#zaun economy

[itsme-tori]

Awful Silco takes I've seen

So yeah in this post I'll be touching on the shitty Silco takes I've seen going around a lot in the fandom and also the ones which I don't see too much but still make me want to jump off a bridge.

Note: Just because I'm very willing to defend Silco, I understand that he's not a good man nor the best father. I'm very willing to recognize his crimes and I can make a whole list on them if asked.

Silco was only in it for the power

People tend to say how Silco was just trying to satisfy his insatible thirst for power. How he's just another power-hungry villain, using his "Anything to achieve power" speech as proof that it was his main goal.

The thing is, in ep 3, we get to see what is ACTUAL goals were. We see him talking to Vander and when Vander asked if it was all for pride, Silco says, in disbelief that Vander would say that "For respect. Opportunity Everything they've denied us." This isn't a man hungry for power, this is a man hungry for freedom. His speech later only confirms it.

"We had a vision Vander! A dream of freedom. Not just for the Lanes but the whole of the underground, united as one! The Nation of Zaun." His whole body moves with theses words. His believes in this dream. This is something he's always fought even before the betrayal. This isn't just a power grab for him.

Silco didn't do anything to improve Zaun/Silco didn't care about Zaun

A lot of people tend to gloss over the changes that Zaun has went through during the timeskip:

People are in much better clothing than they were in Act 1. There's air filter machines, cars and the economy looks much better improved.

Another thing, Silco has the power over enforcers now. They don't just come in as they please whenever something happened topside. I mean cmon! Compare Piltover's reactions when the kids blew up the building and killed no one in Act 1 to when Jinx blew up a building and killed six enforcers. Yeah, improvement.

There's also a widespread misconception that shimmer is a completely awful drug only used to get people addicted. Yes we do see people in Zaun sadly get addicted to shimmer and in turn ruined their bodies, but:

This belief completely glosses over Silco and Sevika's use of shimmer (medicine for Silco's eye and Sevika's use for it in battle.)

Heck even Caitlyn used shimmer to save Vi's life. Just one drop was used to heal a literal stab wound in seconds. The reason Sky is even dead in the first place is because Viktor decided to not get any shimmer.

Yeah it's 100% bad guys :P

Okay now let's get onto the very awful takes on Silco's relationship with Jinx. Buckle in folks.

Silco's taking in of Powder was a manipulation tactic

This is completely unfounded. Like really? The guy was literally going to stab her only mere seconds ago! How in that moment did he realize that she could be useful to his goals? She's just a mere a child in his eyes and he didn't know that she was the one who made the bomb in the first place!

No instead, his taking in of Powder was one of his few actions in Act 1 that wasn't related to his goals. This girl, crying unto his chest after he asked her where her sister was, sobs out, "She left me. She is NOT my sister anymore." It is at this moment he looks at Vander's body, finds that her pain is similar his, hugs her and gives her words of comfort that she takes right into her heart: "We'll show them. We will show them all."

I've seen people also claim that Silco kidnapped Powder which I go over in this post here.

Silco only loves Jinx as a tool

I know that at first glance that it may *seem* like he only keeps her around for her skills but have you people actually considered that she was also pretty detrimental to his cause?

Literally their first scene together after the timeskip was after she messed up badly on a mission. Sevika complains on how she's just a problem and Silco instead calls out Sevika for not "making sure things went smoothly."

Jinx was the one who messed things up yet instead of a punishment, she only gets a kind rundown of how things will be affected and a day off for her to rest and "focus on her gadgetry."

If she was merely only loved for her usefulness, then Silco does a pretty shit job at making sure she's the perfect solider who doesn't mess up missions.

I mean, look how much he cherishes her! He keeps her gifts around where anyone can see them. Even when she went and killed six enforcers, his only actions against her were to yell at her and take her pen from her when she wasn't listening.

He refuses to give Jinx to Piltover in exchange for the Nation of Zaun, his entire life goal. That is enough proof that he loved her.

Silco doesn't care about Jinx's mental issues/Keeps Jinx mentally instable so that she'll only be loyal to him

Silco takes Jinx to river in ep 5 after she confides in him that she couldn't solve the hexgem in an attempt to help her with her demons.

It's here in this scene that he's wanting her to kill Powder because I quote Silco, "So that the fear of pain will no longer control you." He doesn't want Jinx to be a prisoner of

Why waste all that time on helping her with issues if he doesn't care?

Also there's also there's this weird thing about people saying that had Silco cared, he would've taken her to therapy. WHERE are any signs that therapists exist in their world. Show me the person who has PhD on psychology.

Silco knows she has tons of problems. But what could he do? He's just a broken man helping his broken daughter the only he knows how.

Silco lied to Jinx about Vi being dead

You're telling me that that whole "FROM THE DEAD?!" scene just flew by your head completely? Dude, you're due for a rewatch asap.

Marcus arrested Vi (without Silco or Jinx knowing whatsoever), told Silco that Vi was dead and Silco relayed this to Jinx.

He had NO idea he got fucked over by Marcus until Vi actually came back. That's why he even went to the Sherrif's house in the first place! He threatened Marcus to fix what he's done or there would be consquences.

Silco and Jinx's relationship is romantic/sexual

*seen throwing up into a sink* Sorry sorry but what? A girl being close to man does NOT always mean they're in that kind of relationship. "B-but I wasn't close to my dad like that omg-" shut up for the love of everything that's good in this world. Just because you weren't close physically to YOUR parents doesn't mean it's the same for everyone else.

I'm very close to my mom. I hug her constantly, kiss her on the cheeks, heck I've even slept in the same bed as her for some period of time when I was like 14/15. This DOES NOT mean I want to fuck my mom nor does she want to do the same to me (haha I nearly died typing this message).

"But she sat on his lap-" okay and? Jinx is someone who very clearly goes up into people personal space when she wants to interogate them.

Look at her interrogation scenes with Theiram and Sevika. She got all up close to them but for some reason no one bats an eye at this. This is very typical Jinx behavior which doesn't mean she wants to fuck any of these characters. Context matters people.

Silco should've let Jinx died if he really cared

I shit you not, I've seen not one but multiple people claim this. HUH? You're actually fucking telling me that a father seeing his daughter near death and doing everything he POSSIBLY could do fo save her life, is a sure sign that he doesn't care about her?

I've seen someone argued that since she wanted to commit suicide, Silco should've respected her wishes.

First off dimwits, Silco didn't KNOW she pulled the pin herself. He came only in aftermath, seeing her all bloodied, ashed and went full dad panic mode. Second off, no parent, let alone Silco, would let their child to die just because they're suicidal. I seriously hope these people never meet someone with suicidal thoughts. Like I'm actually serious.

Jinx shot Silco to purposefully save Vi

Look at the scene where she shoots and kills him. She's in the middle of a breakdown and only struck when she heard the click of her gun.

Nothing in that moment mattered to her. Not Vi, not Silco. She was merely reacting to sound which she percieved as a threat. She doesn't even look back to see if Vi was okay, she's completely in her world. I find this scene to be a parallel of her breakdown in ep 4.

Now, this isn't to say that she doesn't care about Vi. She LOVES her sister. But at that moment, Jinx only cared about keeping herself safe.

The "You're Perfect" line was a manipulation Tactic

I'm sorry I just don't see how a scene where a father literally comforts his daughter who just shot him as just some ploy to get her to do what he wants.

He already very clearly expressed how the Nation of Zaun was nothing compared to Jinx ("Is there anything so undoing, as a daughter?)

His last words were as followed: "I never would've given you to them. Not for anything. Don't cry, you're perfect." There's so 'you have to complete this goal for me', this is him dispelling her fear of being betrayed by him and his final message of love. Nothing mattered to him in his last moment, only thing he cared about was his daughter.

#silco #jinx #arcane #bad silco takes #please stop #i'm going to die #i know I'm biased but if you're gonna hate on my blorbo at least do it right #i can list all the reasons why he's bad if you want #also PLEASE check out sweatandwoe's post of why Silco shouldn't be blamed for child labor #it's a very good read #arcane meta #kuro-tori

[lullabyes22-blog]

Mal de Mer - Ch: 5 - Deep End

Summary:

A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise.

War was simpler business…

Part of the 'Forward But Never Forget/XOXO' AU. Can be read as a standalone series.

Thank you for the graphics @lipsticksandmolotovs<3

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X

꧁꧂

Maybe you’re just like my mother? She’s never satisfied

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince

The Hydra—newly dubbed the Thesaurus—boasts a mid-level lounge as well-appointed as anything on the SS Woe Betide.

The furnishings are tasteful: teak and polished brass, with Art Nouveau flourishes. Beneath frosted glass sconces, a bank of portholes offers a panoramic spectacle of the sea. The water is blood red; the sunset cuts sequins across the horizon. There's a bar, fully-stocked; a dining hall, austerely elegant, and a ballroom, the floor an expanse of shellacked hardwood. There is even a billiards table, tucked discreetly in the corner, and a few card tables, draped with damask.

Everything, Mel can't help but think, is to Silco's exacting standards.

After the 'demonstration' on the deck, Silco had escorted his guests—with all due solemnity—to the elevator. They'd ridden up to the main floor, then followed the maze of corridors until they'd reached the lounge. Now, the guests are being treated to what Mel has heard the Piltovan men-about-town call a Fete de Fissure—a heady mix of liquor and libertinage.

The crewmen, with impeccable hospitality, serve platters of Zaunite cuisine: braised octopus in red wine, grilled carp marinated in soy, and steamed lobsters served with a bed of brown rice cooked in garlic butter and herbs. There's even a spread of desserts: tiramisu and zabaglione, with a tower of macarons, all in the traditional neon colors that have even left their mark in Piltover's patisseries. Beverages run the gamut from Zaun's fizzy concoctions—the Blue Fairy, one of Jinx's coinages, is a notoriously potent knockout—to dark Fissure ales that taste of burnt caramel and sweetbread. The wine list, from Silco's own cellar, is a catalogue of rare vintages: the brandies are aged, the whiskies peaty, the cognacs smooth as velvet. For the discerning connoisseurs, there are also tobaccos: rolled leaves from the finest harvests, and cheroots hand-blended to match. And, for the adventurous, an assortment of narcotics: herbs, spices, and fungi that can be ingested or inhaled. Their effects are said to range from the mild euphoria of a cherry-flavored hookah puff to the hallucinations induced by a pipe of powdered mushrooms.

All, Mel notices, have been meticulously arranged by dosage, and labeled with instructions for use.

Looking closely, she spies no Shimmer. She wonders if the drug has been relegated for use only upon request. Or if, since Piltover’s embargo, Silco has truly stopped distributing his wares except as local medicinal supplies. 

She wonders what the shift will bode for Zaun. The city's economy, unlike Piltover's, has for years hinged on its export of the drug: aboveboard and under the table. Silco's two personas—the Chancellor with his acerbic wit, and the Eye of Zaun with his illicit wares—have never been separated by more than a few degrees.

Indeed, Zaun's penchant for lax rules and decadent spoils has long made it a favorite amongst the rich and restless. On the dark side of the allure are the deviants drawn to stories of midnight depravities: orgies on the waterfront, drug-fueled revels in the canals, and all the debauchery of a city that operates outside the boundaries of moral codes.

But the lighter side—the ordinary side—is the true spirit of Zaun. The people, Mel has found, are an eclectic blend: the industrious and the idle, the ambitious and the aimless. Within the warrens of stifling factory smoke and clanking chem-gears, they have created their own microcosm: a kaleidoscope of subcultures, all jostling and coexisting. The clerks who spend their weekdays in monochrome and drear as the no-nonsense backbone of Zaun's enterprise. The artists, drowsing by dawn, and livewires by nightfall: their magic woven, brushstroke by brushstroke, into the city's tapestry. The schemers, with their heads in the clouds and their feet in the dirt: all striving to make ends meet, and carve out their own slice of happiness.

The rest? Refugees escaping tyranny. Castaways flung out of the wreckage of their homes. Pilgrims in search of spiritual enlightenment.

Every stripe of humanity, under one banner.

Progress.

Mel, taking in the scene, realizes:

With the Iron Pearl, Zaun needn't rely on Shimmer to entice investment.

The city—by virtue of all its sweeter vices—is now the prize itself. 

The guests, Mel observes, are taking full advantage. The men have shed their frock coats, loosened ties, rolled up their sleeves. The women, too, are enjoying the evening's liberties: kicking off their heels, letting down their hair, and even unbuttoning the fronts of their blouses. All, succumbing to the liquor of adrenalized greed, have lost their masks of paper-thin civility.

Cevila, shiny-eyed and flushed from five glasses of brandy, is flirting with the stevedore, Kolt. Her husband, at the smoke bar, has already lost himself behind ripe clouds of smoke, and the riper curves of a giggling deckhand. Hector, chin-deep in a plateful of macarons, has transcended into a sugar-trance that verges on Zenlike. Garlen, at the card table, is nursing a tankard of ale, and squaring off against a group of swarthy-skinned sailors. His booming laugh, punctuated by Va-Nox expletives, shakes the room. Even Lady Dennings, her customary primness dissolved into a bottle of champagne, has ensconced herself by the fireplace, hair undone and feet propped on the ottoman. Her husband, of all people, has taken up the armchair opposite. He's been a stickler for formality all his life. Now, he is rubbing her feet. And, unless Mel's eyes are deceiving her, letting his hands roam higher and higher. Lady Dennings, rather than squealing in scandal, is purring like a cat in heat. When the duke leans in, and kisses her full on the mouth, she does not slap his face. Instead, she tugs him closer.

Soon, the two subside into a tangle of limbs behind the semi-privacy afforded by the curtains.

Perhaps, Mel thinks, red clover wasn't necessary.

She stands on the cantilevered terrace, a glass of limewater in hand.  A cool wind gusts, tousling her hair.  The stymied dread of the day is dissipating. In its wake, there is no relief. Only the soggy ache of nervous exhaustion. She feels the way she'd done in the aftermath of Ambessa's fencing lessons: woozy, and unable to trust her legs.  

Usually, her mind is a honed point, capable of cutting through the worst fog. Now, it is too dull to parse anything but the moment. The lines in the sand: blurred, erased, redrawn. The stakes: high as a cliff's edge. The fall: deadly real. And this: a liminal space of shifting currents, where all things are possible.

Mel fills her lungs with sea-salt.

Marriage, Ambessa always said, is not a leap of faith.

It is fine print, and hidden clauses, and a knife under the pillow.

Inside, the guests are drinking and dicing and dancing. The air is becoming fogged with tobacco, and the sharp tang of alcohol, and the heavier scent of bodies, heated, mingling, melting. All her guests—her chess pieces—plucked off the neat orderliness of her board and flung to the mercy of fate.

No—not fate.

Silco.

Headache throbs behind Mel's eyes. She wants either a good hard soul-cleansing scream or a stiff strong drink.

Sadly, both are off the table.

A shadow falls over her.

"You look tired."

Mel shivers involuntarily; her husband’s stealth never fails to unnerve her. His presence is a cold current, cutting through the haze. From her peripheral vision—a six-degree slice of awareness—she catches the silhouette: tall and spare, his movements liquid in the lamplight. A waft of his scent, citric with spice, blows across her.

Mel's respiration doesn't pick up. But her heartbeat does. Her voice comes steadier than she feels: "It's been a long day."

"And a trying week, I imagine."

"You needn't imagine." She takes a perfunctory sip. The limewater bites the back of her throat. "That was your intention, was it not? To put me through the wringer?"

"Only so far as it was necessary."

"Necessary?" A laugh, acrid, escapes her. "What is necessary is a matter of perspective. As is 'enough.'"

"Yet here you are."

His words are a dare: Look at me.

Mel doesn't turn. The wind in her hair is an insinuating touch. Silco's hand, she thinks, would be just as gentle. Just as possessive. She covers the thought with another sip. It goes down smoother.  She'll give him nothing to see, or to make use of, in his weblike calculations.

Not while the balance is still teetering.

"Here I am." Mel sets the glass down. "Waiting to be paid."

"For?"

"The performance in the gallery. For the guests."

"You're my wife, Mel. You need not be paid for such things."

"On the contrary. I am a Medarda. We demand our dues."

He doesn't speak, or sit. But nor is she rid of him. His presence is a tangible force. She feels it the way animals sense the sweltering build-up of a typhoon. Every sense attuned: the hairs on her nape bristling, the blood in her veins quickening, her muscles working beneath the skin. He is the deep end, and she must resist the temptation to be swallowed.

The temptation—if not the desire.

"I will not deny you your due." His voice drifts: slow, soft, so very near. "Ask me, and it is yours."

"I've asked already."

"Oh? Was there a clause I overlooked?"

"It was marriage."

The ice clinks emptily in her glass. She's drained the limewater. It hasn't helped.

"Mel." He is closer now. His warmth radiates in time to a rising heartbeat that threatens to tug Mel's attention away from truth. Her body, traitorous, yearns toward the source. "If it is gold you want, I will give you all of it. If it is jewels, I will mine them myself. If it is a palace, or a ship, or a throne—all you need do is say."

"It is not a question of material possessions. Nor is it a matter of my asking." For once, she is grateful for her Medarda bloodline. The dark riveted smoothness of her features gives nothing away. "I own enough treasures to bankrupt your coffers. As for a throne, I've already claimed mine. A city shining on the seas. None of that is what I want from you."

"What, then? A groveling apology? Me, on my knees?"

Mel's eyes fall shut. The anger fizzes into fuel. She clings to its small nourishment. All her will is bent toward remaining rooted where she is. To not surrendering.

"You're not sorry," she says bitterly.

"I am not."

"I don’t mean about the Idol. I meant: you’re not sorry about us. About this."

"If you think me indifferent—"

"I think you're a man who knows exactly what he wants." Her nails, ten manicured half-moons, bite into her palms. She imagines, with a dark pleasure, his flesh shredded. "I think you'd have burned every bridge and sold your own soul to make the Iron Pearl a reality."

"All true."

"What you did not take into account was me."

"Mel—"

"You said it yourself. I'm the variable you cannot predict. You can't intimidate me like your subordinates. Nor gull me with profit, like our guests. I'm not Sevika, so you can't rely on me to take the fall. And I'm not Jinx, so you can't trust me to know the entire truth." Her throat seizes. "I'm only the leverage you needed for your city. And so, I'm the one whose hand you'll hold. Even if there's a knife hidden in the other."

"That is not how I see you."

"Tell me, then."

"Look at me."

"No."

"Mel."

"No." The sunset, a huge red disc, burns without heat. Bright pinpricks burst behind her lids. "Why should I look at you, when I know what I'll see? The same expression, when you told me Zaun would've been stronger if you'd chosen someone else. That your life, and your ambition, and your purpose would've been simpler."

