that she should speak.

“I’m sure you’re all aware of the…events that took place a year ago. Or where I’ve been since then,” Olive began. “I would never believe it if I hadn’t experienced it for myself. But, the undercity…it's being ravaged. Its inhabitants, eaten alive by shimmer and fighting for their lives every day. They’re being run into the ground by violent crime lords, led by the puppeteer who rules over them all. Silco.” A quiet round of gasps left the councilors’ mouths.

“Silco? The industrialist? We’ve conducted investigations of him, there has been no sign of such organization.” Bolbok questioned.

“And who led these investigations?” Olive snapped, now glowering. She knew. They all knew. Marcus, the dirty police chief that raided her home and ended her life. Marcus, the one who had held her at gunpoint on the bridge before being blown to bits by firelights. Bolbok sighed.

“What does he even want from us?”

“Power. He believes the undercity should be independent. He calls it the Nation of Zaun.” Olive continued, knowing that she had the councilors wrapped in her words now. Jayce Talis suddenly cuts in, lifting a familiar object onto the table. One of Jinx’s bombs.

“And who is responsible for this?” He asks, returning Olive’s glower. Olive opened her mouth and glanced at Vi, but Vi nodded and stepped forward.

“Her name is Jinx,” Vi said, finally speaking.

“And this Jinx has the gemstone?” Jayce asked. Vi nodded. “Then we need to go in by force.”

“That could trigger war!” Another councilor protested.

“There are good people down there,” Olive joined in, not having expected this sudden turn. A different councilor grunted.

“Yeah, about as good as your mother,” The official muttered under his breath. Olive felt her swallowed anger flare inside of her.

“What the fuck did you just say?” She demanded, hurtling forward to where the offender was sitting. Caitlyn hurried forward to hold her back.

“Perhaps there is a diplomatic solution,” Mrs. Kiramman interjected, looking desperate to calm the fire that had been started.

“You don’t know war, Jayce. I do. It must be our last resort,” Councilor Merdarda continued for her. Jayce scoffed.

“What? You want to negotiate with the undercity? With this- Silco?” He demanded angrily. Vi cut in again.

“This is fucking insane- have you learned nothing? He won’t listen to you, you can’t just talk to him! He hates all of you, and everything you stand for!” Her aggressive stance and movements towards the councilors put the enforcers standing by the door on edge. Mrs. Kiramman’s face finally hardened.

“Enforcers, please escort them-” She was cut off by Vi.

“No need. I remember where your stupid fucking door is,” She spat before turning and leaving, Olive close behind.

When they finally exited the grand building, night had fallen, and rain was pounding down on them. Vi was moving so fast that Olive was struggling to keep up.

“Vi, wait!” She cried out, grasping onto her arm. Vi turned towards her but pulled her arm away.

“I never should’ve gotten you involved with this. I never should’ve…” Her voice trailed off.

“What are you talking about? We can fix this, we can still-” Olive didn’t even finish her sentence.

“No, we can’t. We tried, okay? But if I keep letting you get wrapped up in…all this, you’ll get hurt. Everyone always does,” she said, continuing to walk away. Olive’s frustration flashed.

“You can’t just walk away from me, after- after everything! We’re in this together.” Her voice was firm, but her eyes were red and she had to focus to keep her lip from trembling.

“It’s over, cupcake. I need to go back to where I came from, and you need to stay here, where you belong. You’ve got Caitlyn and a big, fancy house that you can fix up. You don’t need me.” Olive’s heart squeezed at the hurt in her voice.

“You’re wrong. I don’t belong here anymore. I- I don’t belong anywhere. But together, I know we could fix everything, I know we could find out what happened to my family and take down Silco and-”

“No, we can’t!” Vi’s voice came out harsher than Olive expected. “You’ll be better off if you stay here, with Caitlyn. If you forget me.” Her eyes were trained on the ground as the rain that soaked them dripped down her hair and face.

“But…what about us?” Olive asked, her voice finally shaking, the tears that had been threatening to spill pouring out of her eyes and down her cheeks like the rain that already streaked them.

“Like oil and water. It wasn’t meant to be.” Vi turned around and left, disappearing into the dark, rainy night.

Olive waited until she was completely out of view before she let herself fall against a light pole while her body was wracked with sobs, head in her hands. She forced herself to hold back the screams that threatened to burst from her throat. She couldn’t explain why it was suddenly hard to breathe, and why her heart felt like it was ripping apart inside her chest. It was a long time before she picked herself up and trudged towards Caitlyn’s house, soaked to her bones by the rain and her face wrecked by crying.

