#Ash Benzo

[karlenal]

ashleybenson: Some BTS of me as Cara in The Wilderness….. who watched!! @primevideo @primevideouk

[lullabyes22-blog]

Hi lullabyes, would u mind sharing your take on the flashback with young Silco, Vander, and Felicia? :O

It's adorable. It's touching. It's sweet. It's a serene moment of intimacy and family (or polycule) bonding in an otherwise deeply frenetic season.

It's also so surreal it may as well be a fever dream.

I should note, at this stage I've shut off my cognitive reasoning about Arcane and begun approaching this as if it's a series of exquisitely crafted, animated short films that are all about to collide into a beautiful disaster.

Because that's what it is.

S2 has thrown a lot of the intelligent plotting out the window to embrace the chaos.  Whether due to time constraints, intellectual fatigue, or creative indulgence, I feel like we have a show that's now just hurtling breakneck towards the finish line. Previous story threads that once held weight and were the driving force behind character arcs and subplots, have since been abandoned. Nuanced motivations and character growth are being tossed to the wayside for the sake of action, montages, music videos, and a cavalier, anything-goes approach to world-building.

And yet, it's still such an incredible spectacle to behold.

@ravenkinnie delightfully noted that she is now watching this show with her pussy.

I agree 100%. S2 is a full-body experience, and one I find myself wholly consumed by. It's like a one-night stand you weren't expecting to be so fucking good. And when the sun comes up, you know it's going to hurt to say goodbye, and there'll be no follow-up call.

But damn, you enjoyed the shit out of that experience.

So yeah, the flashback was fucking adorable. I love the genuine emotion and closeness between the three characters. I adore the idea of Felicia, Silco and Vander being childhood friends (or, again, a very messy polycule) and both men sort of falling apart without her Manic Pixie Dream Girl presence in their lives. It's a nice little character arc.

However.

I cannot reconcile this scene with the rest of S1. It feels completely disconnected from the reality of the show and the world around them. The flashback has absolutely no impact on the current events, nor does it have any foreshadowing. The flashback exists solely to provide us with a glimpse into the past, with sweet little parallels to serve as bonbons that make us coo and sigh. It completely glosses over Silco's deeply, blackly visceral hatred of Vi in S1, reduces the class struggle culminating in the Day of Ash to "Oh, Silco. If only you've protested for your basic civil rights in a peaceful manner instead of tossing a molotov cocktail, you'd still have your family, a place in the community, not to mention your eye," does not really explain why Benzo reacted to Silco's appearance by calling him an animal, and, most importantly, gives the lie to the entire dynamic between Silco and Jinx.

We were led to believe that Felicia's death was the catalyst for Silco and Vander's falling out.  That if Silco had found Vander's letter in their little Brokeback bunk, they would've worked out their differences and found peace together. That they'd have raised Felicia's anklebiters side-by-side as the Zaundads of the revolution.

Except Silco is also the man selling Evil Anime PCP (Shimmer) as an economic cheat-code to earn respect for his people, and Vander is basically Captain Centrist and traumatized by war, and there is NO WAY they would've seen eye-to-eye on their respective methods. There's no way they would've come to any sort of accord. And there's no way Silco would've forgiven the man who mutilated and left him possibly sheared of half his lifespan, any more than Felicia's children would forgive the man who killed their mother.

It's such an incongruous narrative beat.

Which brings me to the other point:

Silco and Jinx.

imo, while I love the idea of Silco carrying either a secret torch for Felicia, or seeing her as a sister he'll always love, and while I absolutely treasure the idea of Jinx being a daily reminder of what he's fighting for - "I'm doing this for us, Jinx." - it sort of cheapens the key connection between them. In S1, Silco and Jinx's arc is, in my eyes, one of the best things about the series, and so incredibly well-written and executed. Silco is a monster, yes, but his monstrosity is the product of systemic and individual trauma, and the inextricable bleedthrough between the two. Finding this little girl and bringing her up under his wing, he has the chance to be the steadying hand and safe harbor he lost after Vander's betrayal. His monstrousness is not something he inflicts on her; it is something that, rather, grows on JInx like a kudzu vine, as the terrain of her damaged mind is already fertile for his worldview and methods to take root and thrive.

He is, perhaps, the best example of nurture triumphing over nature, even if his nurturing is rather, uh, extreme.

But if their bond is predicated on Felicia, rather than two strangers finding each other in the wilderness of heartbreak and learning to let their black hearts beat, messily entwined, as one family unit, and if Silco's obsession with Jinx is merely a projection of his guilt for killing her mother, and, by extension, a projection of his love for Felicia onto her daughter...

It's just.

Do y'all remember those uncomfortable frames that the showrunners admitted were deliberate, despite the evidence in the written text suggesting a familial bond? The subtext that, all the way into S2, carries the implication of a romantic relationship between a father and his daughter?

Well.

The implications now threaten to melt into explicit text, and the uncomfortable frames have turned into Unfortunate Implications, and I am not sure how I feel about this.

 It's not giving Lily and Snape; it's giving Sansa and Baelish.

It's giving the showrunners a big, fat "YEESH" rating from CPS.

And it's giving us the same, old, tired trope of a monstrous man unable to form an attachment unless it's through the lens of prior attachments, that whole 'You remind me so much of her' and the like.

 (I also admit I am the world's biggest hypocrite as the entire premise of Forward but Never Forget/XOXO is that the core foursome of Vander, Silco, Lika and Sevika knew each other, and that those ghosts haunt the machinery of the present day. But I try my damnedest to make plain there's politics buffeting all these relationships, and despite all their efforts to claw at self-sovereignty, reinvention and a new order, the past is a stubborn bitch that refuses to let go.)