"I do not regret the decision."

"Because it was the one that served you."

"Because you're what I want."

This jabs the raw space between Mel's ribs.

"You'll never know," he goes on, "what it to grow up with nothing. I don't mean the nothing of a loveless childhood, or an empty home. I mean the nothing of a soul's bottomlessness. Of having so little, the only way to survive is to sink your teeth into whatever scraps you can.  And there is no way out—no way out—save clawing yourself up to the light. Even if the price is sellin' a piece of yourself with each rung." The grit of the Lanes roughens his accent. "Until there's nothing left. Until all that keeps you going is the promise of a world where your children—and their children—will never have to lose what you've lost. That is why I do what I do, Mel. I don't give a shit about the rest."

The sea stretches out before Mel. The horizon is the thin red streak of a slit throat. Behind her, Silco's breathing is the same.

The cadence of a man readying to spill every drop.

"You, Mel..." It is a whisper. "You are not the rest. Sometimes, I look at you, and I think you are the end. Mine, or my life's, I cannot say. "

The tears sting. Mel does not let them fall. She holds them, and him, at bay.

"You hate it," she says. "That I can do this to you. Make you want what you'd been denied a lifetime—and not have to fight to take it."

"I hate," he says, "that I cannot trust myself around you."

Mel feels him edge closer. A wall of heat. His sigh stirs the fine hairs by her temple.

"I hate," he goes on, "that each time I've drawn a bead on you, I've missed the mark by a mile. I hate that, every time, I find a new side of you. A side I had not known, because I hadn't considered to look. I hate that each time I learn something new, it is not a pit that keeps on opening—it is the sun, and I have no choice but to let it blind me." His voice drops hoarsely. "You are a Medarda. I expected fire, and the cunning to use it. I found steel. I expected ambition, and the ruthlessness to wield it. I found empathy. I expected a woman high on her own worth, and not above rubbing my face in it. I found a woman who cares enough to sacrifice her worth for everything."

Mel's hands tremble on the balustrade. A mist of dampness chills her cheeks.

Sea-water, or tears?

"You're saying," she says, "you found the perfect pawn."

"Not a pawn. A dreamer. One who is not afraid to wager all, on the belief that there is something better." His proximity seeps in: a slow bleed. "You expected something from a man who had nothing to offer. My city's assets; a fraction of yours. My good name; the promise of yours. You chose a gamble, knowing it was a losing bet. And you played it, anyway."

"So: a pawn."

"So: a queen. Who knows how to change everything, with a single move."  Two fingertips alight on the small of her back. "You planned this voyage, with the best intentions, and the finest strategy. You played your games and wove your wiles to give my city a chance. And when it all went to hell—you chose to stay. On the ship, you took my side over the guests. In the gallery, you backed my play. In the face of raging seas, you were the bridge." His shadow, cast against the sunset, engulfs hers. "Could be the harbor… if you trust me."

"I cannot trust you," Mel whispers, "when you refuse the same."

"There are things I cannot share, Mel. Not yet. Plans that, if mislaid, could undo everything."

"Excuses."

"Truth." The two fingertips encompass into a palm, warm and heavy. "Give it time."

"How much time?"

"Enough." His touch trails up, leaving a circuit of sparks. "Too late, and it goes up in smoke. Too soon, and I cannot bear the cost."  Softly, "Not to you, Mel."

The sunset drips into the sea: livid crimson. Mel's grip tightens on the rail. 

The tears are not gathering. Only the rage. A single gesture is not salve. A sweet confession, no substitute for the truth. And Mel—she knows, even now, that he is hiding something. The thought is a wound, bleeding anew. All her anger, and hurt, and shame: it funnels into the shape of him. She imagines strangling him with her bare hands. Imagines the pulse beating beneath her fingertips. Imagines the warmth and the solidity of his body.

She'll tear him apart—or stitch herself back whole. She'll kill him, or kiss him. She'll have him, or have done.

But the choice, whatever else, will be hers.

Then her imaginings aren't imaginary. He is there. His arms, encompassing her, are an unyielding circle. The heat of him is everywhere. The scent of him, too: bergamot, spice, smoke.

His lips touch the nape of her neck. Right where her vertebrae are the most vulnerable

And Mel, though she'd deny it, is shivering.

"I will give you," he says, "what I can. Not everything. Not yet. But soon."

"Even if, in the end, it comes to nothing?"

The tip of his nose ghosts up her spine, until his mouth is at her ear. "It won't."

"How can you know?"

"Because I will do whatever is necessary to make it possible." His breath tickles the whorl of her ear. "Because I have not fought this hard, and this long, to lose you."

"Your prized chess-piece."

"My wife."

Mel's shiver intensifies. The way his tongue curls around the word is pure possession. But the span of arms is no cage. It is a shelter: solid, steady, sure. His palms meet hers on the railing. Their fingers interlace. The warmth is a tide lapping her skin.

Fusing, like gold, into the cracks.

And Mel is not immune to gold—though she wishes she were. She is tired, hurting, and tired from trying to hide the hurt. Trying, on one plane or another, to prove herself. To the world; to her peers; to her mother. 

To the man who strips her to the barest nerve and lays her raw.

"I will not regret deceiving you to enrich my city," he whispers. "Nor will I regret the things I did to bring us to this moment. But I do regret the distress you've borne. I regret the doubts held, and fears endured. I regret they were so many, they turned your honeymoon into a sickbed." He kisses the tip of her ear. "If I had known how fragile you were—I would have done better by you."

"I'm not—"

The word nearly breaks past her lips. The tears, too. But her pride will not allow her.

Not after a lifetime of Ambessa Medarda's tutelage: a Medarda's worth is a sum of her strength.

"I'm not fragile," she repeats, though her pitch quavers. "I've never been fragile. Never been—"

"Anything other than yourself. I know." His voice is the softest it has been so far. "I mean no insult. You Medardas love to style yourselves as gods. But gods don't bleed. They don't rage. They don't starve, or steal, or scheme. They are like the gold your family loves to hoard: untouchable."  He moves her hands with his, their fingers twined, and knits them over her belly. Practically molding them to her womb. "I've no use for gods, Mel. But I've a great deal of use for you."

"How comforting."

"You didn't choose me for comfort. And I didn't choose you for complacence. We chose, because we each push the other to dare. To reach beyond ourselves." His lips drop a kiss on the pulse beating under her jaw. It is so ghostly it might not be there at all. And yet, Mel can feel her spine arch. "Your ambition is a reflection of my own. And the rest of you: a mirror of all I lack. So, no. I am not sorry.  Not for choosing you, nor for what's happened." Softly, "Not when it's led to us."

The sunset, a dying red eye, blinks out.

Suddenly, everything is melting. Mel is not sure if the salt in her mouth is limewater or tears. With all her strength, she swallows them down. A single slip, and she is lost. Her poise will splinter, and she will collapse into his arms. She longs and loathes for it in equal measure; dreading what will be there for him to see, and for her to feel.

The tears, though, are not the worst.

"Petal," he says—and she is turning.

In the fading light, Silco's features, rather than washing pale, take on an olive-toned burnish. Had he been smiling, she would have split his skull open with her fist. Had his eyes radiated that uncanny gleam of hazard, she'd have fought the hypnosis with all her might.

Instead, he looks the way he had, in the wake of their first time together: somber, soft-eyed, a little unsure. His eyes, in the twilight, are the color, not of ice and fire, but mulled wine, and a heart's bluest longing. It was that look that, in a glimpse, had fascinated her so. The look that had, even then, seemed too human to belong to a monster.  

The tears—a treacherous sheen—delineate him in gold.

"Don't," she rasps. "Don't say another word."

"Mel—"

"Please." Her fingers lift to his mouth. They are trembling. But so, she realizes, are his lips. "Not tonight. Not while they're here." She pushes, with what's left of her will, to keep the space between them. It's a danger zone. All the more so because he isn't pushing back. "When we're on the island. In the villa. I'll have it all from you. Everything you've promised. You'll lay it all at my feet and let me sift through it. But not now. Not here." She draws a breath. "Not while I'm still..."

"Still what?"

"Wishing you'd said something else." She lets her fingers fall away. "The right thing. At the right time."

"Petal—"

"Don't." Her eyes spear him through damp lashes. "Just kiss me. Kiss me, and tell me it will be better. Tell me the sun will rise tomorrow. That I will make it so."

"You will."

"Make me believe it."

"You already do." His lips find her forehead. Then her eyelids, closed and beaded in salt. The touch is so fleeting it might not have been there at all, except his fingertips are deliberately tracing their way down her nape, tipping her head up to touch his mouth to hers. "Believe that, too."

The kiss fills her with the taste of him: smoke and spice and seasalt. It seeks all the secrets inside her. All the deepest places he's been. All the places she can no longer hide alone. Kissing him is not like kissing Jayce: alluring dips into a warm, sweetly willing mouth and a smooth, firm, unflawed body. Kissing Silco is like taking a running dive into black waters: all risk, and pure thrill.

And yet, slipping beneath the surface, there is no pain. Only the throbbing depth of need.

Mel’s spine unspools under his palm. In a slow unfurling, her body melts against his, and his arms come around her, and the night closes in.

The kiss breaks for air; her cheeks are wetly streaked. But it's all right, because his face, too, is wet with them. In the ebbing glow, she can dare to think of it as rain: the storm's first gift. Dare to think he's not so remote: that, despite the distance of so much swallowed between them, she can still reach him.

That he can keep her afloat.

"Again," she breathes. "Kiss me again."

He does, palm seizing the back of her neck and pulling her in. Their mouths open wider, and she feels the slick heat of his tongue and the serrated row of his teeth, and the rough reams of the scar-tissue on his cheek. With other men, she could close her eyes and imagine them as anyone. They were blank canvases, waiting for her to fill them with her own flights of fancy.

Silco is no fancy.

He's a knife in the dark: each detail etched with excruciating precision. There is no erasing the topography of his scars. His hands: scored with the calluses of rough labor. His skin: scoured with past misdeeds. His heart: a black-powder keg, ready to ignite. The darkness that lives within him: surging, smoldering, seething.

And his tenderness of is tenfold more terrifying.

"You'll be the sun tomorrow," he breathes. "You always are."

"Silco..."

"It's true." His mouth is a scald; love-biting down the curve of her throat. "Even now, when it's night, and I can't see the sky. Even then, I know you're still there."

Mel shivers. She can't stop her body from flowing into the embrace. Can't stop the small moan rising in her throat, or the palm lifting to thread its fingers into his hair. Can't stop her other hand, the one that had been so sure on the railing, from sleeking down the front of his waistcoat to hook shakily into the waistband of his trousers. 

She can't stop anything. Her body has already chosen.

And the rest of her: doomed to follow suit.

"Come with me," he rasps. "I've a room belowdeck."

"The guests—"

"Too busy getting high. Or getting themselves off." 

"But—"

"There is a bed, petal. It has fresh sheets. Goosedown pillows. A silk duvet." His thumb smooths her brow, sweeping a wayward curl from her face. "Unless you'd rather have them bear witness."

Mel's face heats. She'd forgotten her guests are only a glass away. All their carousing, and curses, and calls. Through the parallelogram of light spilling from the doorway, she glimpses hazy silhouettes. Someone has put an old Jazz record on the phonograph.  Cevila is doing an exuberant reel with Kolt. Hector is slumped, chin-deep, in an empty dish of macarons. Garlen has hauled a pretty girl—one of the deckhands—onto his lap. His mouth, smeared in the rouge from her lipstick, is open with laughter at something she's whispering in his ear. The Dennings, behind their curtains, are still tangled in a love-knot. But the chaise is rocking in an unmistakable percussive rhythm.

Mel's burn deepens. "I'm not having my guests walk in on us."

"And I've no interest in giving them a show." His smile cuts wickedly against her skin. "Unless I charge per head."

Mel's tongue touches her top lip. She can still taste him, and the promise of more. Her body, fuddled by desire, is throbbing with a dull insistence. Her headache is far-off. The fatigue, too, has melted into one long exhalation of release that is its own build-up of tension.

He is so close their foreheads touch. Her eyelashes, damp, catch on his skin as she shakes her head.

"No."

"No?"

"Not here." Her eyes lift to his. "And not on the ship."

"Then where?"

"In the villa. In the master suite. I want a proper honeymoon. Everything I planned for, before you derailed my life." Her voice trembles; her fingers tighten on his waistband, tugging him closer. "I want you to carry me over the threshold. I want to wake up in the morning and find you next to me. I want a breakfast tray in bed, and a day spent lazing on the beach. I want the sun in my hair, and sand between my toes, and you in the water, showing me that backstroke you're always bragging about. And in the evening, I want a candlelit supper. A long walk on the shore, as the stars come out. And after—" Her voice husks. "After, I want every last inch of you. With the door shut and the world outside. I want to know what 'us' means to you, and why I'm the one you chose. I want it all. Everything."

His face is still. Only his eyes—their pupils blown wide, one haloed in pure green, the other ringed by a rim of fire—give him away.

"A fortnight," he says.

"Yes."

"In the villa."

"Yes."

"With the door shut."

"Yes."

"Romance, and the sea, and the stars."

"Yes."

His fingers are threading her curls. The rhythm of his breath is a steady metronome. But his heartbeat, she can feel, is climbing. "And me, every inch."

"Yes."

"Every. Inch."

"Yes, damn you." 

The hand, at the back of her neck, begins to knead: slow, languorous, and so very warm.  Mel’s resolve threatens to liquify. But there is a stubbornness to her that won't yield. The golden core that had kept her from falling at Jayce's feet, or letting Ambessa dictate the course of her life, or letting her bloodline shape the path of her city.

The stubbornness that, no matter how hard the world kicked her down, has always kept her standing.

"Yes," she repeats, tipping her chin, "to all of it. All the things we'd have, if not for all this." She gestures: the chaos within, and the chaos without. "Two weeks, and I'll have everything from you. I'll know your measure, as a husband. You will give me every iota of your attention, and more. And you will give it all willingly."

The corner of his scarred lip holds the barest upturn. "You drive a hard bargain."

"I am a Medarda."

"You are, indeed."  The kneading of his long fingers has become a long tender caress, from the juncture of her skull down the wings of shoulderblades to the dip of her spine, then up again. The touch is so lulling that Mel sways to its rhythm. "But, Mel?"

"Mmm?"

"You could, at least, let me escort you belowdeck, and out of that dreadful damp tulle. I'll be the soul of propriety. And if, along the way, I manage to coax the rest of those knots from your shoulders, you'll be a better woman for it. And I, a happier man."

A delicious ripple runs from the tips of her fingers to her toes. His timbre holds that distinctive gravel—smoke-charred and slow-rolling—that is a matchstrike to her senses. It is, she suspects, the tone he'd use to tempt the devil himself into sin.

But a Medarda is a harder sell.

"A generous offer." She steps back. "But no."

"No?"

"You'll have to plead your case with more ingenuity."

In the dark, his smile is a white knife-flick. "It was worth a try."

"Was I?"

With a languid, nearly wistful slowness, he tugs her in. Her chin is tipped up; his mouth descends. The kiss is nearly obscene in its thoroughness. His tongue: chasing into her mouth. His teeth, claiming her bottom lip. His hands: roaming her body. Mel's sigh, trapped between their mouths, is mortifyingly eloquent.

By the time the kiss breaks, she is panting. So is he. The wind has turned. Salt-spray gusts across the terrace. The twilight is ripe with a brewing storm. In the gloaming, Silco's silhouette is of a piece with the sea: dark, long, and unyielding. His lips, glistening, are stained with her lipstick and the last vestiges of her control.

"Oh, treasure," he breathes. "Get inside—before I give ‘em a show they’ll never forget."

 And Mel, adept at reading between the lines, knows this round hers.

"You’d have," she says, letting her smile spread, "to beg."

"I don't beg."

Rising on tiptoes to approximate his height, Mel balances herself with one palm on his shoulder. With the other, she cups the back of his neck, and guides his head down to her level. Lips touching his, she breathes, "Not yet."

A growl vibrates his chest. The challenge has hit its mark.

Nuzzling his lips with hers, Mel pulls away. She does so, with a tantalizing slowness, keeping the contact between their bodies until his breathing has roughened and his hands flex at his sides. The last bit, her breasts sliding past his ribs, is the cruelest. But she'll be crueler still: backing away, one step, then two, until only her eyes remain, a glitter of amber-green promise.

Then she glides off.

"Come," she calls over her shoulder, "before the rain does."

Silco’s eyes, burning, follow her. Then the rest of him: soundless as the tide.

Always, inexorably, giving chase.

By nightfall, the storm is blowing in: a great billowing mass. Lightning flashes. Thunder booms. Wind rattles the windows.

Inside, the revelers are restless.

The smoky air, in colors of lucine jade and blood opal, is heady with leftover tobacco, spilled spirits, and sweat.  They've been treated to the full spectrum of Zaunite hospitality: a superabundance of dissipated delights. Now they are eager to bypass the evening's foreplay for a future of full-bodied indulgence.

All within their reach, if they choose to invest in the Iron Pearl.

Cevila, her face pinked from heat and drink, is already discussing a potential trade bargain with her husband. Hector, his mouth ringed with sugary crumbs, is attempting the buttonhole Kolt for a partnership deal.  Even the Dennings, their lovemaking session sated and a glow to their skins, are huddled together, speaking in low voices that are more conspiratorial than amorous. 

Apart from the six, Mel can hear the others: muttering, speculating, planning. There is an atmosphere not unlike that of a wedding reception: everyone tipsy on scandal, the newlyweds' bed made, and the night yet to be.

Mel wonders if she ought to feel guilty.

They are, none of them, innocents. Each one has had a hand in enriching themselves at Zaun's expense. Now, they are being offered a chance at redemption—to reverse old wrongs and build a new future. Except it's not themselves they are redeeming. Their motives remain the same: craven to the core, with deep pockets and open palms ready to seize whatever is in reach.

And the Zaunites who will benefit from their investments? Their future, and their well-being, is only a fringe benefit.

Goodness, as Ambessa's favorite adage was, is not the lifeblood that fuels the world.

It is greed.

Mel wonders what Ambessa will make of Silco's gamble. She wonders, too, what measures Silco had taken to ensure a winning hand. A gambit as dangerous as this necessitates an ace or two up the sleeve. Only time—or disaster—will tell what shape it takes.

Mel cannot let her thoughts be consumed with the question. That way, she knows, lies madness. Still, she cannot help but wish that her honeymoon could've been simpler.

Simple is not Silco's métier.

Sitting by the alcove, he surveys the guests. His profile is carved against the backdrop of the storm: jagged forks of lightning, and incandescent thunderheads. His expression, as usual, is impassable. Then a deckhand flags him. They confer in low tones.