—

Before Vi had reached the edge of Piltover, a thought crossed her mind. That council member - Jayce, was it? - had been the first to suggest they fight by force. For the sake of her own heart, she knew she had to make sure Olive stayed away; especially if she was going to do what she thought she was going to do. She waited a bit longer until she was sure Olive would have left the council building by now, and then headed back, ducking in and out of dark corners to stay inconspicuous. She was sure the enforcers wouldn’t be too keen on letting her back in, and she liked doing things better this way anyways.

Vi slinked through the hallways of the dark building, searching for a sign of the council member. She eventually heard sounds of deep clanging and saw a faint light emanating from the bottom of a door. Bingo.

It took less convincing than Vi expected for Jayce to give in to her plan. This dude really is bloodthirsty. For what they were about to do, the more so, the better. The gauntlets felt so natural in her hands that she had to push away thoughts of the last time she had held something similar. Her focus stayed trained on Jayce as she leaned on one leg and reached out a gauntlet covered hand to him.

“We got a deal, pretty boy?”

—

Olive had nearly shocked Caitlyn to death when she showed back up at her door, soaked and still teary. The blue haired girl shushed her and led her inside, keeping an eye out to make sure no one saw the two of them.

“My mother really isn’t pleased with the stunt you and Vi pulled at the council meeting today,” she warned, making stern eye contact with Olive as she handed her a towel to dry off.

“I know, I- I’m sorry,” Olive replied with a sigh. It was hard enough to face Caitlyn now as is, and this had only made it worse. “I’d just like to stay one more night. Please.” Her eyes cautiously lifted to Caitlyn’s, trying to read her old friend’s expression.

“Oh Olive, of course you can stay,” Caitlyn replied breathlessly as she scooped her into a hug, ignoring that Olive’s clothes were wet enough to get her soaked as well. “But…where’s Vi?”

Olive felt her tears build up again. She pulled away from Caitlyn. “She left me. I couldn’t stop her. She said it was for the better.” Olive choked out the last few words, her face falling into her hands again as tears streamed down her face once more. Caitlyn seemed to be at a loss for words.

“Olive, I-...stay as long as you need. I’m so sorry,” Olive shook her head and cleared her throat.

“I can’t stay long. It doesn’t feel right for me to be here anymore. And I can’t keep piling this on you,” she replied softly. “Piltover is no longer my home.”

The next morning, Olive woke early and got ready quickly. It broke her heart, but she knew she had to leave before Caitlyn could stop her and try to convince her to stay again. Olive knew that she wouldn’t be able to say no this time. With one last longing look at her childhood home, Olive leapt off of Caitlyn’s balcony and made her way towards the total nightmare that was now her life. Even if Vi wouldn’t help her, Olive knew she couldn’t give up on finding her mother. On finding the truth. So back she went to her grubby shack of an apartment, to working odd questionable jobs here and there to support herself, to saving bits of food for days on end when money was tight. At least there, she knew she could do something.

—

Vi could hardly hold herself back from racing into the facility they were headed for and getting the siege over with herself. She and Jayce were loaded with a whole command of enforcers, everyone itching to take down what they now knew as the source of Piltover’s greatest headaches. If only she had known the dark turn this fight was about to take.

The attack on the shimmer facility was a blur of gunshots and bloodshed. Vi used the anger coursing through her to mercilessly take down any and all who crossed her path, ignoring the trail of those around her who had fallen. Finally, there was only one person left. A young boy that seemed oddly forceful in his determination to protect the facility. Vi recognized him as the one who had pushed the alarm in the building that alerted everyone of their presence and released the defense creatures. Vi knew that she had no choice in killing him. Apparently Jayce didn’t have the same opinion. She had hardly caught her breath when enforcers descended upon her, holding her down to clamp handcuffs on her. She growled and shouted shocked protests, shoving whatever body parts she could into them to try and overtake them.

“What the fuck!” she growled, still fighting. Jayce’s face was dark and overcast.

“Perhaps some time in Stillwater will teach you a well deserved lesson.”