Mel cannot see the man's face. But she recognizes the posture. The rigid line of his spine, the arms crossed behind his back, the square, wide-legged stance.

A soldier, at ease. And Silco, his general.

Just like Ambessa.

It is a stark reminder that the man right now is not simply her husband. He is the Eye of Zaun, and his ambitions are his own. He has not promised to share them, or his methods, or the plans he has laid in their name. Nor is it any use to ask.

She will not get an answer. Not until she's earned it.

 A heavy hand lands on her shoulder. "Well?"

Mel is jarred from her reverie. "Yes?"

Garlen is a hulking mass. His expression is difficult to read in the low light. But the reek of liquor, mingling with stale cologne and a hint of something else—a woman's scent, musky, and the faint, sharp tang of sex—is off-putting. He must have gotten lucky with the pretty deckhand from earlier.

"Well," he repeats, "When do we talk business, your husband and me? Real business." 

"At the villa, Sir Garlen, there will be time to talk at length."

"And how're we getting there? The storm's set in." He grins, teeth delineated in brown from tobacco. "Don't want the Eye's guests, especially the bride, getting soaked, eh?"

 The innuendo, all slurred vowels, is not lost on Mel. She keeps her smile fixed

"My husband has planned ahead. Indeed, he's anticipated our every need."

"Yeah? How about his, then? You take care of those yet?"

His grin has gone oily.  He must, Mel realizes, have glimpsed her and Silco together on the terrace.

Inwardly, she curses. The lax environs of the Thesaurus, formalities lost in a tide of adrenaline, have caught her off-guard. The shock of Silco's confession took care of the rest. Everything—even her own guests—had been pushed to the edges of her mind.  It's an error she'd never have allowed in a different context.

An exposure—reckless, costly—she'd never have let slide.

Her allure is the most effective weapon in her repertoire. And allure, by virtue of its nature, is remote. To allow herself to be glimpsed as a woman, in all her vulnerability, is to invite unwanted overtures. One the opportunists will leap upon, no matter how high her station or her guard.

A drop of blood, Ambessa always warned, is all they need.

Garlen, in his cups, has sniffed more than a drop. Now he is salivating for his share.

Coolly, she says, "Sir Garlen, you are being far too familiar."

"Oh, am I?" His thick fingers knead into her shoulder. "A moment ago, you were all smiles."

"A moment ago, we were discussing business."

"What's the difference?" He leans closer. "Tell me. Did General Medarda wed you off to that weasel for the Pearl? Because that would explain a few things."

No innuendo this time. Only implication thick as the fumes on his breath.

The implication being: Whore.

"General Medarda," Mel says, sweetly, "would have you flayed for less."

"I'd like to see her try."

"I think you'd find the experience quite unpleasant." 

"So, what: you're gonna be the one to do the honors?" His greasy stare slithers down her body. "Maybe show me a good time, while you're at it."

Across the room, Cevila's laugh, high and merry, cuts through the din. Kolt, a little drunk, is spinning her around the dance floor, the two of them tripping on their feet. Hector, slumped in the corner booth, is fast asleep. The Dennings are still whispering, heads bowed together.

The other guests, too, are turned away. All lost in their own little worlds.

Except Silco.

Mel can feel his gaze. Dark. Heavy. Implacable. A heatwave prickles her nape. Except it is not her he is looking at. It is the man: the hulking Noxian, the thick fingers, the oily grin. Jayce, Mel thinks, would have pounded Garlen into the deck by now. A matter of decency; diplomacy be damned. A lady's honor, he would say, must be defended.

Zaunites don't share the same code.

Their version of honor, Mel knows, is to deal with the offense yourself.

"Sir Garlen," she says, with a voice of cultured silk. "If you wish to keep those fingers, you'll remove them."

"Or what?" The grip clamps down. "You'll tell the Eye on me?"

"Oh, I'll do better than that."

"Yeah?"

"I'll cut them off myself."

Garlen's leer freezes. "What the fuck did you say?"

"You heard me, Sir Garlen. Your fingers. The ones on my shoulder." Mel's eyes lock. The smile melts. Her tone, though level, is sharpened to steel. "I'll still leave you enough to write your name with. Or to sign whatever contract I require. But not much else. We won't need the rest."

Garlen's nostrils flare. The fingers squeeze hard enough to bruise. "Bitch—"

"Do not speak. Or that tongue will be next." Mel lifts a hand, peeling off his fingers one by one. "I'll tell you this, so listen well. You've been very stupid today, Sir Garlen. Drunk on a bit of luck, and forgetful of your manners. So, let me remind you: you are here at my discretion. Not the Eye's. And once my discretion is breached, even the best investment make will not buy back the respect you've forfeited. My mother has her way of dealing with insults. I have mine. If you'd like to avoid either, you will stop now, and remember your place."

Garlen's mouth is working. "You—"

"And," Mel cuts him off, "I will give you one last warning. If you lay another finger on me, or even look at me, in any manner I don't approve of, you will be leaving here minus your legs. Do you understand?"

Garlen's expression is a study in incredulity. He'd expected an easy mark. A soft touch, pliant and pretty. He'd gotten a Medarda. And the fact he didn't expect a Medarda means he knows nothing. Not about Mel, nor her family, nor her city.

"If you’ll excuse me," Mel purrs, letting his fingers fall. "I'd like a word with my husband."

Garlen, his face mottled red, withdraws. Mel glides forward.

Across the room, Silco's stare stays on her. No sign of a smile. But the good eye crinkles at the corner.  Mel can sense his satisfaction. He'd never intervene into her turf unless she needed him to. But nor will he deny himself the pleasure of witnessing her at her fiercest.

At her approach, he tips his chin. "All right?"

"Never better." Mel, serenely, takes her place at his side. "But I am curious."

"About?"

"Our return." She inclines her chin toward the window: the rain, lashing with mad fury against the glass. "Sir Garlen, and no doubt the rest, are eager to reach the villa. Begin ironing out the details."

"As are you."

She levels her most innocent gaze. "And if I were?"

"I'd counsel you to hold your horses."

"Does a hard wet ride leave them so afrit?"

Now he is very pleased. She can tell by the curl of his lip. "I can't answer for your guests. But mine aren't the ones who should be scared."

"Then whose?"

"Whomst."

"That's not a proper word."

"Jinx uses it all the time."

"I rest my case."

"We left rest behind hours ago." The scudding clouds throw his features into harsh relief. His jaw, shadowed with the first hint of stubble, is the hue of tarnished silver. It is the only sign of the day's passage: the rest of him is impeccable, as though he'd spent the afternoon idling in an armchair, rather than wrestling with wind and waves and her. "Though, if we're playing the grammar game, it's 'frit', not 'afrit.'"

"You're avoiding the question."

"Not avoiding. Anticipating." The curl deepens. "The rain will not be the problem. Not with our mode of transport."

"Which is?"

"The Idol."

Mel's humor slips. "What do you mean?"

"When you arrived, you asked me to show you the way out. I did. It's down in the gallery. The hourglass."

Mel's understanding gives way to dread. "Silco, tell me you're not considering—"

"I am."

"No."

"It's the best solution. The seas are too rough for sailing. Especially when carrying full-bellied cargo. And the Woe Betide was instructed to haul anchor by late afternoon. By now, she's already sailed. My informants have received word that she's docked at the Wuju port. The Captain is quite perplexed as to where we've vanished. I'd rather not keep him in distress much longer. Else he'll summon the coast guard."

A thundercloud gathers on Mel's brow. "Why not send word that we'll sail to Wuju by tomorrow?"

"Too risky. The storm's forecasted to persist well into next evening. And it wouldn't do for a wider net of strangers to know the Thesaurus' whereabouts.  If our radio signals are intercepted, the wrong people could learn of its location before the time is right." His thumb touches her temple, smoothing the thundercloud away. "You'll have your honeymoon. It's just a change of plans, that's all."

"Change of plans."

"Yes."

"Namely a relic from the Void."

He smiles now, without pretense. "It's a portal. No different from the Hex-Gates."

"That's different."

"Different, how?"

She glances furtively over her shoulder. Her guests are oblivious. "Hex-Gates operate on the same plane. The physical world as we perceive it. The Void—"

"—is a realm beyond ours. I know. But, so is the sea, or the sky. We'll take a quick plunge, and come out on the other side. There's a glyph near the islet, and my network have established a dry dock close to the island. The storm won't follow us through. We'll take a rowboat ashore. Be safe dry and at the villa before the night's done. In time, I daresay, for a late supper."

"What's the catch?"

"No catch. Just the practicalities. Stay close, and don't succumb."

"You make it sound as if we're sailing past sirens on the rocks."

"That's a fair comparison."

"Silco—"

He lays one cool finger on her lips.

"I promise no risk." His mismatched eyes are sea and storm. "Not to you."

His hand has dropped. Hers has lifted, reaching for his face. Mel catches herself, lacing her fingers, with forcible self-possession, against her belly. She will not let him see her unease. She is a Medarda, and Medardas thrive in risk. She'd backed Jayce's reckless play to the bitter end. Had sampled, without apology, the splendors that came of its success. She will, and can, do the same again.

Except now, it's not simply her skin on the line.

"All—all right," she says, at length.

"Yes?"

"Yes. Though I warn you: the Dennings are in the throes of afterglow, and won't care. But the others..." She lets her gaze linger on each. "I'll have to work them. Make sure they're not too afraid to step inside."

"Do you think you can manage?"

Mel squares her shoulders. The storm is gathering, and so is her resolve.

"Have you forgotten whom you are married to?"

His smile waxes full. Taking her hand, he drops a kiss onto her knuckles, right on the cold stone of her wedding ring. It warms beneath his lips. "If it isn't too much trouble,” he murmurs, “could you persuade them to leave the liquor behind? A bit of sobriety will serve us better in the Void. It's an odd place. I'd rather they be sharp-eyed for the journey."

"There's nothing sharp about them," Mel sighs. "Sir Garlen, for one, is too far gone."

"Coffee, then. Enough to perk up the dead."

A grim smile flits across her lips. "Consider it done."

"Good." He closes the space between them, "And I'll deal with Garlen."

"What?"

Silco is already detaching. "Concentrate on the others. When you're ready, we'll depart."

"Silco—"

His two-toned eyes glitter. "You did warn him. Now I'll give him my own reminder."

The air, at once, is electric. It has nothing to do with the storm. It is only them: the space between their bodies and the rapprochement of sovereign spheres. Garlen may be Mel's guest. But this is Silco's turf. And he will not stand by the sidelines while she is impugned within its walls. 

"Silco," Mel tries again. "You don't have to—"

Except he is gone: a dark shape, slipping from shadow to shadow. In a trice, he's reached Garlen, and laid a hand on his shoulder. Mel does not catch the words exchanged. But in a moment, Silco has begun steering Garlen toward the exit.

A handful of crewmen, summoned out of nowhere, converge in his wake.

The storm vastness seems to fill the lounge—the atmosphere crackling—to follow their passage. The remaining guests remain talking amongst themselves. No one has noticed the interlude. They are too preoccupied with their own interests.

The door swings shut.

Mel, stranded in the lounge, is left to work her wiles.

While her husband, belowdeck, settles the accounts.

It is touch-and-go.

The Dennings are easy. Having had their fill of wine and food, they are eager only for a locked bedroom and the privacy to enjoy it. Hector, roused from stupor, is no more difficult: a passing mention of the local sweetmeats he'll get to sample once they've arrived at the villa is enough to pique his interest. Cevila, a tougher nut, balks at the thought of stepping into the Void, until Mel manages to coax her and her husband, in the spirit of adventure, to reconsider.

The crewmen begin, with utmost politeness, corralling the guests. Life-vests are fitted back on; coats are slung over shoulders. It's a far cry from the way they'd been manhandled, en masse, from the SS We Betide, and deposited into the Thesaurus.

But then, they weren't high-profile investors. Only cargo.

Now, they're assets.

The guests are ushered back belowdecks. Mel follows, making sure everyone is accounted for. The gallery, after the bluster of the storm, is eerily tranquil. A preternatural chill dwells in the subaquatic space. The Idol is a pulsar, beating its rhythm in time with the sea.

A shiver runs down Mel's spine. Her dress, the tulle long since soaked through, clings to her limbs. She ought to have taken up Silco's offer and changed into something dry. But the moment's gone. Now, the only thing to do is press forward.

Into the dark, where the Eye awaits.

The hourglass, ultramarine, glows behind Silco. His silhouette bisects the radiance; staring straight at it, Mel has the impression of taking in a signpost at the fabric of reality. She is reminded of the moment she'd first met him, in the brightness of the arterial-red sunlight. A monster from a nightmare, and a nightmare all his own. The nightmare who'd been revealed, in the end, to have a man's face, and a man's voice, and a man's dreams.

 Mel, gathering her courage, approaches.

"Where," she whispers, "is Garlen?"

"He'll be along,” Silco says. “All ready, then?"

Hesitating, Mel nods.

Behind her, the guests are a shuffling mass. In the engulfing gloom, their voices have died; they are huddled together, nearly as wary as when they'd first set foot in the gallery. Some are shivering, and not from the cold. Others are glancing anxiously around, as though expecting the Void to manifest and swallow them whole. Only a few—Cevila, the Dennings, and, surprisingly, Hector—keep their gazes fixed on the glowing hourglass, braced despite the dread.

Mel struggles to find her own sealegs. "We're ready."

"Then let's not waste time." His eyes pass from Mel to the guests. The softness of his voice holds a subaudible pitch that seeps directly into every cell, and leaves no room for disobedience. "You'll find the trip quite painless.  To minimize mishaps, Kolt will be accompanying us. The after-effects, while harmless, can be quite unsettling. And, for such precious cargo," the barest sidelong glance at Mel, "I'd rather not take chances."

The guests stir. The murmur of a dozen mouths disturbs the airwaves.

"I ask that you keep your life-vests on. It will make the plunge smoother. And, when we reach the other side, refrain from making any sudden moves. Like a flashbulb going off, after-images will linger. Pay them no heed. They will fade. Reality—our reality—will set in."

A fresh wave of mutters, tinged by disquiet.

"What," Hector dares, with a faux-jovial smile, "if reality fails to make an appearance?"

"It will."  Silco's mouth crooks. "If you would do me the honor of following my lead, I assure you the crossing-over will be without incident."

"How," Lady Dennings asks, "does one cross over?"

"Like this."

Silco, with a slow-motion fluidity, approaches the hourglass. The bottom chamber's gates are open: the sand, hovering a half-inch above the base, is suspended in a state of infinite fall. Each tiny grain seems lit from within: an iridescent crystal. Unknotting his cravat, Silco holds up the white strip of cloth lengthwise between his hands. A magician demonstrating a prop before the trick.

"Watch," he murmurs, and drops the cloth.

It flutters, a pale pennant, into the chamber.  As the fabric descends, the grains swirl, coalescing into a whirlpool that engulfs the silk. At the dais, the Idol glows, pulsing at a steady rhythm. Ultraviolet, then magenta, then red. The colors bleed together, until all Mel can see is an inchoate rainbow that seeps into every sense.

The air comes alive with a strange sonorous hum. It spikes into a crescendo that drowns out every sound.

A blink later, the cravat vanishes.

Silco, in the expanding silence, tips his chin.

"Simple as that."

The guests stare in shock.

"But the cloth—" Lord Dennings sputters.

"Floating its way across the winds of Wuju. Our destination—though not, as it turns out, Sir Garlen’s."

With a look of mute dispassion, he meets the eye of a crewman. A single nod is given. Cued, the crewman opens the door to a storage cabinet. From inside, Sir Garlen is hoisted out, supported under the arms by two burly men. In the cascading blueness of the gallery, his skin is a pallid gray. The whites of his eyes seem a rheumy, bloodshot.

A gash bisects in his temple.

"Sir Garlen," Silco says, without inflection, "has made a last-minute change of plans."

Garlen, head swaying on the gyre of his thick neck, makes no answer.

"He will be joining his comrades on the Noxian outpost at Urvash. He's had his fill of refined company, and is looking forward to, shall we say, the coarser pleasures of the war-campaign. Isn't that right, Sir Garlen?"

 Garlen's throat works in a peristaltic flex. Nothing comes out.

 Mel, with a slow creep of horror, realizes he's been drugged.

"Silco," she says. "What—what have you—?"

"Something to calm him down. He had a bit of a row with my crew. They had to take precautions. The effects will wear off by the time he reaches his destination." Silco's attention shifts back to the hourglass. "Which is, in any case, better than getting tossed into the storm."

The blood in Mel's skull recedes, leaving her lightheaded. "Why did you—?"

"He made advances." Silco's stare locks on hers: unrepentant. "On the hostess."

"That doesn't mean—"

"I'm aware. But the matter is settled. Sir Garlen has changed his mind, and will be his own way." His focus goes to the remaining guests. "The rest of you are, of course, free to take your leave with him. Or, as planned, we can go together to the villa. Discuss our future, and its promise. Because it is that promise that will build the foundations for the new age. One where we may all, shoulder to shoulder, do our cities a profitable service. And, perhaps, carve out a lasting peace."

The guests are breathing heavily. It is not the drugs, or the dark, or the danger that holds them hostage.

It is the man.

His words, sluicing gently from the shadows, are a warning. The old status quo is done. The new order is a beast rising from the depths. Their insults and insolences will no longer be tolerated. Their old privileges are forfeit.  They'd crossed the sea as Mel's guests; they depart as the Eye's allies.  And the price of his allyship is the same as the price of his enmity:

Loyalty.

Mel tastes the fear souring the air. Her language of diplomacy, of elegant solutions and calculated compromise, has no place here.  And yet she herself has not been relegated to the sideline. She can feel Silco's attention on her, holding her to account.

My wife, he'd said—and now she understands.

In offering his hand, he will not hesitate to show his teeth.  And anyone who dares insult her will face the full force of his bite. He is making plain, in the only vocabulary he speaks, that her safety is his.

"I'm," Hector says, whey-faced, "for the villa."

Silco inclines his head.

"As—as are we," Cevila stammers. "And, we must apologize, your Excellency, if our manners were lacking." She jerks an elbow into her husband's midriff. He concurs with alacrity. "Ye-es. It won't happen again."

"Indeed," Lady Dennings breathlessly chimes in. "We hope you'll find us far more agreeable once we've reached dry land. And, if we might presume, a trifle more—uh—open-minded. For the sake of progress."

The remaining guests chorus the sentiment.

They resemble, Mel thinks, a gaggle of geese honking in a language they do not understand. For a moment, Ambessa's specter leaps into her mind. Her mother's disdain for these aristocrats—their venal cowardice, and the easy way their moral fiber could be bought with a few coins. And yet, it is they who will make the new order possible.

A better world that, in a twist of irony, will be born from their inveterate greed.

"I am sure," concurs mildly says, "we will have a pleasant stay." Then, to the crewmen: "See Sir Garlen off."

The crewmen, leering, drag Garlen toward the hourglass. The brigadier lets off an aggrieved string of curses, then subsides into a fit of heavy-lidded mutterings. When he awakens, Mel suspects, his recollection of the night's events will verge of hallucinatory. Any accusations—of foul play, jettisoned cargo, magic portals—will be written off as the byproduct of a drinking spree and a wrong turn in the storm.

In short order, the hourglass is prepared. At the dais, the Idol glows a delirious shade of pink. In the bottom chamber, the sand is a slow-motion whirlpool. The crewmen, Garlen slung between them, advance. A life-vest is fitted over Garlen's shoulders.

Silco, standing vigil, addresses the guests. Despite the dire circumstances, his tone is almost conversational.

"You'll find the trip smooth. It may seem like a long duration of transit. But time, in the Void, is a fluid thing. In a way, Sir Garlen is unfortunate. The first experience of Crossing Over is unforgettable. A glimpse into the mysteries of the universe. For some, it becomes a compulsion." He pauses, his tone softening. "Though not one I'd wish on anyone."

He crooks a finger. The crewmen, Garlen in tow, enter the chamber. Mel hears the sound of their passage: the echo boots, the muffled breaths, a last, slurred curse from the Brigadier. The grains, swirling, close around them. Their bodies flicker. In the next instant, they are gone.

The chamber is empty.

Except for the sand. Twinkling, twisting, then, with a dreamlike sentience, drifting into stillness.

The ventricles of Mel's heart constrict. She doesn't want to look at the Idol. But her spine, as if gripped by an immense force, is turned in its direction. The glow sears into her retinas. Inside her head, a slow, soft, sonorous beat rises. She is struck by the profound certainty that it is the creature’s heartbeat, and that the Void is connected to it, and to her.

Like the blood in her veins, a bond is being forged, and its intimacy will never cease.

"All right." Silco's voice solidifies as if through water. "let's be on our way."

Mel is jolted from her trance.

The guests are shuffled toward the portal. Hector is the first. His life-vest has been fitted so tightly that he resembles a stuffed sausage. His expression is taut, the smile long-gone. Behind him, the Dennings are huddled close. Lord Dennings has enfolded his wife's hands into his own. Their waxen faces are stamped with twin expressions of stalwart determination. Cevila, her lipsticked mouth stamped in a grim line, follows. Kolt, in the background, herds the stragglers.

"Mel," Silco says, "come."

 Mel's belly is in knots. Premonition masses with the force of an impending storm. "Are you certain—?"

"Very."

She hears the undertow in his voice: irresistible as the sea's pull. The Idol's maddening resonance fades.

Folding her hands across her belly, Mel steels her spine. One foot before the other. One step. Two. Three. Then she is inside the chamber, and the sand is shimmering, and Silco is beside her, and the bodies are pressing in. A soft humming begins. It is a sound that Mel feels more than hears. As though, instead of air, she is aspirating pure energy.

A crackle—then the whiff of ozone.

The sand grains, suspended, begin to spin.

The chamber flickers. The glass emits pulses of violet light. It is like watching a supernova, radioactive, flare on and off. Then, the pulse stabilizes. The light, rather than waning, climbs like a wave. It fills the hourglass, the gallery, the arena. Then, with a shockwave, it floods everything.

Mel is no longer her body. She is a particle caught in a vortex. She is a star peeling free from the firmament.

She is falling.

Inside Mel, a tiny core of awareness is all that remains.  The rest: sloughed off. She is no longer Mel Medarda. No longer a daughter, or sister, or wife. She is a molecule, and a pulse, and a wave. Her body, starved, is drawn to an unknown fount. Her soul, a nadir, thirsting to plunge.

If she could only get close, the fount will feed her. Nourish her. Answer every question she's ever had; soothe every hurt she's ever known. Joy, boundless. Power, infinite.

All of it, hers.

All she needs is to say: Yes.

But something stays her. The hunger is not her sole guide. There is the heartbeat, too. Mel has heard it before. It's the one inside her, the one she's always possessed, and now, for the first time, it has begun to fork. Its rhythm, disparate from hers, begins to coalesce into a shape. A silhouette. A body, massing, until Mel can see, with a visceral shock, the face she's spent her life trying to forget.

The one who'd shaped her, and made her. And who she's spent so much effort trying to erase.

The heartbeat has led her to Ambessa.

Mel wants to scream. To flee; to fight. But there is no escape. She is locked in a chamber, and the walls are closing in. The particles are swirling. They are her, and not her. She is Ambessa, and not Ambessa. She is trapped inside her mother's flesh. Her mother, trapped within the confines of her memories. And the Medarda bloodline is trapped, too, inside her.

For a strangling moment, they are one.

Then, with a shock, the fusion splits. Mel sees, not her mother, but a child. Eyes the color of the sea at dawn. Curls that glimmer like blackest silk. A smile, aflame, but with a touch of sweetness. She has Kino's wily ways, and Aziz's golden heart, and Ambessa's iron resolve. And Mel's, too: her ambition, her will, and the strength to protect what's hers.

Mel's arms open, and the little girl—the bright, fierce, darling girl—leaps into her embrace.

Mel can feel the shape of her. All the tiny, beautiful details.  The dark grain of her skin: velvety beneath the pads of her fingertips.  The way she circles her chubby arms around Mel's neck, and dots her cheek with a dozen little kisses. Her laughter, a sonic dandelion bursting into bliss. Her scent: sweet and pure and as the seaside, and wholly, irreplaceably hers.

Their hearts beat as one.

Mine, Mel thinks.

Her treasure, her joy, her future.

"Tell me your name," she whispers, and the child laughs, nuzzling closer. Mel feels the soft, downy warmth of her curls. "Dearest, tell me your name."

A giggle, as if this is the silliest thing in the world.  "You already know."

"Do I?"

"You do." Another nuzzle. "So does Papa."

A coldeness creeps across Mel's nape. "Papa."

"Uh-huh." Her little chin lifts, and the dimples in her cheeks deepen. "It's funny. He knows, and I know, and you know. But we can't say so. Not yet."

"Why not?"

"'Cause it's a secret." Her lashes dip. It's a look Mel has seen on herself in the mirror: secretive, coy. Then, in a mercurial flash, her mood shifts. Her gaze, luminous, is all Silco. The blue of his good eye in both of hers. Both, locked on Mel, with indelible intensity. "You have to keep the secret. Or else—"

"What?" Fear claws its way up Mel's throat. "Or else what?"

"Something bad will happen." The girl's Cupid's bow mouth puckers. "Very bad."

"Will it—will it hurt you?"

"Only if you don't stay."

"Stay? What do you mean?"

"Here. With me." The girl's smile has faded. Her stare is beseeching. "I want you to stay."

"I want that, too."

"Do you?" She lays a plump hand, a tiny mirror, over Mel's. "Do you really?"

"Of course I do!" Mel's arms tighten. Her fingers are digging in. She can't make herself stop. "Please. Tell me your name."

"Only if you promise." A pout. "That you'll stay."

"I promise."

"Say it, then." Her eyes are all the colors of the ocean. "I'll stay."

"I—"

"Say it." Her tiny fingers are beginning to bite. "Say it!"

Her little face is irresistibly sweet. But the colors are washing out. The words come eerily distorted.

"Stay. Stay. STAY."

"I—" Mel begins.

A hand falls on Mel's arm. The little girl, in a gust of wind, fades away. Mel is left with only the afterimage of her. Her warmth, lingering. The memory, a superimposed shadow. Her arms fall around the emptiness, and her heart is in her throat, and she is being dragged backward, the hand's grip inescapable. She struggles, and shrieks, and claws, trying to regain what is hers. Her body is a cage, and the only thing within is a howl.

Then—

"Mel."

With a gasp, Mel falls back into herself.

Silco is enfolding her from behind. The embrace is gentle and ruthless. She can feel the shape of him, pressed all the way down: his lips against her ear, his chest to her spine, his arms bracketing her ribs, his boots slotted beside hers. His palms, covering hers, are knitted over her bellybutton. She feels the pulse beating there: hers, his. 

The heat of connection is shockingly real.

"Don't," he whispers. "You'll regret it."

They are, Mel realizes, still in the chamber. It's only been a few seconds.

A few seconds.

And already, her hands are shaking. Blood rims the crescents of her nails. She realizes, with a sick jolt, that she's dug them into the flesh of her belly.  The fabric of her gown is speckled red. She can't feel the pain. Only a faint throb of heat, far-off, and fading fast. Her skin, her senses, her very sanity is being sucked out of her.

She doesn't care. She'll give anything—anything—to have what she'd glimpsed. To hold the little girl, and hear her laughter, and know her name. It will be the truest, best thing Mel will ever have.

And, if it costs her the rest, then she'll pay the price.

"Please," she whispers. "I saw—."

"Whatever you saw, it wasn't real."

"But—"

"It's the call of the Void." His mouth touches the hollow beneath her jaw. "When it opens, you get a glimpse into a world you were never meant to see. Not yet. Sometimes, not ever. And if you succumb to the lure, it'll devour you."

"Silco, I—"

I saw her.

I held her.

I loved her.

She was so beautiful. So alive. So theirs.

"Please," Mel says again, hoarsely. "Please."

 "Hush. It's gone." He tucks her closer. "Brace yourself. We're about to cross."

The sand grains dance in delirious spirals. They are no longer particles: they are fractals of pure energy. The chamber begins to liquify. The walls are coming apart. Mel has lost the sense of her body, of gravity, of the world's axis.  She can hear a keening, high and inhuman, that is both outside and within. Around her, the guests are writhing. They're not human beings anymore, but puppets in thrall to a single string. Kolt and the crewmen struggle to contain them. Then their shapes are obscured—along with everything else—beneath a brilliant white aurora.

It's a solar flare, blinding. 

Flinching, Mel shuts her eyes. The luminosity is a physical pressure, seeping into her lids. Her skin, her hair, every pore and follicle, feels supercharged.

And Silco, enfolding her, holds fast.

"Trust me," he murmurs. "We're nearly there."

The light hits its zenith. Then, slowly, it subsides. The aurora ebbs, and the darkness returns. But it is not the darkness of the undersea. It is the darkness of a cloudless night.

The chamber is gone. They are standing on a pier.

It is incredibly narrow: a long finger of planks and beams, jutting into the sea. The sky, a rich indigo, is flecked with stars. The fishhook of a moon hangs overhead. In the distance, Mel spies a net of colored lights in a dark mass. The island of Wuju, barely a mile offshore. Beyond the pier is a cluster of boats. A few skiffs, and the sleek prow of a ship. Its name is stenciled onto its hull: SS Woe Betide.

Salt-spray lashes Mel's cheeks. She realizes she is at the edge of the railing. The wood cuts into her hipbones. Below, the sea churns. The drop is nearly twenty feet deep. It would be an ugly fall. 

Backtracking, Mel takes a breath. Her face is wet; her lips are moving. But she can't make sense of the sounds. The taste is like salt. Like tears: sobless, silent. Because she is empty-handed. Because the girl, her precious treasure, is gone. She has slipped through her fingers.  

Or—no.

Not slipped. She was never there.

Silco's lips touch her ear.  "Steady. The first shockwave hits the hardest."

His is still behind her, arms wound around her midriff. One hand is splayed across her belly. Mel can feel the imprint of his ring. The cold, smooth band nestles against her navel. The residue of the magic is still imprinted on her nerves: the phantom of loss.

She doesn't know whether to mourn the girl, or herself. 

But if the Void cannot truly give, then perhaps the Void is nothing more than a reflection?

"Look," Silco says, tipping his chin.

Mel does. In the moon's curving glow, she sees the guests scattered around the pier. Some have dropped to their knees, arms stretched heavenward. Others are being held back, forcibly, by Kolt and the other crewmen. Hector, a quivering mound of limbs, is curled in a fetal position. Lady Dennings, eyes streaming, is sobbing inconsolably. Her husband, embracing her, is staring at the middle distance, slack-jawed.  Cevila, caught in a headlock by three men, is shrieking incoherently: eyes bulging, teeth bared.   

"The journey affects everyone differently," Silco says. "Thankfully, after the first exposure, it doesn't linger." A beat. "Mostly."

He's not smiling. But there's a knowledgeable slyness to his expression that sets Mel off-balance.

"Why—why did it hit them harder?" she rasps. "We all crossed over together."

"Because their desires aren't rooted in the heart. Theirs is an ambition born of envy, or greed, or pettiness. Whereas yours..." His stare flits down. "Yours is different. Deeper."

His palm remains anchored over her navel.  A claim laid down, and stained with blood.

Mel bites her lip. She can feel the sting of shallow lacerations. Reality is creeping back in, and with it, a modicum of dismay. "I—I couldn't hold back." The admission hurts. "If it hadn't been for you, I—"

"Would've clawed your belly inside out."  Silco lays his cheek against hers. The film of seawater clings to his skin. "It was your first time. Most would've given in completely."

"You didn't."

"I nearly did, my first time."

"What?"

She can feel the stirring of his breaths: slow, steady, deliberate.

"With Jinx. Years ago, in the Badlands." He swallows, once. "It's nothing I care to repeat."

Mel shivers. Her body, like a tuning fork's ebbing resonance, still sings. She wonders if the sound will ever truly cease. Or if it will stay, a ghostly echo, in the chambers of her heart.

"We ought to," Silco says, his focus on the guests, "make sure they're sane."

Mel manages a nod. Their bodies disentangle; the warmth dissipates. There is something bereft about the distance. Mel doesn't dare dwell on it.  They are not the sort to cling to each other in public. Displays of affection are a calculated performance: beneath the dazzle of cameras, behind the thicket of microphones, before the crowd's hungry eyes.

Here, the intimacy feels too raw. An exposure past endurance. 

"You're shaking," Silco says. His left palm lifts to curve itself over her bare shoulder. The thumb strokes a soft circle into the skin. "Let's get you inside."

"Inside?"

"The villa's only a short distance from the pier. There are guards stationed to escort us."

Mel nods. She absorbs little—but the warmth of his hand, she understands. The guests, in her peripheral vision, have begun to stir to their senses. She can see the confusion that permeates the airwaves. The same emotions that cling to her, miasmic. 

None of them, she thinks, were ready. Now, they've crossed the threshold to No Return.

"Are you able to stand?" Silco asks.

Mel nods again.

"Take my arm."

"I—I can walk on my own."

"Take it."

His tone brooks no argument. In a strange way, it's reassuring. The Crossing has altered everything. But not Silco. Wherever he goes, he remains the same.

The tide: immutable.

Taking a steadying breath, Mel straightens. The night wind whips at her hair, her dress. Her limbs seem to be made of gelatin; her mind a slurry of conflicting impulses.

But, also: exhilarated.

A strange subspecies of joy is spreading through her. Not the kind she experiences when her schemes are playing out to fine-tuned perfection. Something brighter, purer, undiluted.

A sense of homecoming.

As if reading her thoughts, Silco says, "A mild euphoria can follow the first Crossing. It will fade soon. Until then, I'd advise against letting the eyes wander." 

"Why?"

"Hallucinations." He takes her elbow. "Best not to tempt fate."

"I—I see."

Mel wills the world back into focus. The guests, herded by the crew, have been ushered to the pier's end. Mel makes out the shape of a long rowboat, bobbing gently on the white-capped waves. The guests are being bundled into it. Blankets are distributed; thermoses of hot tea passed out.

Silco, his hand a loose latch on Mel's arm, leads her forward.

"Stay close," he cautions. "The boards are slippery."

Carefully, Mel wends her way along the pier. The path before her has a rippling quality: her balance is off. She focuses on mimicking Silco's sure-footed tread. Glimpsed from behind, she is struck by the slenderness of his silhouette. The spare cut of his torso; the tidy nip of his waist; the lithe swimmer's legs.

He's not a large man. And because he's not, he's always had to assert himself. To stay braced, every moment, against a world that will never be forgiving to those with less.

For the first time, Mel is hit by the full force of his fragility. How little of it he lets her see. How much of it she still doesn't know.

And how much, if she's honest, she longs to find out.

Then it happens.

A cry, loud and shrill, splits the night. Mel falters mid-step. In the frothing blackness of the waves, she catches a flash of dark flesh: a hand, clawing wildly up the pier's planks. Then a figure surges out in slithering increments. The moonlight, ghostly, traps itself in the bronzed contours of her musculature. Her eyes, a fiery gold, are locked on Mel. Her teeth, bared, are the color of old ivory.

Ambessa.

Her uniform is studded with pale encrustations of barnacles. The armor drips, water pattering across the floorboards. The wild gray corona of her hair is plastered to her skull. The rest of her: waterlogged as a sunken ship. 

It's as if she's been dragged across the seven seas.

As if she's a revenant, risen from the dead.

At her throat, a necklace—the one belonging to the Ionian chieftain's daughter—jangles like a garland of bones. The dark glisten of blood limns the coral ornaments. Her features are streaked with it. Her expression: a naked rictus of bloodlust.

Half kraken, half killer.

"You," she spits.

Then she's lunging for Silco.

Mel acts on reflex. Her body shoves his aside. Cursing, Silco staggers off-kilter. His hand drops from Mel's arm. The moment it does, the planks skid from under her boots. Her thighs collide with the railing. Then she is toppling backward.

For a moment, she is weightless. Her body caught in zero gravity. Her mind, a free-floating mote.

Mel registers the details in a series of suspended snapshots: the hypnagogic moon pinwheeling above; the stars, a thousand eyes, blinking in and out; Ambessa, a raging Fury, bearing down. Then gravity pulls. Mel's stomach plunges into her heels. Her arms fly outward. Her fingers claw empty air.

There is nothing to hold on to.

Only the Void's hungry inverse.

The Deep End.

Then, with a giddy quiver of gelatinous peristalsis, the moment erupts.

Mel, a shriek ripped from her lungs, drops.

The plunge is an instant; an eternity. The waves are a frenzied churn. The chill radiates, shockingly cold, and seizes her breath.

Mel has one final cogent thought: Silco.

Then, the water rises up, and swallows her whole.

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward but never forget/xoxo #forward (never forget)/xoxo #arcane mel #mel medarda #mal de mer #melco #arcane ambessa #ambessa medarda

[kikiiswashere]

Children of Zaun - Chapter 13

Pairing: Silco/Fem!OC

Rating: Explicit

Story Warnings: Canon typical violence, drug use/dealing, dark themes, eventual smut

Chapter Summary: The Council visits the disaster site at Rynweaver's mine. Katya gets some new housewares. Young Viktor has an impromptu lunch with Councilor Bone.