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melmedarda · 2 months

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⸻ COUNCILOR SALO (serving unparalleled levels of cunt as per usual), Arcane

#let's hear it for the president of the sassy man apocalypse everyone #i love him i really do he has so much attitude in every little gesture #i canon that he hates mel because there can only be two bad bitches on the council.... and it needs to be him ofc #arcane salo #salo arcane #councilor salo #arcane #arcaneedit #arcane netflix #arcane league of legends

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lullabyes22-blog · 8 months

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Snippet - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO - The Council

Silco meets the Council. And ponders his history.

Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

Hatred rises like a toxic effervescence in Silco’s veins.

(These Pilties, eh, Vander?)

(These fucking Pilties.)

In a city whose lifeblood is old money, they are the crème de la crème: an elite group steeped in Piltover's rich heritage of trade and commerce. A century ago, the city was a drowsy backwater, a middling port of fishing settlements and warehouses. The Council's forefathers were Shuriman midshipmen, Ionian merchants, Noxian brigands and Demacian bureaucrats. Men and women who made their fortunes through sheer tenacity and hard graft.

Then came the boom.

Beneath the settlement lay caverns with rich deposits of minerals. Soon, smelters dotted the waterfront, and shipyards sprang up along the bay. Steel became gold. Iron turned to platinum. The age of industry dawned: Piltover blossomed into a manufacturing metropolis.

Then came the Void Wars. In a trice, the city's population doubled. Zhyunian refugees fled by boat; Noxian merchants came by steamships; Demacian scholars boarded trains and Freljordians rode in on zeppelins. Language diversified; the city grew cosmopolitan.

In the coming decades, successive waves of migrants were swept onto Piltover's shores: from noble families seeking to expand their power across Valoran to small-town traders laden with cheap luggage and big dreams. By the century's end, they'd propelled Piltover into a global megacity of palatial mansions, art deco skyscrapers and pristine streets hosed clean every morning before the business hubs threw open their gilded gates to the bon ton.

The population boom meant more houses to build, more food to eat, more clothes to wear. All of which required labor, capital investment, and raw materials.

All of which came from the Fissures.

In theory, the Undercity should have prospered hand-in-hand with Piltover. Yet little of the riches from the Fissures’ recesses was ever relished by the Fissurefolk themselves. They were cut from a different cloth from their over-the-Pilt brethren. Their ancestors were miners and craftsmen, not shipmasters and merchants. Their culture was a clotted stew of customs and dialects; most didn't even speak Piltovan. They weren't born in the city itself but in its shadow, living in close-knit riverside settlements and twilit caverns.

Physically, they resembled deepwater piranhas compared to their sun-kissed kin—narrow bones, wan skins and sharp teeth. Culturally, they were foreigners. And socially, they were inferiors.

Their economy was a rich relic of the Oshra Va'Zaun empire. Their gemcraft and metalworking industries were well-established. Their artisans were peerless and prolific. Their alchemical scholars were the backbone of innovation. They had a robust labor force, a thriving entrepreneurial class, and a history of keen ingenuity.

Their forbearers traded along a flourishing network of maritime ports and river routes. They bartered with Bilgewater; bankrolled the gold mines in Shurima; forged trade deals with Ionia. They even had stakes in the black markets of the Shadow Isles and the mercenary guilds of Noxus.

They did business with every corner of Runeterra. And they did so proudly.

A century's time would turn the glad tidings into bitter tides.

During the first wave, the Undercity's wealth was a windfall for Topside. The demand for labor and resource was insatiable. But the Undercity's resources were finite. When Piltover's population ballooned after the Void Wars, the Fissurefolk were forced to compete. Lacking the natural advantage of fertile terrain and plentiful sunlight, they had no choice but to cut corners. In a trice, the factories and mines teemed with orphans and the elderly, each one paid starvation wages and offered none of the protections aboveground. By the century's end, the Undercity was squeezed dry, a sweatshop with a single employer.

Piltover.

As the upper-city's wealth quadrupled, mercantile clans rose up, each vying for control over the mineral deposits in the Fissures. These overlords were no friends of the poor. Their purview was profit, and profit meant one thing above all else:

Exploitation.

Their first order of business was stymieing the Undercity's trade routes and keeping its resources under lock and key. The collapse of the old Sun Gates and the flooding of the Undercity’s ports gave them the perfect pretext. The borders were sealed off in the guise of a safety net. The only routes were now through Piltover's Bridge, and each shipment was heavily taxed.

In time, the Undercity’s local markets choked. A slow strangulation of wealth reduced former artisans and alchemists to scavengers. Tariffs trapped them in a perpetual cycle of debt and debasement. Once-proud traders stooped to selling their own daughters for coin. Others tipped over into outright smuggling.