Previous Chapter

Word Count: 3.3K

When Bone left Council chambers on Friday, the following week’s docket had been rather empty. He knew Rynweaver was attempting to rally a few other of the Academy’s lottery donors for an assembly, but that meeting had not been scheduled by the time he crossed the Bridge back to the Promenade that evening.

Bone was looking forward to an easeful weekend and a gentle start to the coming week.

Then there was an attempted robbery at Piltover’s Southside docks early in the morning on Saturday.

Then Rynweaver’s mine suffered a catastrophic cave-in and landslide in the wee hours of Monday morning, upsetting the very particular and precarious schedule and balance of Piltover’s economy.

Of course, there were also several injuries and casualties caused by the disaster. But that was secondary to Piltover’s bottom line.

So, by the time Bone had entered his office in the Council Tower mid-morning on Monday, his desk was already flooded with letters and memos about the Council’s suddenly full week of assemblies and meetings.

Sheriff LeDaird visited his office Monday afternoon to discuss the robbery at the docks. Bone was not surprised that the Sheriff was saddling the Undercity with the blame, but he did his best to remain diplomatic and helpful as he was peppered with questions about his constituents.

Captain Grayson had accompanied him into Bone’s office and sat dutifully silent next to her superior. When LeDaird was done, she asked the Councilman a few thoughtfully worded questions. He was privately pleased at her sensitivity and finesse. So much so that he made a mental note to privately confer with her about the concerning statistics of reported law enforcement abuse in the Undercity.

Tuesday, he, and the other Council members journeyed to the accident site at Rynweaver’s mine. Bone had mixed feelings about himself and his peers being guided through the active scene. He always felt a belonging swell of comradery being amongst the hard workers of the Undercity. How his heart thumped with pride at seeing their resilient spirits. How it ached with regret that his own body was now too frail to physically help them in this time of need. Having been a miner present for quite a few cave-ins, wayward explosions, and landslides, he was well aware of the grumbling that took place when Council made their mandatory visit to survey the damage and pay their respects. Having politicians onsite always slowed the rescue and clean-up efforts, and all Trenchers knew that whatever Piltover did on their behalf was primarily for optics.

Bone, his Council peers, and Rynweaver were led to an overlook that surveyed the destruction from on high. A grizzled foreman, who was as wide as he was tall (which was not very) explained to his captive audience how much of the mine had been damaged, what equipment had been lost, and what areas they had managed to excavate in the last twenty-four hours. Rynweaver broke in every now and again to add commentary pertaining to the mine’s finances, and what measures were being taken to safeguard Piltover’s economy. He succinctly reported how much coin was being allotted to support the ongoing rescue and reconstruction efforts. The newest Councilor, young Silas Hoskel, nodded his head enthusiastically. His brown eyes glimmering and over-waxed goatee quivering with excitement as Rynweaver listed numbers and statistics.

“What of the employees?” Bone interjected. He had waited patiently to see if Rynweaver or the foreman would bring up the topic of casualties and survivors on their own. They hadn’t.

The foreman, Janna bless him, did his best not to do a double-take at the Councilor before hurriedly scanning the papers on his clipboard. Rynweaver’s expression remained pointy and hatefully neutral.

“The coordinators I’ve brought in for triage will have that information for you.”

“How many employees from Saint Janna’s Sanitarium did you have to contract out?” Heimerdinger asked.

“A small team of ten nurses and five physicians.”

Bone knew the answer, but asked anyway, “How large is the mine’s medical staff otherwise?”

Rynweaver’s eyebrows angled downward, his jaw shifting under the weight of his annoyance. “There are two personnel in the medical clinic.”

“Two medics? For a mine that employs . . . how many did you say earlier?” Bone asked, turning to the flustered foreman.

“Er – three hundred n’ fifty.”

“Only two-thirds of that work in the mines,” Rynweaver interjected quickly and acidly. “The rest work in our offices in Piltover.”

“So, two medical staff for just over two-hundred miners?” Bone questioned, tapping his cane pointedly on the grated metal of the balcony.

“Outside of emergencies such as this, it serves operations well,” Rynweaver said.

“Shall we visit the triage?” clanged Councilor Bolbok, before the Undercity Councilor could inquire further.

“I believe we shall,” Heimerdinger chimed. “It should help boost the workers’ morale to be seen by their Council.”

Bone felt he couldn’t argue with the six bobbling heads.

The triage space was packed and busy. Beds were full, reserved for those who had lost limbs or consciousness. Miners who were injured, but whole and awake, were strewn about the aisles and propped up against walls. The Councilors dispersed, carefully weaving among the beds and bodies, approaching those who seemed open to receiving their empty condolences and well-wishes.

Bone sat with and held the bandaged hand of a man whose son had not yet been found. He listened and comforted. When the miner’s head fell into his free hand, dry sobs bursting through his throat, the aged Councilor spared a glance around the make-shift clinic. Doctors and nurses from Piltover were easy to spot in their pristine and crisp white smocks, their faces stiff and cold as the rock quarried from Rynweaver’s mine.

Across the way, he watched a young woman with gold eyes, chestnut hair, and a determined face deftly switch out a patient’s IV port and fluid bag. They scrabbled for her wrist before she could walk away, and she knelt at their bedside. Her hard expression shifted into feather-down softness as she whispered comforting things to them.

The moment was short-lived as a Piltover physician swooped in and batted the young medic out of the way. He checked her work, deemed it passable, and then ordered her to gather full bedpans. Bone watched Viktor’s sister swallow her rage, her pale skin flushing the color of a vine ripened tomato. Her cheeks hollowed as her teeth ground together and she stalked away, ignoring Heimerdinger’s greeting as she passed.

He didn’t know if she actually didn’t see the short Councilor through the tunnel-vision of her ire, or if she purposedly ignored him. Either way, Bone couldn’t help but feel a little smug as the Yordle feigned coolness in the wake of being disregarded.

Katya had taken Enyd’s suggestion and went to Benzo’s Treasure Trove Tuesday evening after work, bag of trinkets in hand. It had been a long time since she visited any sort of pawn shop; the last time being when she had to sell a great many household items and clothing after her father’s murder. The experience and circumstance left her never wanting to venture into such a shop again. That, and she hadn’t had any extra coin to spend anyway.

The bell attached to the door didn’t so much chime; it mutely clanged as she let herself inside. The store was larger than she anticipated, and it would seem Benzo used its over-sized dimensions to his advantage. The walls were covered in all manner of clocks, sconces, and artwork. Tables of all heights and widths dotted the floor, creating a winding path for customers. The tops of the tables could not be seen beneath the armies of knick-knacks, china, silverware, and globes. Larger items – like grandfather clocks, chests, mannequins – were kept propped against the walls. Katya imagined that the fullness of the store was not only a means to look impressive, but also to force customers to take a good look at everything as they scoured high and low; not only purchasing what they came for, but several intriguing impulse buys.

She would not be swayed by such tactics.

“Hi! Katya, right? The nurse?”

Cairn appeared from a door behind the front counter. He smiled broadly, setting his forearms on the countertop, the presence of his body jostling the flame of a candle that was melting over a skull.

“The medic. But, yes, that’s correct,” she answered, sidling around displays.

“How’s ‘Zo doing?”

“I have not seen him since Saturday. I am hoping no news is good news.”

She squeezed and fidgeted with the bag strap across her shoulder. The trinkets inside its belly tinkled against one another.

“I’m sure,” Cairn said warmly. And after a beat asked, “What can I help you with tonight?”

“I would like to pawn the items in this bag, please,” Katya said, lifting her bounty onto the counter.

Cairn opened the bag and began sifting through its contents. Occasionally, he would take a glass ornament out and hold it to the candle light, inspecting.

“You wanna unload everything?”

“Yes, please.”

“Trade?”

“Coin.”

At that he inspected more thoroughly, carefully touching, and eying each piece in the bag. Katya felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle and her gut coiled. Was he going to try and shaft her? Admittedly, she had no clue what Enyd had given her was worth, but the thought of being taken advantage of made her blood simmer. As the young shopkeeper finished scrutinizing the final baubles, her jaw set and she braced for haggling. Cairn stood to his full height and set his strong and elegant hands on either side of the bag between them.

“How’s two-hundred hexes and fifty cogs grab you?”

Katya’s voice caught in her throat and she blinked. Surely, she had heard incorrectly.

“Wha – “

“Fine. Three-hundred hexes and not a washer more,” Cairn countered, grinning.

Again, she was rendered speechless. That was more than a month’s worth of pay from the mines.

“Three – three-hundred – “ Katya snapped her jaw shut and shook her head, disbelieving. “H-how . . . ?”

“Benzo does good business,” Cairn answered with a feline grin, flashing teeth as white as his coiled hair. “And some Piltie dumbass came in day before last. I overcharged him for what he wanted. Didn’t even blink. Sucker.”

Katya left Benzo’s with the heaviest pockets she’d ever had. Before heading home, she stopped by a textile stand in the market and bought herself two new blankets. She hid the remainder of the amount under the sink in her apartment.

Wednesday, Bone’s regularly scheduled lunch with Heimerdinger was cancelled due to the ongoing meetings, business, and damage control the past weekend stirred up. The Undercity Counselor was fine with this development. He had found himself increasingly agitated and painfully aware of his Council peers’ utter lack of understanding and empathy for their underground citizens.

Between meetings and work of his own, he left his office in Council Tower to take a walk about on the nearby Academy campus. The chill and wet that had enveloped both cities in the start of the week had been thoroughly eradicated; having been chased out by the sun and clear skies, and comfortably warm, breezy temperatures. Bone limped along, his cane a harsh, muted tap! against the granite walkways that stitched the Academy buildings together.

As he walked, disdain ran rampant under his skin as students passed. It was uncomfortable. Usually, he was better able to curb reactionary thoughts and emotions. It wasn’t these young peoples’ faults that their ancestors and government had systematically abused over half the citizens of their city-state. However, the Academy students seemed content with remaining willfully ignorant; striding from class to class in their tailored uniforms of expensively spun fabric. Gilded hems and buttons. Books in their arms, but knowing that if their parents paid enough, the Academy would graduate them no matter how abysmal their marks. They were maddeningly privileged, and all too happy to reap those benefits. No matter how it hurt or crushed their poorer brethren.

As he crossly hobbled beneath the shadows of the large, lush trees that peppered the campus, Bone spied the young Undercity boy – Viktor – sitting by himself on a stone bench. His cane was leaned against the carved marble and a crumpled napkin sat at his side; a half-eaten sandwich cradled within. A large textbook lay open, balanced on his knobby knees. He poured over it as if it were the nourishment he needed, and not the food that sat next to him. After a moment, the Councilor staggered over.

“May I sit with you?”

The boy jumped and looked up, his eyes going wider at seeing who was requesting his company. Hurriedly, he scooped up his remaining lunch and shuffled to the side to allow Bone some space. A small smile deepened the lines around the older man’s mouth, and he sat down with a sigh.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, sir,” Viktor murmured, fidgeting with his book and sandwich.

“Here. Let me have the book, so you can finish your lunch.”

The boy awkwardly handed the textbook off and put the napkin on his lap, gently unfurling the edges. He flicked an uncertain look over to Bone before lifting the sandwich up to his mouth. Despite not knowing the boy well, the Councilor felt a warmth only kinship could bring bloom under his skin. It drove the disdain out, and for that he was grateful.

The pair sat in silence for a bit; Viktor timidly munching on his lunch, Bone leafing through the large book now on his lap. It was scientific in subject matter, and the boy had dog-eared several pages that seemed to be about robotics and mechanization. The older man smiled.

“Is this for one of Heimerdinger’s courses?”

Viktor covered his mouth and nodded. Silence fell between them again, and Bone began to skim pages more earnestly. It was mindboggling to him that a child should understand, much less, read the tiny text and rows and rows of numbers. He himself hadn’t fully grasped reading and writing until he was a teenager. In his youth, such a thing was not unusual for the Undercity. Pride in the young Trencher’s abilities spread through his veins like sunshine.

Next to him, Viktor finished his sandwich, crumpling up the napkin and stowing it in his bag.

“I can take the book back, if you’d like, sir.”

Bone handed it back like it was a treasure. Because it was.

“Are you liking what you’re studying under the Dean?” Bone asked.

Viktor paused, surprised, before he answered, “Yes. We will be starting the robotics curriculum soon. I am trying to get a head start.”

The Councilor’s bushy eyebrows quirked. “Ambitious, I see.”

The apples of Viktor’s cheeks grew rosy and ripe.

“I like to build things,” he responded sheepishly.

“What have you built?”

“I – er – made my cane.” His eyes drifted to the creation at his side.

“May I see?” asked the Councilor.

Viktor passed it over and Bone gripped it between his hands, eyes roving over its craftmanship. He hadn’t noticed when they first met, but the cane was indeed pieced together in a sturdy, albeit clumsy, way that looked and felt homemade.

“My papa found the wood that is used as the main structure many years ago, and I used metal scraps I had collected to enforce it. I made the handle, too. And have used metal rods to increase its length as I’ve gotten taller,” the boy explained. Bone noticed his voice growing breathy with tempered excitement as he described his process.

“It’s a fine cane, Viktor,” he congratulated, handing it back.

“I also helped my sister fix our oven a few months ago.”

The older man chuckled. “Judging by your cane, in an innovative way I have no doubt.”

A giggle stifled at the back of Viktor’s throat and he looked at his cane with renewed brightness.

“I believe I saw your sister yesterday,” Bone said when the conversation between them lulled. Big, golden eyes looked up at him. “Regretfully, I did not get the opportunity to officially make her acquaintance. She was rather preoccupied helping the injured miners.”

“She sent me a tube Monday afternoon,” Viktor said. “Telling me what had happened and that she was okay.”

Bone heard the worry behind the statement, and said, “She seemed well. Tired. Maybe a bit perturbed, but well.”

The boy’s young face softened at his words, but too much worry lingered behind his eyes.

Even though Heimerdinger had told him such, Bone asked, “Your sister is your guardian?”

Viktor shifted slightly, hands fidgeting along his cane before answering, “Yes. Our father died a couple of years ago.”

“What of your mother?”

His eyes dropped, shoulders slumping in a heavy shrug.

“You and your sister must be very close then.”

Viktor nodded solemnly. He chewed the inside of his lower lip before quietly confessing, “I wish she did not have to work so hard to keep me here.”

Bone felt his heart and shoulders fall. He placed a comforting hand on the middle of the young one’s back. He felt him relax under the contact.

“She shouldn’t have to,” he agreed. “I have always done my work here with the Undercity in mind. And after touring the mine yesterday, I will be working doubly hard to make sure people like your sister have the resources they need to work and live.”

Viktor peeked a glance up at the older man and nodded minutely. Bone set his jaw and leaned closer to him.

“You deserve to be here, Viktor. And your sister – “

“Katya.”

“And Katya should not have to work so hard to support you. Both things are true.”

The campus’ bell tower tolled the time in deep, resonate chimes, pulling the two out of their conversation.

“I should get going to my next class,” Viktor said, setting his cane’s foot down and making to stand. “Thank you very much for sitting with me, Councilor, sir.”

“You may call me Jarrot, Viktor,” he said warmly, rising himself. “Trenchers don’t stand on ceremony.”

He winked and the boy bashfully grinned.

“I would like to have lunch with you again sometime,” he continued as Viktor slung his satchel over his shoulder. “Do you usually dine here?”

“Unless it is raining or cold. Then I stay in the cafeteria.”

Bone could tell by the tone around the last word that sitting with his peers was not his first choice. He couldn’t blame him.

“Excellent. Then I hope to see you soon. Have a good rest of your day, Viktor.”

“You as well, Coun – Jarrot,” he corrected in an uncomfortable mumble.

He offered the man one last small smile before hobbling off in the direction of his next class. Bone watched him go for a moment, before turning heel and heading back to his office.

When he returned to his chambers in Council Tower, an envelope of luxurious slate paper was waiting for him on his desk. The cardstock was heavy and soft to the touch. Flipping the letter over, he sneered to see the Rynweaver crest embossed onto a thick seal of gold wax. As if receiving any correspondence from the mogul was some sort of award.

Bone settled heavily into his chair, drawing up his letter opener and slicing the parchment and wax with a satisfying flick. The leather of the chair groaned as he leaned against its back, eyes taking in the carefully worded assembly proposal. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Regardless, irate disbelief thrummed through his fragile body. The sheer audacity of this man to propose a meeting with Council about the Academy’s lottery when hundreds of his employees were hurt or dead. The absolute depravity of his priorities was maddening. And what was worse, was that Council would heed his call.

The assembly was scheduled for later that week.

Note: Oooooh, in what way will Rynweaver make himself an insufferable twat this time?? If you enjoyed this chapter, please comment and reblog!

Coming Up next: Katya and Sevika teach the Children some basic first aid. And Enyd starts to suspect that Silco might have feelings for the medic - even if he doesn't realize it. Motherly instinct, ya know??

Next Chapter

Taglist: @dreamyonahill@pinkrose1422@altered-delta

#children of zaun #coz #arcane #arcane fanfic #original characters #viktor #young viktor #viktor fanfic #viktor arcane #silco #silco fanfic

[calchexxis]

Breaking: Council Suspends Trade With Zaun With A Grim Ultimatum!

Argus Lapalli -- The Piltovan Star

Judica 62 ; 999 AN

This morning a shocking development was announced via official Council channels. Despite the tensions between Piltover and Zaun, trade had largely remained unobstructed. Both cities were founded on the principles of free trade, progress, and intellectual advancement, free of the tyranny of a political throne. For over two hundred years the dictates of trade and commerce have remained largely unobstructed by politics, due in no small part to Piltover’s steadfastly neutral status.

Today, that stance has changed.

With the passage of the Edict of Restriction, the trade of food and drink to Zaun has been deemed a violation of Piltovan law. The Edict extends not just to the Houses but to the smaller businesses and even individual. Anyone who is caught selling restricted items to Zaunite nationals or is found to have knowingly abetted the sale thereof faces steep fines, imprisonment, or even exile, depending on the value and amount of goods sold.

When questioned about their reasoning for this unprecedented shift in Council politics, Councilor Mel Medarda had this to say:

“The truth is that Zaun has become too hostile for Piltover to sell to anymore. We acknowledge that there is no Chembaron on the Zaunite Council that has anything less than a chequered past but never before have they brought someone who is so flagrantly hostile to us into their ranks. Jinx is a criminal even by Zaun’s lax standards, and granting her the authority of a Barony puts Piltover in an untenable position. We can no longer afford to sell wares to a city whose control is partially held by a psychopathic terrorist actively bent on our destruction. This is the first of many Edicts to come that will wean our economy away from Zaun. If they wish to declare themselves our enemy, then so be it, but one cannot poison the cup of peace and still expect to sip from it.”

Many have found it difficult to argue with Councilor Medarda’s logic. The announcement of the criminal Jinx’s ascent to the rank of Chembaron struck the people of Piltover dumb with shock. It seemed like an act of madness. Over the past year, Jinx has been responsible for at least two major acts of brutal terrorism against Piltover, first with the destruction of Dam Sextus, whose loss is still felt to this day by those districts which relied on it, and then later with the bombing of Spire Fourteen, in which the number of lives lost is still not fully tallied due to the chaos of the act.

That, of course, doesn’t count her first heinous act of violence against our fair city; the assassination of the Council. Councilor Medarda herself barely survived only thanks to hextech prosthetics and medical advancements, losing two limbs and suffering severe burns over most of her body. Our own honorable Sheriff Kiramman lost her mother in the attack, and the Great Houses of Hoskel, Shoola, Bolbok, and Salo lost their own matriarch and patriarchs.

It must be wondered; what kind of person could commit such acts?

After the first attack on the Council, there were apologists who claimed the act of violence shouldn’t have been shocking. Rather, it was an inevitability. Even Sheriff Kiramman lamented that the explosion of rage was probably unavoidable by that point, and that, in her own words, if it had not been Jinx it would have been someone else a year later. Indeed, the conditions as revealed by the Sheriff and her then partner, now wife, Violet, were found to be deplorable in the extreme. That, combined with the death of the Council, brought forth a vote of no confidence from the remaining Chembarons of the Undercity who, together, drafted a Declaration of Secession from Piltover, forming the Nation of Zaun as we know it today.

Now, though, it’s difficult to see how so much violence could still be warranted if, in fact, it ever was. Jinx’s rabid attacks on Noxus, Demacia, and our own city, seem to be proof positive that she is unfit to live in civilized society, and yet the Barons of Zaun have seen fit to allow her to rule part of it!

A question has been raised along with the announcement, however: Can there still be peace? Can we, as a people, come together and find a path that does require our two cities to go to war?

The prevailing opinion, tragically, seems to be: No.

At least, not so long as Jinx remains at large. It does not take a master of the political sciences to see the truth beneath this seemingly overly draconian Edict. It’s a message to the Barons of Zaun, and that message is this:

‘Cast Jinx out, turn her over, and perhaps there can still be peace.”

It is the hope of this reporter that the people and Barons of Zaun take this to heart. War brings naught but blood and death, and we Piltovans are a peace-loving people. Our city and our Ethos were founded upon the bedrock of avoiding the senseless violence that has gripped the other nations of our world.

Peace, though, is a two-way street; one that both nations must walk down from either end so they might meet in the middle, and so long as Jinx lives—so long as she continues to slake her mad hatred on the blood of Piltover’s people—there can be no peace.

So long as Jinx lives, there can only be war.

#Flashbangs & Frag Grenades #Headlines from Piltover #Approach to War

[beef-bakery]

Braids and Ballerinas

Summary: you’re a dance teacher in the nicer parts of Zaun and one day you’re greeted by a very unlikely little girl

Rating: Jinx & GN!Reader (platonic) Silco/GN!Reader (secondary) - SFW - 1.9k words

Tags: dance teacher!reader, ngl this is primarily focused on the relationship between Jinx and reader, not much of the old man I’m afraid, absolutely no one asked for this but I was at the ballet the other day and churned this out after being reminded of my dancing days, hopefully this is enough to tie you guys over until the next chapter of tlwos

The first time Jinx showed up to your class, you were surprised. Before then, there was never a case of a child showing up to take a dance class at your studio. Sure you were based in Zaun, but you were close enough to the border where Piltovians of lower houses or those bordering on poverty - that is, keeping in mind the gap between Piltover and Zaun’s economy - could attend your studio.

Regardless of wealth, it was simply rare to see children in your studio. Many Piltover families who wished to raise their children to become dancers or performers enrolled them in higher up academies or Piltover studios, which offered the same curriculum that you did, only at a higher price.

Keeping that in mind, your dance studio did not particularly cater to children. Located in the nicer area of the Undercity, particularly near the brothels and higher cost restaurants that Zaun offered, your studio’s patrons consisted mainly of adult dancers: those who were training to join the cabaret, those wanting to gain core strength to progress onto pole dancing, or those who simply wanted to improve their flexibility for… several reasons.

However, upon seeing the bright eyed little girl come in, you found it hard to turn her down.

“I'm sorry, but you’re too young to be taking this class.” You had said, leaning over the counter to look closer at the short girl. “This studio is for adults only.”

“I don't see a sign saying that.” She had said simply, crossing her arms across her chest, a clear sign that she was not going to back down without a fight. And she was right, there was no sign because it had never crossed your mind that a child would ever want to take classes at your studio.

“Well, I don't think you could afford my classes.” You said, before quickly adding, “no offense.”

“None taken,” Jinx said, surprisingly well spoken for a girl of her age. “And I asked about how much it would cost, and I'd think this would cover it.” she then placed a bag of coins on the table, to which your eyes widened at the heavy sound it had made connecting with the wood.

You sifted through the bag, your eyes growing large. Such a large amount of money could cover numerous months worth of lessons, hell, it could even cover the rent on your studio for a couple months. You looked up at the girl, your hand still caught in the bag. “And this is all for how many lessons?” At this point, you could not say no to the young girl. If you hadn't the heart to before, the idea that you wouldn't have to worry about rent for the next couple of months cemented the idea in your mind. You couldn't say no.

“Well my dad said that they had to be private lessons, and he gave me enough to cover…” she began counting under her breath, using her fingers. “Around 4 months of lessons? And I wanted two sessions a week, so, 32 lessons?”

You let out a slow breath of air, no one had ever booked this far in advance and you had only ever offered public classes. “How did you even hear about me?”

“I saw one of your shows.” she said, and you could see the tension releasing from her back. She had grown comfortable with the idea that you were not going to deny her. “In a bar on Tuesday, you did that leg thing-” she stopped talking, moving to grab her leg and attempt to lift it above her head. You smiled at her, laughing quietly to yourself.

“I see.” You remembered the show she was referring to, you had been booked for a gig at the White Lion and performed a risque jazz piece, scantily clad. It was one of the nicer bars, offering bouncers and live music as opposed to the seedy clubs you made a point not to frequent, without bouncers and crackly music coming from broken speakers. The White Lion was frequented by Piltoverians who wanted a taste of the Undercity without getting their hands dirty or their lives put in danger. It was along the river’s edge, just beneath the bridge, but nice enough to the point where people continued to show up. That being said, you hadn't expected such a high ranking bar to let in a child.

“How did you even get in?” You asked, curious.

She smiled up at you, a gap gleaming through the center of her grin. “I snuck in.”

“Wow,” you said, slightly in awe. Not many people could say they snuck through the tightly secured bar. “You must be a pretty smart girl to get through the security.”

“I guess you could say that.” She said, shrugging as if it was nothing, but the shine in her eyes gave her away, she enjoyed your praise.

“I'll tell you what,” you rocked back onto your heels, from where you had leaned over the counter to talk to her. “You can start taking classes here, private of course.” You looked up from the paperwork you had grabbed from a filing cabinet behind the counter making reassuring eye contact with her. “But cancellations must be made 24 hours in advance or you have to pay a cancellation fee. You can sign up for when you’d like to take them on this sheet.” You handed her a clipboard, which she greedily took. You clicked a pen, putting its tip to the paper as you looked up through your lashes at her. “And you said your name was…?”

Jinx was a quick learner, picking up choreography quickly and stretching her bendy limbs in ways even you couldn't. Her technique was impeccable, pointing her toes on command without any reminders from you, stretching her arms wide, keeping high energy, and holding from her back.

“Jeez Jinx, I think you could start teaching the class now.” You said fondly, ruffling the hair she had forgotten to pull back into a bun.

Jinx had detested the idea of putting her hair back in a bun, typically opting for a braid, but you had insisted. Nevertheless, she ignored you, which backfired on her after a particularly powerful pirouette caused her braid to snap her cheek. After that, she had left her hair down or allowed you to twist it into a bun.

She giggled softly, turning to look up at you, eyes shining brightly with cheeks slightly flushed from the workout the two of you had just completed. “You really think so?” she puffed her chest out a little bit.

“I do,” you smiled. “And I think you’re ready for your first recital.”

Jinx’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. “For real?”

“Of course! I think it's about time we show your old man what you've been working on.” You tapped your chin thoughtfully. “How does next Tuesday sound?”

“I don't know if he’ll be free then but he’ll clear his schedule for me.” she said.

Jinx often talked about her dad, saying he was very protective of her, and from the occasional guards which accompanied her to class after a particularly gruesome crime occurred, you didn't disbelieve her. From what she had said to you, she hadn't had a mom or any siblings. Anymore. She had added quickly after you inquired if she had any siblings who wanted to take classes from you.

“It's a date.” You called after her as she packed up her dance bag and waved goodbye to you.

Jinx was a mesmerizing dancer, you thought as you watched her move across the marley, spotting perfectly. Her expressions were concentrated and portrayed strong emotions, her breaths coming in huffs. Jinx had picked the songs herself, and the two of you had worked side by side to choreograph the right moves.

You were in the small booth your studio offered, handling the lights and sound. You hadn't had enough time to book a club, not that you wanted Jinx’s first recital to be in front of tens of strangers; so you had settled for the small performing area your studio supplied, considering there was only an audience of one.

You hadn't had time to meet Jinx’s dad, too busy fussing over Jinx’s hair, slicked back into a tight bun, which she had complained about every time you slipped another bobby pin into it. And after the hair, you had headed to the booth, giving the jittery girl a thumbs up.

In the dark room, you could see the backs of two heads, watching the tiny girl as she improvised a front walkover. You flipped the spotlight on, following the girl as the music faded out. Jinx took a bow, a grin breaking across her face.

The two figures stood up, giving her a standing ovation. You smiled softly as you watched Jinx walk into the wings, her head held high.

You made your way out of the booth, walking out to the lobby. Jinx had beaten you there, holding a large bouquet of roses, standing in front of a bulky woman with a metal arm and a rather tall man, hair dark save for a small strip of gray slightly deviated from the center of his head. What drew you to him was the scar running down his left eye, extending to the center of his cheek. His eye was nearly all black, except for the deep red pupil in the center. His gaze was piercing as his focus shifted to you.

The woman behind him handed him another bouquet, this one full of daisies. He patted Jinx softly before heading toward you. You smiled politely at him, clasping your hands together.

“You must be Jinx’s dad.” You said at the same time he said, “you must be Jinx’s teacher.” You laughed softly. “Yes I am.”

He smiled and smoothly handed you the flowers. “Thank you for your work with Jinx, I know that not everyone is willing to teach a child, especially with the grace and patience you have, and for that I deeply thank you for it.”

“Oh, it was nothing. You see, it's very easy to be a good teacher when you have an amazing student.” You craned your head to look at Jinx, who had latched onto the woman’s metal arm, who was standing stony faced as if nothing was happening. “That must be your partner-?” You asked presumptuously.

Jinx’s dad’s eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline before he barked out a laugh. “Sevika? Oh no, I'm afraid you must be mistaken, she's my employee.”

“Oh I am so sorry,” your eyes widened as you began to babble. “Jinx had never talked about a mom and I was so surprised to see her dad with someone here that I made an assumption, I am so sorry.” you apologized.

“It's ok, if anything, at least your speculation was amusing.” he smiled, taking your suspicion with grace.

“Once again I am so sorry,” You cleared your throat, desperate to move on from your embarrassing accusation. “If anything though, I must say, you have raised a wonderful daughter. She is a pleasure to teach and is such a wonderful student and person. She is so polite and thoughtful, I couldn't’ve raised a better child myself.”

He smiled at you, showing chipped front teeth. “Thank you very much.”

You introduced yourself, smiling shyly. “And you are?”

“My name is Silco.” You felt the blood drain from your face. You had never been very interested in the politics of Zaun, but if anything, you remembered names very well.

“S-Silco?”

#reader is just not into politics #literally couldn’t figure out an ending whoops #not edited either #double whoops #sfw #as always #dance teacher! reader #dancer! reader #silco x dancer! reader #jinx and reader #jinx #jinx arcane #arcane jinx #jinx lol #lol jinx #little jinx #powder and reader #powder arcane #powder lol #silco x reader #silco #silco arcane #arcane silco #silco lol #lol silco #silco league of legends #arcane #drabble #my work #my fic

[sylvie-fics]

The long overdue next part of Dissensions Dynamism. (Part 6!)

A/N: OOPS SORRY didn't mean for it to take this long! but this is a long part! i hope you enjoy! especially you, anon who asked about part six. you're the best and i hope your day is so great today.

Summary: Viktor knows about Jayce, and he's got a little bit of resentment. he decides to have a civil meeting in which they settle things very politely.

Word count: 4k holy hell

Warnings: fist fights, fights, violence, mentions of s*x, rude language.

Minors Dni

LEts start this mf fanfic my darling buckaroos

If gossip was wildfire, then Zaun was a firework stand. The statement that rang true time and time again. While the story of two legally insane scientists– one of which having an affair with an aristocrat from Piltover– had fallen out of popularity of the passing whispers, it was only a matter of time before it was revived.

Viktor considered himself to be, all things considered, a formal and professional person. Putting facts over feelings, working to further the advancement of humanity. So, when he *kindly* and *professionally* wrote a letter to his former lab partner and ex-friend Jayce Talis, he made sure to only use the most kind and professional language.

Oh, it was just the simple kind of letter. The kind you expect to receive every so often from a dear friend you've fallen out of touch with. How are you? What have you been doing? Any new fun projects? Do you think fucking undercity girls helps your case? Do you want me to personally come up there and punch you like I should have done a long time ago? Back then, I might not have had the physical ability to stand up to you, but I can assure you I do now.

And after all those kind sentiments, he followed with his professional statements on his current whereabouts and whathaps. I’ve been well, I’ve been working on quite a few new things with my new lab partner (Y/N). If you so much as breathe the same air as (Y/N) I will personally make sure you never breathe again. I have no problem disassembling your body and using your blood as a power source for my creations.

Of course, It was only a few days later when the response arrived.

Oh, the usual. Hey Viktor, I’ve been great. Unlike some people, I live a comfortable and human life, rather than altering myself out of humanity. I go outside and touch grass, you know, with my human hands. I’ve been working on things that will actually help people. I'm sure if you talked to (Y/n), you would know she’s doing the same. It’s just hilarious that you’re under the impression you two have some sort of “partnership”, especially since I’ve had one with her for… some years now. It seems to me that perhaps you’re not a very supportive partner—Not that you were to begin with.

And after all the catching up via letters, there were plans to catch up in real life… kindly and professionally.

How kind of you to offer! But, you don’t need to worry about traveling all the way to Piltover just to lose a fight. I’ll come to you.

And he did.

—---------------------------

“So, how did that hole in the wall happen? Was it always there?” you asked, only now noticing the massive amount of destruction in your usual parts shop.

The shopkeeper only sighed in response, muttering something about how everyone here is fucking crazy.

“Kind of looks like a really big bird crashed into it. Do you think it survived?”

Silence.

“Maybe if I built glasses for birds, we could avoid this problem in the future? How would I get glasses on every bird in the world, though? What if they have different style preferences? Do you think we could start an economy for birds so that I could create an eyewear shop for them… That way I can still profit off my investment.”

Somewhere, just down the street, there was a crowd of people forming a circle.

“But what if that causes the birds to have social classes? What if the birds are poor? What if it causes them to go hungry and not have a place to live? Oh, god, it would be all my fault.”

The sound of men yelling in the distance.

“My intentions are good though, right? This wouldn’t be a harmful cause, yeah? And I’d be supporting local businesses in the process. If I start up bird eyewear, you can repair the hole in the wall.”

Laser beams flying, a hammer crashing into a wall.

“Is crashing the leading cause of death in birds? You know, in humans it's like heart attacks or whatever. My situationship has that covered though, he's like, taking out human body parts and replacing them with metal or something, I don't really know. He’s got that covered, though. So I can focus on the birds.”

At this point, the shopkeeper had buried his face into his hands, sighing every few seconds. If you didn’t spend so much money here, he would have kicked you out some time ago.

“Oh, but how would the glasses stay on their head? I guess maybe I could make it more like a hat with— what’s that noise?”

You know the sound of a fight when you hear one. You’re no stranger to a good fistfight, a great knife fight, hell, you love fights. Or, moreover, you love hearing other peoples drama that led to the fight. That phrase of Zaun being the firework stand of gossip wasn’t reserved for the old women sitting in their stitch and bitch circle. It was universal, and it applied to you.

You left before your dearly beloved shopkeeper could answer. In all honesty, he would have answered just to get you to shut up about bird eyewear. But you never gave him the opportunity, leaving with a curiosity about the ruckus, and full optimism and support with your grand new idea.

Truly, you thought, I am the hope that Zaun needs. The greatest inventor of our time. Improving quality of life for all.

It was only a few strides ahead that you spotted the scene— the ever so classic circle that formed and blocked the view of the action. Taking in a deep breath— as though you were about to dive into water— you pushed your way into the crowd.

Watching people fight in the street was a community experience. It wasn't the people fighting, or who won that mattered. What truly mattered was coming together as a town, as a community, to all experience something together. Like a movie, or a trashy festival with the same 5 vendors each year. You didn’t care who was fighting or what they were fighting for. There was something so touching about the violent phrases and yellings coming from the people around you.

“Yeah! Pummel him!” you yelled, directed at no one in general.

“Do a roundhouse kick!” once again, shouting nonsense.

It was at this point, the people around you had started giving you quizzical looks. A girl around your age leaned over to you, whispering loudly, or perhaps even quietly yelling, “Hey, I’m pretty sure they’re like…. Fighting about you. You're, (y/n), yeah? Kinda fighting about you.”

You were taken aback.

“What? Me? No way. I don’t even know who would do that. Maybe a different (y/n).”

It was true enough— you had no clue who would fight for, with, or over you. When you reflected on all your life choices, you came to the conclusion that most fights happening that involved your name would, well, pretty much be fought by you alone. Still, with that morbid sense of curiosity, you pushed yourself through the crowd– getting closer and closer to the front.

And then…

Oh.

It’s never a situation you think you’re gonna be in. fantasize about? Perhaps. But actually happen? Never. Now, you’ve got a few options here.

1. You could walk away and pretend this never happened.

2. You could intervene and create peace.

3. You could yell at them.

Yes, 3 was the most logical solution.

“Hey guys, what the hell? What are we fighting about? You're kinda like, really messing up this entire town area. You know what's gonna happen? You're gonna punch a hole in the wrong guys wall. You're gonna get sued and go to jail for property destruction. And then what– you think I’ll bail you out of jail? No! I’m gonna let you sit in there and learn your lesson about destroying this town that's already half run down! And then? You’re gonna be stuck doing community service for days. I hope the weather is awful for you, too. I hope you're trying to rebuild that building and it's raining so hard you can’t see. Are you guys *trying* to make the people in this town hate us?”