Then Piltover launched its second phase: a systematic strangulation of the Undercity's voice.

Fissurefolk were barred from owning or leasing property aboveground. Their children were denied access to Topside schools. Their customs were deemed barbaric. Their traditions were branded as backward. Their dialect was derided as guttural filth. They were derogatorily referred to as Sumprakers—as if their entire existence was an aberration.

By the century's end, Piltover had transformed from a trading partner into a hegemony. The Fissurefolk were no longer perceived as citizens, but as the Other.

An enemy within.

Soon, Topside began consolidating power by buying up land around the Fissures. Displacing the poor and demolishing their homes, they drove them deeper and deeper belowground, while putting the leftovers to use. Historic districts were privatized. Temples were razed. Marketplaces were shut down. The Undercity was reduced to a febrile womb of raw material, ready to be ravaged.

And ravaged it was.

When the first mining rig was installed, the Fissurefolk rioted. The unrest was put down. More mines followed, and more violence. It wasn't until the Enforcers were established as a body of justice that the tide turned in Topside's favor. These overseers were a law unto themselves, their ranks composed of mercenaries and miscreants. Their uniforms were black; their hearts were blacker. Their methods were a brutal amalgam of medieval torture and modern bureaucracy.

Under the banner of peace, the Enforcers were tasked with quashing dissent belowground.

They did so—brutally.

Piltover's third phase was total dominion.

The first mercantile houses had grown rich off the Undercity's spoils. But the new generation hungered for something more: absolute rule. They were no strangers to political maneuvering. Their forefathers had been shrewd tacticians: men and women who'd honed their wits through war, diplomacy and backroom deals.

They knew how to twist the knife, and keep their own hands clean.

Before long, they'd allied with Piltover’s industrial magnates and the monied elite. Together, they formed a cabal of oligarchs, each as ruthless as they were influential. Thus, the Council was born: a body of seven self-appointed sovereigns charged with regulating trade, enforcing laws and levying taxes.

They saw the Fissurefolk as a means to their own end. Disregarding their petitions for better sanitation, downplaying the contributions of their labor, and turning a blind eye to the rampant pollution, they proceeded to carve the Undercity's soul from its body.

When the Fissurefolk protested, the Council responded with Enforcer raids.

And bloodbaths.

By century's end, the Council had built a wall of bureaucracy between themselves and the Fissurefolk—most of whom were treated with neo-colonial contempt. Meanwhile, their wealth continued to reach dizzying heights, with every merchant ship that sailed through the port's grand arches and every sculpture patronized by celebrated virtuosos in their mansions.

The Hex-Gates only quadrupled their fortunes. With every invention by Talis, investors flocked and the Council’s influence grew. The wealth they had hoarded was now limitless. They could build a brand-new city, if they so desired. But why should they, when the Trenchers had already done the hard work for them?

Today's Council—Hoskel, Salo, Bolbok, Shoola, Medarda, Kiramman—are Piltover's pivotal political force, decreeing laws with a gesture from their grand parlors. They're the ones who decide whether jobs are created or lost, how many schools are funded, what taxes are levied.

They make decisions that affect every citizen in the city—every bloody day.

They are also corruption incarnate. Yearly, they’ve swallowed over one-third of the allocated Undercity budget, without accounting for a single cog. Between them, they preside over an empire of private business interests in everything from real estate to racehorses, stowing away their wealth in Demacian bank accounts, Noxian jewelry splurges and private islands dotting the annexed Ionian shores.

To them, Silco's coal-mining origins are as offensive as a rat turd in their caviar. Among Topside's upper-crust, he's a social climber, a rabble-rouser, and a scabrous opportunist. He wasn't born into privilege: he made his wealth through the cutthroat crudeness of industry.

More offensive still, he keeps a singlehanded stranglehold on his fortune, no different from a smuggler stowing all his coins in his codpiece. He never invests in stocks or allows Piltovans to buy shares in his enterprises. Like his factories, everything he owns belowground—publishing houses, restaurant chains, repair garages, gyms, nightclubs, salons—employs Fissure-bred workers, and is rumored to be a front for funding anarchism.

As if that weren't bad enough, he has no inhibitions in debating money or politics in their glittering ballrooms. Worse, he mocks them for entertainment—all while displaying impeccable manners.

Case in point—

With grave courtesy, Silco bows his head, "Councilors."

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