Dead silence.

“I’ve never heard her talk like that… we must have really messed up.”

called a solemn voice, one you recognized as being Jayce Talis.

Your relationship with Jayce Talis was… complicated. It was fairly obvious to you that he had been using you to fill some part of his life that was missing. Maybe it was there, and maybe he lost it. In filling that role, you could see how his… feelings… towards you had gradually changed.

It was simple at first. Pay, fuck, leave. No strings attached. But the more and more you saw him, the more complicated it got. Pay, get asked on a date, get fed, fuck, get asked on a date, leave.

In response was the ever-so-modulated voice of Viktor, “Eh? That was one of her more mild speeches.”

Your relationship with Viktor was… complicated. It was fairly obvious to you that he was refusing to let you fill a role in his life that he’s never had. Though he was quick to make an enemy of you, you could see how your relationship with him was rapidly changing.

Though you both enjoyed your banter, it was clear the two of you were closer than the other would let on.

“You guys can’t be doing this– dragging me into drama like that. What if people start talking about this? I don’t wanna be the star of some rumor where i’m dating a mad scientist and having an affair with a rich boy in piltover!”

Little did you know, that rumor had been around for quite a while. This was absolutely nothing new. If anything, it was further proving the rumor that had been going around Zaun. Perhaps even adding onto it, now with extra spice.

You’d had enough— dealing with one of them was already challenge enough. Dealing with both of them? You didn’t find it worthwhile to stick around and find out.

“Ugh, guys are stupid.” You sighed, walking towards the two of them. “I’m going home, give me your keys, Vik.”

Viktor didn’t think much of it— he mindlessly did as you asked, reaching into a compartment and tossing them your way. Jayce, on the other hand, was bewildered. Stunned. Shocked. Shaken, even.

As you walked into the distance, you could hear a distant Jayce asking, “you guys live together?”

And Vikor responding, “what?”

“She just said she was going home and took your keys?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does she live at your house?”

“Why would she?”

“Well, you just gave her your keys.”

“I did?”

“Viktor do you not remember? You *just* did that.”

“Ehhh it all happened really fast. I’m not sure.”

“I— you— you’re the guy who questions absolutely everything! What the hell is that about?”

“I find it’s best not to question (y/n). Makes my day harder than it has to be.”

They seemed to fade out completely after that, though the banter surely lasted a long while after.

You worked hard to make Viktor’s house a home. It was a well known fact that men were unobservant. As far as you could tell, he had yet to notice— or at least comment on— the various changes you’d made around the place. The new rug, curtains, lamps, bedsheets, pillows. Not to mention that you’d repainted most of the walls over the course of your previous visits. It was never hard to do. He’d get to work on his project, and you’d start working on one of your own. You weren’t even a thorn in his side at this point, as you were a splinter that grew into his skin and forgotten about.

Though, you’d still been unsuccessful in seeing if those little blue glowy things made coffee taste any better.

Perhaps sitting by it would be effective enough.

“Oh, Blitz.. men are so difficult.” You said to the now half-finished metal amalgamation laying on the table.

…

“I know, I know, I probably shouldn’t involve you in family drama. But it’s just, well, your father and an… acquaintance… of mine were really going at it.”

…

“But that doesn’t mean that they’re bad people! Don’t think that! Sometimes people disagree!”

…

“But it’s important to remember to not resort to violence! I resort to violence super quick, but you shouldn’t, you’re better than that.”

Though it was impossible for him to communicate back with you, you were sure he somehow heard and understood you. Blitzcrank was like a kid you gave unwanted advice to, maybe calling them “champ” or “sport” on the occasion. Life lessons were good for growing minds. Even if he would never technically grow. Or have a “mind” so to say.

As riveting the conversation was, it was soon cut short by two fuming men arguing as they entered your quiet space. Your quiet space, in one of the angry mens home. (But you could reflect on that later.)

“(Y/n), move to Piltover with me. I can give you a stable life and a comfortable home.”

Ah, yes, quite the exhilarating offer.

“(Y/n), I do not care what you do, or where you are, but I hate this guy. If you stay here I will pay you double what he pays you just to make him miserable.”

Now that’s more your speed! But, there’s just one problem…

“Vik that’s like great and all, but do you have? Like can you?”

You were sure it was obvious what you were referring to.

“I assure you I can manage the funds.” He responded, definitely not on the same page

“No baby, that’s not what I meant.” You started, very cautious with your words. “You know, I know you kind of like to mess with your body and all. I’m sure we could still make it work if you don’t have anything, but, y’know, maybe it’s something we kind of have to sit down and figure out the logistics…”

He tilted his head in response, clearly confused.

Jayce took this moment of confusion to speak his truth. As if he had a pre prepared, well rehearsed confessional monologue.

“(Y/n), I know what we have is special, and—“

But you didn’t care much for confessional monologues.

“Yeah no, it’s really not.” You interrupted. Not that he seemed to notice— with that cinematic spotlight hovering over him, blocking out all around him. You were sure that’s how he saw this moment, anyways.

“I know it’s hard for you to open up your heart, with all the hardships you’ve been through.” Jayce continued, the hallucinatory flower petals flying around him.

“I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about, dude.”

“But I can be that person for you. I can support, and, more importantly, love and appreciate you for who you are.”

“I’d rather you not.”

“So what do you say— me and you, against the world?”

Rather than rejecting him a fourth time in the span of 30 seconds, you turned to look at Viktor, exasperated.

“Well?” You asked, “you gonna monologue too?”

Viktor paused for a moment, as if trying to think of the best way to approach this.

“I think you’re the stupidest person I’ve ever met in my entire life. You’re a mild nuisance and like a pest I cannot get rid of.”

Ah yes, truly, Viktor’s best opening line. The line that would cause Jayce to yell about not talking to you like that, and subsequently throwing a punch, only for said punch to be caught by Viktor mid-approach.

“You are occasionally entertaining, but mostly just strange and concerning. I worry about your well-being, and I despise that I have to waste my brain cells on that.”

“God, Vik, if you had a face I would kiss it so hard right now.” You replied, in awe of what was likely the most accurate thing anyone had ever said about you.

“What? I have a face. What are you talking about?”

“She hasn’t even seen your face?!” Yelled Jayce, throwing his hands up in the air, and then bringing them down to cover his mouth. He stayed there for a moment, lost on how his arguments could be so compelling, and not win. “What is it? What quality does this guy possibly have that I don’t?”

“Hey dude, have you considered that maybe I like living here? For all you know, I could be staying here for my own personal, deeply rooted cultural reasons. It’s not always about following the money, you know.”

Jayce sighed, a feeling of shame washing over him. Of course, how could he not consider that?! He was sure your whole family had lived here for generations, and to suddenly be taken to a place with completely different food, holidays, traditions… how difficult that would be on you.

Meanwhile, Viktor and you were having a conversation solely through head and hand gestures. His head tilt would signify a ‘y/n, what?’

And then your eyes would look to the side, and lips purse into a straight line, meaning that you ‘totally just made that up.’

Viktor would look over to Jayce, who was in deep though, and then look back to you. He shrugged, in a ‘guess it worked’ way.

You’d wink back to Viktor, snapping into a thumbs-up pose. This, of course, to say ‘totally worked’

“And besides..” you began, a devious smile across your face. “I can’t leave… not when… well…”

There you went, playing into the dramatics.

“The child… it needs me here.”

The child in question was a massive, half-complete robot that you have no familial ties to. Neither of the men understood that’s what you were referencing. On one hand, you expected Jayce to be taken aback by this. His wide eyed, open-mouth expression was what you were going for, in fact. Viktor choking-coughing out of what you could only assume was shock— not exactly your plan.

“It all started a few months ago… sometime in the summer. It’s just been growing ever since. I mean, really, it’ll be finished any day now.” You spoke, technically telling the truth.

“The summer… does that mean…”

Oops… it was only after Jayce started that thought that you understood the implications of your words.

Sure, you had done some mildly vanilla stuff with him in the summer. But he can’t surely think you’re exclusive with him. There’s no way he’d think…

“It’s mine, isn’t it?” He whispered, tears forming in his eyes. “I… I don’t know what to say. All this time, I could have been by your side to support you, and…”

Bless his heart. You needed to turn this conversation around, and quick. With a crazed laugh and a high pitched, stressed out voice, you were all but eager to announce,

“OH, no! It’s actually Viktors!”

A stray laser flew into the wall, straight into a painting you’d hung up only two weeks ago. You ducked down, quick enough to avoid the impact. Mentally, you noted that stressing the machine man out enough could cause sudden misfires of the claw.

… but that might be interesting to mess with later.

“It is?!” Yelled Viktor.

“It is?!” Yelled Jayce.

Slyly, you threw a peace sign to Viktor— you hated to waste your second favor on the persistence of men, but you’d dug a hole this far, might as well keep going until you hit water.

Viktor understood what he had to do. With complete unsureness and confusion, he firmly stated.

“It is. Mine. I made it… with tools and materials and… such.”

“What? But— I— since when did you two-?!”

“It was… I guess the first time I met him? Though, the design process was really more the second time around.” You responded

Internally, Viktor was having the equivalent to a computer error screen. This was not how he’d planned for the day to go. It was going to be simple— kill beat up Jayce Talis. Just enough to make sure Jayce never got the opportunity to lay his eyes, hands, or whatever else on you ever again. He wouldn’t call it jealousy. Just looking out for you.

But here you were, playing peacemaker/heartbreaker all in one. How amusing. Though he found your antics rather distasteful at times, he could admit his enjoyment of todays. Seeing Jayce’s confidence break down, piece by piece, whilst being used as the catalyst of it all. He felt as though he was winning something, somehow.

It wasn’t long until Jayce had stormed out, shouting obscenities about being used, and hoping for Viktor’s failure, for your failure, so on. In Viktor’s eyes, Jayce was the one who’d failed that day. Quite a change from the normal.

“Well… now that’s over with…” called a voice Viktor recognized as belonging to you. You were still sitting over at that counter, but now taking a hairband off your wrist. You tied up your hair in a rush, not much caring for the neatness of it. “Go ahead and start taking it off, yeah?”

“Huh?”

“Take off whatever isn’t welded to you.”

“Why?”

“Bird eyewear, I gotta fund it somehow.”

Viktor was completely lost as to what was happening. You said something about taking something off, and then something about birds, and then something about money. And now you were reaching down to the hem of your shirt. And now you were lifting up said shirt. And now you-

Another stray laser hit the painting on the wall.

“DAMNIT, Viktor, stop shooting the damn painting, I bought the damn thing last week.

… damn!”

#arcane imagines #arcane x reader #league of legends x reader #machine herald viktor x reader #mh viktor x reader #arcane viktor x reader #jayce talis x reader #arcane jayce talis x reader

[goddessofroyalty]

What are the kids (and Vanders) clothes like in your Zaun Family AU considering Silco caring about appearances and his role in Piltover?

Most of the time I think they are in their canon clothes (or similar). Vander really doesn't care about 'maintaining appearances' (at least nowhere near to the extent Silco does) and he'll defend his choice by the fact he spends a lot of his time running a bar and the clothes he's wearing are more suitable to that.

And the kids are more comfortable in the looser and softer clothing of Zaun as well. Plus that's what everyone else around them is wearing so why would they want to wear stuffy Piltite clothing? That stuff's harder to run across rooftops in (and is basically asking to be bullied).

Vander's clothing choice at least does have political value in Zaun in that he doesn't stand out as different. He kind of wants to be seen as relatable and approachable to the average Zaunite and wearing the same kind of clothes they would wear helps with that image.

However, they all have sets of 'formal' clothing for when they are joining Silco to Piltover for events (or whatever) or when members of Piltover are being brought down for Political Things. Because Silco is a little image obsessed and understands that a part of the game of playing politics in Piltover is about how your and your family are perceived and not just your arguments. When they are with him at those things they represent him and Zaun and the image of Zaun he wants to create is an up-and-coming economy that should be invested into. So clothing in similar style to his own - wealthy and expensive but different enough to Piltover's style to not read like they're trying to assimilate into Piltover.

Silco organises those separate outfits for them they get very little say in them at least when the kids are younger (Vander just doesn't care whatever Silco decides is fine by him; and obviously if there's like a sensory issue Silco will not include the irritant) and they all hate them. Because it's not the clothing they're used to and like it's a whole thing when they do put them on (haircuts and full baths and perfumes).

The only kid he doesn't need to worry about is Viktor because after Viktor joins the academy he wears clothing that is fine enough for Events (and there's another reason why nobody realises Viktor is their actual kid as well).

The funny result of all of this is Silco is the one that crafts the families ""image"" in Piltover. So he's picking the colour schemes and any emblems they are wearing and when Piltover thinks about them they are thinking of them in those colours and emblems... but are assuming they represent Vander because to Piltover Vander is the actual Leader of Zaun.

#Zaun Family #Silco Arcane #Arcane #Ramblings of the Goddess #Q and A with the Goddess #Anon Question #These kids get a lot of benefits from #being the kids of the leaders of Zaun #they can deal with uncomfortable clothing every now and then #They still try and hide #when they realise they are going to be forced to Attend An Event #(and the fact Vi suddenly stops trying to hide #is part of what clues Silco in to the fact she has a giant crush #on the Kiramman girl)

[singulos]

In her travels across Zaun and Piltover it was always nice to visit local businesses. Supporting the small shops that grew from the vines of economy and infrastructure and the soil of dreams and needs. She has come across many a cafe's, restaurants, and inns. This one was rather interesting for a number of reasons including the people in it. She waved at many but was really interested in the larger individual she saw. She was rarely shorter then anyone especially another woman so it was a delight. She had a big grin of joy. "Hello hello hello there tall one, How are you doing this wonderous day?"

(For Rhitta <3)

Rhitta turned as she was lifting a full barrel of mead with one arm, resting it on her shoulder as she looked at the newcomer. Rhitta's first thought was they had an awesome physique. The next one was they were good looking too. That latter one she would keep to herself for now.

The half ogre immediately flashed a smile and spoke. "Doing pretty good hon! How about you?"

[alisha-on-arcane]

Zaun culture/ normal life/ setting headcanons

Headcanons I realised I have while writing this finished Vander/Silco revolution-and-betrayal fic.

- Zaunite parenting is quite communal, as a matter of culture. Kids typically run around the street together and are vaguely watched by all the adults present. Mixed families happen a lot simply because life is dangerous, and Zaunite adults are  expected to take on orphans if they are the best placed person to do so. This often segues into children working very young. Piltovan views on this cultural practice are considered classist slurs by Zaun patriots like Vander and Benzo. (Silco is, in this fic, in a league of his own when it comes to "thinking fucked-up things are okay" but it's not entirely his fault). - Zaunites use “brother”, “uncle”, “sister” etc in a very inclusive way that does not imply biological or necessarily even adoptive family relationship (which lots of real-world cultures do too).  Again, Piltovans assume this is because biological incest is very common in Zaun, which is not true and is an insensitive slur. (But every time Silco calls Vander “brother” in Arcane, apart from the last one, he’s spitting the word out because they were more than that and Vander is pretending they weren’t and he definitely does not want Vander back as more than brothers-in-arms, of course not, *hurt hiss*).  Though adoptive relationships are very much considered real family, so “sister” or “brother” can be used very literally in context.

- The Lanes is just one district of Zaun, specifically that controlled/ policed by Vander and Benzo as of Act 1. Vander is an influential figure in wider Zaun, but he's not necessarily the top dog. Silco set up his crime headquarters in Vander's pub after being implored to "spare the Lanes" in an act of pure spite by Silco. (And I love him for it). - Many Zaunites are day workers in Piltover. There is continual political tension between Piltovan business interests who rely on the cheaper labour (who are generally aligned with Zaunite interests on this), and those who would restrict or monitor access to Piltover from Zaun. The latter say that Zaunite criminals commit crimes in Piltover and run back to hide in the undercity, which is often true. - The air in the undercity is breathable to all but is a major driver of sickness and early death for Zaunites. The causes are both natural (fissure gases) and artificial (emissions from Zaun-owned chemtech factories and from other industrial activity that Piltover outsources to Zaun). It may have improved between Arcane Act 1 and 2; it's possible Silco did actually do some of the easier measures about reducing factory emissions (catalytic scrubbers, etc) or possibly the balance of industry in Zaun just changed a bit. - Zaunites who have not made body modifications/ been injured to ensure an asymmetrical appearance can pass as Piltovans quite easily with a change of clothes. This happens rarely enough that Piltovans don't expect it at all. Proud Zaunites wear asymmetrical clothes or at least have asymmetrical hair unless they are really, really up to something. - there is a group of Piltovans, mostly students, who protest peacefully for Zaun independence. It's mostly as ridiculous as you'd expect but I love them for trying. - The mines are probably not in central Zaun and not worked by voluntary day labourers. Jayce refers to them as “mining colonies” which sounds like a euphemism, and Silco says “the mines they had us in” (plus a writer saying on Twitter that he “grew up in the mines”) which gives us a very dark picture of what the mines might be like.

#air in zaun #zaun gray #zaun #arcane #zaun culture #piltover and zaun #zaun economy #netflix arcane #vanco #vanco arcane #silco x vander #vander x silco

[itsme-tori]

There's alot of things I love about Arcane but one thing I love alot is how they dealt with the leadership of Zaun under Vander/Silco.

They didn't take a cliche route of "Everything was great under the good guy but everything changed once Mr. Bad guy came along :(((("

Vander's rule

Under Vander, Zaun is first protrayed as a relatively peaceful era that while still in poverty at least people aren't mindlessly killing each other. However we get the notion that it's the enforcers who keep the peace, not Vander himself. When something goes wrong in topside, enforcers immediately come crashing down as they please. The citizens of the undercity want to fight, very understandable, but Vander chooses to enforce the status quo, so as to prevent a war. This makes people question their loyalty and even some leave him behind.

Vander's rule was basically a slow death to undercity because of his (reasonable) inaction. The Undercity was never going to florish under him unless the council grew a heart (which never was going to happen).

Now for Silco, in Zaun yes there is a drug going around that can cause tumors and fuck someone up BUT the economy of Zaun has improved under Silco. Also, enforcers never dare to step foot into Zaun (except for Marcus and Caitlyn).

His methods, while cruel, were the reason why the council even decided to negotiate to Zaun being finally realized. The reason why it failed wasn't because someone purposefully fucked his plans up but due to how he couldn't give up the one person needed for peace.

Arcane shows the realistic pros and cons of each of the two methods of leadership which is such a breath of fresh air that was needed.

#silco #vander #arcane #arcane meta #mmmm yummy grey morality #still sucks to see people who think Vander's rule was amazing while Silco's was rotten #pay attention to the show folks #kuro-tori

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - The Price of Progress - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO on AO3

Snippet:

Under the table, Medarda's gloved palm drops to his knee. The gesture comes off as effortlessly natural. Her smile is eye-to-eye; an enticement.

"Shall we be explicit now?" she purrs.

Silco says nothing. On Zaun's streets, the overture would earn her a slit throat. In the brothels, she'd be put through her paces, and put in her place. Here, she gets no reaction at all.

This isn't a seduction. This is gamesmanship.

To her, he is no different from the scores of fools she's finessed in the Council. She knows exactly how to wield her wiles, to leave a man witless, and herself victorious. That's how they are, these Topsiders.  All lesser beings are public domain to be exploited for personal gain.

And the Medardas lead the pack. In Noxus, their wealth is as legendary as their greed. A dynasty built upon bloodshed; a family name synonymous with warfare. All of the Council's holdings in total would likely not be worth a jewel on General Medarda's dagger.

Her daughter is no different. She is steeped in her family's heritage of ruthlessness, even as she envelops herself in the diaphanous costume of goodwill. In Piltover's gilded halls, she plans her conquests like military strategies, cloaking them in the sublanguage of alluring glances and elusive promises, followed by the tactical precision of bold decrees.

Going against Topside's ethos of never instrumentalizing magic, she'd finessed the Council into funding Talis' Hex-tech research. In the span of six years, thanks to the Hex-Gates, she had transformed Piltover from a charming city-state into a technological juggernaut, rivaling empires like Demacia.

And the price of the progress was paid by the Undercity.

What was once an independent industrial zone whose technology, raw material, and labor were centered on local means, had already been systematically desecrated by Topside through taxation, legislation and outright coercion. The Fissures had lost their autonomy piecemeal: first the mines, then the smelteries, and finally the refineries. Their auto-dynamic industrial system was diametrically opposed to Piltover's aims for monopolizing those resources for itself.

The Hex-Gates worsened the decay.  Year after year, they brought forth trade delegations, each bearing waves of change. New goods flooded Topside's markets in exchange for those the Undercity held dear: stone, iron, copper. And bodies. With each delegation, the cost rose higher. From a few hundred workers per annum, to thousands.  From one million tons of raw materials every five years, to triple that amount within one. Every time there was a fresh influx of goods, the prices rose hand-in-hand with the death toll.

The Undercity’s crippled development, and the creation of a dependent, one-legged economy, led to stagnation in legitimate growth and a spike in organized crime.  By the time Silco became the luminary kingpin of the Lanes, the Undercity threatened to collapse into bedlam.

But who sees bedlam beneath the feet of Piltover's rising towers?

At the surface, the Gates glowed as bastions of progress. Belowground, Silco's forces took to the streets. His men ran roughshod over both the criminal underworld and the self-ordained overlords. Through the profits of Shimmer, he bought off the Enforcers. Through subterfuge and violence, he asserted control over the gangs. At his zenith, almost all of the Undercity was his domain, gripped not by an iron fist, but strings pulled from the shadows.

In the end, none of it mattered.

There were a million luxuries his domain would never experience, no matter how much power Silco accrued. He was a faceless king, his crown forged with Fissure-bled steel—but his kingdom was a slag-heap compared to Piltover's blue skies. Even the chem-barons, perched high above the ugly rookeries of the Sumps, were like birds in wrought-iron cages; their lives devoted to money, sex, drugs, and depravity. All to distract from the putrefaction of the smog, the poison in the waters, the corruption in the air.

All to avoid contemplating what came after.

The Hex-Gates stole more than just the Undercity's livelihood. They swallowed its soul. Talis, by building the Hex-Gates, was the architect of their downfall. But Medarda was the one who signed the decree—and sealed their fate.

Now here she sits, hand on Silco’s knee, smiling.

#asks #arcane league of legends #arcane #arcane silco #silco #arcane mel #mel medarda #silco x mel #melco #fanfic #forward but never forget/xoxo #forward (never forget)/xoxo #arcane meta

[hexhomos]

It's been weird to watch how many fans conveniently forget in *Mel's very first scene*, which comes right after a violent montage of the police brutally storming the kid's haungout in Zaun, she is introduced to the audience as The richest person in all of Piltover - the highest of all possible privileges, & her reaction to the compliment is to bemoan how "And yet I'm still the poorest Medarda." as if it's nothing.

Nobody is making up reasons to suspect Mel. She is an ultra-liberal rich girl holding a high power seat who spends act 1 ready to throw jayce in jail up until the point he proves he can turnout a larger profit for her playset empire, and act 2 leading him on as a political investment to an even more careless council of megarich investors; the first complaint to pop up when the perfected hex crystals are stolen is not their preoccupation with human beings, which is what jayce is worrying about, but how turning off the hexgates would negatively affect Piltover's blooming economy. Mel leaves Jayce's speech when he refuses to announce new projects at Herimendinger's behest!

Back on her intro scene again: When Mel asks about "what of today's trial?" Carelessly, while playing with her gold puzzle toys, her assistant tells her that Jayce is the subjet & his family are just common toolmakers, and he has little to offer her beyond Hermerdinger's interest. Still, she picks another bauble from her desk and says "This one." Clearly still in relation to Jayce. Her second assistant protests: "But that's a child's toy!" & Mel smiles, stating "Good."

The show is repeatedly hitting you over the head with signs of how much her class status informs the way she interacts with people. Mel is a billionaire. She's part of this world's 1% and the fact that she comes off as a suspicious or an antagonistic figure is not a mistake or an audience misread; the series is framing her that way for a reason. Just like it frames Zaun's population as made up of poor people driven to a criminal life out of sheer necessity for a reason. There is nobody is looking out for them. The rich only ever look out for themselves.

A much more nuanced conversation could be had on *why* Riot chose to give its most prominent black woman character in Arcane what is an ostensibly *white* and *colonialist* narrative position; Mel's mother is coming up on act 3 as our new estabilishment-aligned-antagonist, and it's been revealed they're from the Noxian empire already, making it two prominent black woman characters following this same mold. It's especially odd when their one black champion included in this show (Ekko) has been absent for so goddamn much of the story, when compared to ALL OTHER act 1 champs.

You can try to tell me the world of league is not a real-world analogue and that this is an example of "colorblind worldbuilding" but let's not act like they couldn't have given us more recurring black characters that aren't personifications of the state machine and capital as a whole. Because as it stands: Mel is just not a good person.

#Arcane #League of Legends #mel medarda #jayce talis #ekko league of legends #viktor league of legends #jayce league of legends #Seeing a lot of discourse ignoring her position in the food chain and i dont think we're getting anywhere productive like that #People arent making up reasons to dislike mel. The reasons are built in the narrative. #And its a narrative that Riot wrote

[lacroixqueen]

how sevika protects you (18+)

Summary: A creepy guys starts hitting on you at The Last Drop, and Sevika starts getting protective. to say the least. 

Pairing: sevika x fem reader 

Word Count: 929

Warnings: sexual harassment, brief mentions of SA/non-con. alcohol.

Taglist (yes i have one now pls lmk if you want to be added hehe): @midnight-lestrange​

You were perched over the bar, playing around with your shot glass between your fingers, looking around The Last Drop nervously. You felt like you had one drink too many, as your head was already starting to spin. 

You were wearing a tight, satin slip dress and matching choker. You thought it would be a good idea to hit up the tavern and blow off some steam tonight. Work has been difficult, and you figured maybe you would bump into someone you know. 

But for some reason, you were left all alone with some sleazy stranger. 

This dude has been chatting you up for way longer than you were comfortable, and you were starting to look for an excuse to get out of the situation. 

You were trying your hardest to be polite; smile and nod, laugh at his unoriginal jokes. Try to show sincere interest in his nonsensical ramblings on the “intricacies of the Shimmer economy”. To be honest, you really couldn’t care less. And this guy was starting to get on your nerves.

“So what’s your name again?” he would laugh drunkenly, inching towards you a bit closer.

“Uh.. it’s Y/N..” you answered back apprehensively, still searching the bar for a distraction.  

“Y/N.. that’s such a cute name,” he would remark, getting close enough to start playing with strands of your hair. “And you are so pretty too..”

Sevika was watching you from the front of the bar. She was pretending to appear like she wasn’t looking, by shuffling a deck of cards and dealing them to the others who were sitting around her table. 

But she was paying very close attention. To the way his eyes lingered a bit too long on your neck and cleavage. How he would angle his body in a way that made it practically impossible for you to evade him. 

Sevika knew she was taking a risk the moment she started allowing herself to care about you. She hated thinking about all the different things undercity dwellers would do to you without hesitation. Men who would not think twice about drugging you, fucking you, selling you.

She did, however, love to think about all the different ways she could kill them. She liked the thought of her being able to protect you. To ensure that no harm could ever come your way. 

Sevika kept looking over in your direction to check on you. 

At this point, he was starting to slide his hand over the curve of your waist. 

That’s it. 

“Excuse me boys,” Sevika would mutter, suddenly standing up from her gambling table. 

While she was walking over, you were trying your best to wiggle away out of his slimy grasp. 

“Um.. I have to go-” you began to say, only to be interrupted by Sevika slamming the creep’s face straight into the hard, wooden surface of the bar. 

“What the FUCK?!” he cried out, holding onto his bleeding nose and staring up at the menacing woman who stood before him. 

Once he saw who instigated the fight, he immediately slinked away into the shadows and fled the building. 

“W-why did you do that?!” you cried, turning around to face her. “You could have killed him!”

Well, yeah. That was kind of the point.

“Let’s go, you’re coming with me,” Sevika said bluntly, grabbing you by the wrist and leading you out of The Last Drop. 

“Hey! Wait!” you exclaimed, but your body was being pulled out the door no matter how hard you struggled against her. 

“I’m taking you home,” she replied. “It’s getting way too late, and you’ve had too much to drink.”

You pouted, following her out into the streets of Zaun, realizing she was probably right. 

You felt yourself blushing this whole time, looking up at the much taller woman who was confident enough to beat up some bastard who was hitting on you, then walk you home like it was nothing. 

Sevika noticed you were shivering a bit, since 1. It was freezing cold and 2. The only thing separating you from the icy midnight air was a tiny little dress. 

Without a word, she undid her red cloak with one hand and draped it over your shoulders. 

“Take this,” she said, continuing to walk briskly through the Lanes while holding tightly onto your hand. 

As if you weren’t flushing bright red already. You could feel your cheeks warming up and your heart leaping against your chest as you felt the soft fabric fall over you and immediately warm you up. 

Finally, you two reached the entrance to the Gardens. You played with your hands nervously, looking up at her shyly. 

“Th-thanks I guess..” you stammered. Goddamnit, it was ridiculous how hard you were blushing at this point. “For looking out for me back there..”

“Just go to sleep early,” Sevika nodded. Always so to-the-point. 

You ground your heels into the cobblestone, still not wanting to leave her side for some odd reason. 

“Did you want to come upstairs..?” you suddenly had the courage to look up at her. 

And now you have decided to be bold. Why not? It wasn’t like she didn’t rail you until you couldn’t walk properly just last week. 

She smirked, leaning down to give you a very gentle, loving kiss on the lips as she unclasped her cloak from around your body. 

Without another word, she spun right back around on her heels, throwing her cloak over her shoulder. 

“Go to bed, princess,” she reminded, disappearing into the darkness and returning to the depths of the undercity. 

#sevika #arcane sevika #sevika x y/n #sevika x reader #arcane sevika x reader #arcane #arcane netflix #arcane smut #arcane angst #arcane fluff #arcane imagines #arcane x you #arcane x y/n #caitlyn #arcane caitlyn #caitlyn x vi #violyn #arcane cait #arcane silco #silco #silco x y/n #silco x reader #jayce x viktor #arcane viktor #arcane jayce #jinx #arcane jinx #arcane ekko #ekko #wlw

[thescreaminghat]

what does zaun export like, i know this isn’t even a big deal, but besides shimmer (and singed’s fucking chemical bombs in lore), we haven’t really seen zaun’s industrial capacity 

like, yeah it is a place where illegal transactions and experiments can be carried out that otherwise wouldn’t be sustained in piltover, but surely that can’t be enough to sustain its economy, esp where powers like noxus, for example, can just find trading partners in piltover or other semi-autonomous areas under its control

idk just thinking about this since noxus seems to be a growing player in arcane s2 and noxus and zaun have a decent relationship in lore

#arcane #lol lore #zaun #noxus #honestly the timeline is so huge at this point someone with better lore knowledge than me pls correct if u feel like its necessary XDD

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

Something I must acknowledge to keep myself intellectually honest is that a thriving economy under Silco didn’t necessarily mean things were better for Zaun under him. GDP doesn’t reflect anything about how people are living, and I think that is one of the reasons why Ekko was against Silco. Instead of it just being Topside exploiting Zaun, Silco decided to, perhaps temporarily, replace Topside influence with Zaun-borne exploitation via the chembarons. To Ekko and literally eeeeeeeveryone but Jinx and Sevika and perhaps a few of the more idealistic chembarons like Rennie, Silco was just a dude that took over and is squeezing Zaun dry for himself, using the cause of an “independent Zaun” as an excuse, when in fact it is the exact reverse. If anything, he is using his chemtech monopoly as both a means and a smokescreen to obscure from Piltover that he’s planning on using his funds and resources to stage a coup. It’s like he’s building functioning guns that look like NERF products in his factories and the Piltover Council is looking at him like

Council: What a fine businessman, pulling himself up by his bootstraps. See, we don’t need to do anything for the Undercity, it’s doing fine by itself. No funny business to report on this Mr. Silco is there, Marcus?

Marcus, with a nerf pistol jammed against his balls: Uh, y-yeah, yeah no, it’s all clear.

Ends justify the means with Silco (until the last second when they don’t). It’s total war with this man. In his mind it is a necessary sacrifice to have kids work distilling shimmer because at least they’re slaving away for their new nation rather than enriching Piltover. At least their sweat and blood is toward their liberation. That’s just how Silco’s mind works. Endure and suffer and eventually you won’t. They’ll hit the point where they’ll be free and it won’t be necessary. That is what nation-building is all about. Again, to him.

#silco #ekko #arcane

[vasiktomis]

WIP Day

Tagged by: @honeysides, @redreart and @shallow-gravy thank u darlins!

Tagging: @turbo-virgins, @writerofblocks, @johnnycranes, @scungilliwoman, @cobb-vanthss, @strafethesesinners, @chyrstis, @florbelles, and @adelaidedrubman, and feel free to tag me if you haven’t been!

Below the cut for Arcane nonsense of Silco and Vida. I am hereby throwing everyone in the deep end without context. ❤️

“In return for my services — and my silence — I want in.”

“There it is. Ever the opportunist.” Silco rolled his eyes. “So, without even knowing the investment, you want a cut?”

“You’re yet to assure me it wouldn’t be worth it.” Vida reminded him.

“For the sake of humouring you — what services would you offer?”

“In the short term? Surveillance topside. I hear you’re looking for someone.”

“I have Marcus for that.”

“And with someone else handling part of his workload, he might actually be able to be worth his cut. I, meanwhile, come free.”

Silco considered that with a purse of his lips. “And in the long term?”

“Pending both our success, your operation would be granted free movement through Bilgewater’s ports. Given the nature of your product, as well as tightened security around the Hexgates, I expect remaining off the books would be valuable to you. This would be in exchange for our uninterrupted usage of your waters as trade routes inland.”

“Pending success.”

“Think of it as an investment.” Vida explained. “The future governance of Bilgewater would like to extend a friendly hand to our coastal neighbours, and that wouldn’t exclude Zaun, should it achieve independence. We would be the first region to recognise you as a sovereign nation, and given Runaterra’s economic dependence on our little port as a whole, it wouldn’t be difficult for other regions to see merit in following suit. Your establishment as a self-governing body would be accelerated, and you would be able to enjoy the luxury of less…opportunists.”

The corner of Silco’s mouth ticked. “You’d invade us if I refused you.”

“Oh, Silco. You wound me.” The woman dramatised a hand to her heart. “But there’s only so much land you can occupy as an island nation. If the vulnerable budding nation of Zaun were to falter, Bilgewater would be obliged to step in for the sake of the global economy.”

“I refuse.”

Vida smiled pleasantly, though not before the muscles in her face flashed a single degree more sharply. A predator denied the meal it deemed itself deserving of. ”You refuse.”

“Why would I invest in hypotheticals? Until you actually assume power in your godforsaken city, your threats fall flat.” Silco said, crossing one leg over the other, comfortably leaning back in his seat. “I’ll take your surveillance offer — no charge, as promised — and you’ll be allowed to live. As for future arrangements, we have none. Make no mistake, Leviathan, the moment I have what I want, your usefulness will have run its course, and your welcome will expire.”

“And what of my potential to let slip that the root of all of Piltover’s problems was taking up residence in this building?” Vida’s smile had grown curious.

“Dandtra, your bid was too generous from the start.” Silco sighed, more concerned with cutting a new cigar than looking at her. “Free surveillance? Grand promises? You know what that tells me?”

“That I’m a generous woman, and a bloody good friend.”

“You’re a liar is what you are.” Silco shot back with just a little too much poison. “But you want something I have, and judging by your…overzealous offers, it’s valuable enough to you that taking it from me is a degree kinder than taking it from someone else. It’s in your best interest to be in my good graces, and I, for one, will ‘enjoy the luxury’ of denying you.”

Vida’s head inclined at that. She studied him for a moment. “Spare yourself the words, Silco. Just say you have a grudge.”

“Admittedly, the grovelling is nice.” The man shrugged a disaffected shoulder, flicking at his lighter and drawing in a mouthful of smoke. “My answer won’t change. Not unless you can offer me something tangible.”

He exhaled, punctuating the end of their conversation with a glance in Sevika’s direction. Vida’s following look at least marked that she could take a hint. “Until then, do try not to die on your way out of my city, and enjoy your stay topside. You did always covet the place, after all.”

Vida brushed out the creases in her trousers as she rose to a stand, stalking her way back to the door.

Then, she paused.

On instinct, Sevika stepped forward. A reminder to obey.

“I ought to thank you, by the way.” Vida muttered.

“Hm?” Silco refused to look at her, still, languishing in the futility of her visit.

“For keeping my daughter alive. I’m looking forward to reconnecting with her.”

That caught his attention; a sharp turn of his head and a particularly dangerous snarl on his face, whipping around just in time to catch Vida training a grin on Sevika.

“It’s so nice to be home.”

#wip tag #NEITHER of them are her parents but they’re still battling for the right to be ok