(Also in FnF, Silco is triggered by Lika rather than into her in any affectionate or romantic way, because they're so similar: pragmatic survivors who aren't above rule-bending to get their way, and at their core just want a smoke break, a stiff drink, and a nap. It's a mutual respect rather than an affection, which is why she bestows on him the dubious honor of mercy killing her if she's too wounded on the Day of Ash to continue on.)

(He's the one person who could, and would, do her the service. It's kinship, and Jinx is the bright torch of their shared ambitions and ingenuity given both wing and voice.)

But anyway.

The flashback is a fever-dream. The kind you have when you're high on cold meds and can't think straight, and the world is a blur of sensations and memories that seem vivid in the moment but melt away into madness when you're better. It's a scene meant to be savored rather than interrogated. And I think if the showrunners had the time and inclination, we would've gotten a second episode solely dedicated to the flashback, rather than shoehorning it in. But since they're clearly trying to tie everything up with a neat bow before the finale, I don't blame them for having to skim past it and focus on the vibes/emotional resonance rather than the substance of a meaningfully written scene.

But hey.

Fanfic writers will have a field day with the open-ended dynamic and the fandom will never fucking stop, so that's nice.

Also we got loads of fantastic gifs of Young Silco. Bless.

<3

tl;dr: I've switched my critical brain off and decided to just enjoy the ride. It's so fucking epic. 

Also, Felicia was delightful and I hope her brotherhood/polycule/whatever with Silco and Vander gets its own spinoff, a la Road to El Dorado (or Zaun.)

[srslylini]

people saying "well Silco wouldn't have HAD to know Vi and Powder as kids" are creating even more plot holes and that's so funny to me

mostly cause Vi was around 10 to 12 during the day of ash and what, with the new context the Vander/Silco fall out wasn't till after that attack.

That said, up until then there is nothing that can make us assume Felicia/Vander/Silco had a fall out (especially not cause of how they made Silco react to her death?) meaning it would be incredibly weird had he NOT known the kids.

but then Vi should have recognized him and she DOESN'T. she literally, in episode three, tells Mylo and Claggor that she had no idea who it was that killed Benzo and took Vander. Again, Vi was around 10 to 12, that tells us that the day of ash was only around 4 to 2 years ago in act 1 of season 1. No one forgets someone who should, by all logic, be this integrated in ones life in the span of that time. I can give you Powder, since she was around 4 to 6, not Vi though.

god the fucking writers really didn't think this through at all.

Had they JUST made the fall out between Vander and Silco BEFORE the day of ash it wouldn't even be too bad because then we could logically assume Vi was maybe too young to remember but??? yeah no. also Silco not recognizing Vi with this context, I don't even wanna THINK about that

[immortalbumblebee]

Chapter 22: Weakest Link

Happy Christmas Eve to all!!

I’m actually writing this on my phone because I left my laptop at home while visiting family…but inspiration hits!

I hope you all enjoy, and have an excellent holiday season, no matter what you celebrate!

Masterlist

One of the traders, a stout man from Shurima, leaned forward, speaking through clenched teeth, a lit cigar dangling from his mouth. Each word was punctuated by a puff of acrid smoke curling around his face like a dragon. “We’re the ones risking our necks here, gents. Sneaking supplies past Piltover’s checkpoints? It ain’t just dangerous—it’s suicidal.” He twisted the cigar to the other side of his mouth, a fresh plume of smoke spilling into the air. “We need more coin up front, or the shipments stop. End of story.”

Sevika was on her feet before anyone else could react, the dull thud of her fist hitting the table echoing in the dimly lit room. “And what? You think we’re swimming in cogs down here?” she snarled, her voice sharp enough to cut steel.

You couldn’t help but groan quietly, the weight of hours spent in this stalemate grinding against your patience. Exhaustion tugged at every muscle, but what else was new? From your spot at the table, you watched the scene unfold, arms crossed, eyes boring into the line of traders opposite you. Next to you, Benzo’s posture was tense, his weariness written as plainly on his face as on his rumpled shirt—usually crisp and professional, now missing a button and sporting deep wrinkles. You move to speak, but Benzo motions for you to stay back.

“Enough,” Benzo snapped, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had been in these trenches too long. Sevika froze, her hand still planted on the table, fingers twitching as if daring someone to challenge her.

Benzo leaned forward, the dim light catching the early creases forming on his forehead. “We all know what’s at stake. If this deal collapses, Zaun suffers—everyone suffers. Your risk is real, Urhak, no one’s denying that. But don’t act like your supply chain doesn’t depend on us just as much as we depend on you. We all bleed when Piltover milks us dry.”

Urhak, the Shuriman trader, removed the cigar from his mouth with a slow, deliberate motion, his narrowed eyes glinting like polished amber. “And we’re just supposed to bleed a little more for your rebellion? Hah.”

“Rebellion?” Another trader, a wiry man from Bilgewater, cut in with a bark of laughter. “We don’ give two shites about yer rebellion. It don’t feed our men. And wit’ Enforcers blockin’ every dock in Piltover, we’re startin’ to wonder if yer deals’r worth the trouble.”

Benzo didn’t flinch, his tone steady but urgent. “We need compromise. Protection for your shipments—more bodies on the ground to make sure they get through. In return, you cut back on the money demands and prioritize essentials: food, medicine, guns. The bare necessities.”

Another trader, a green-haired woman, scoffs. “Protection? Against Piltover? That’s a death sentence.”

“That’s what this revolution’s all about.” Felicia stepped forward, her voice calm but firm, the glint of determination in her eyes unmistakable. “We know what we’re doing. Smaller convoys. Decoys to draw the Enforcers away. It works—we’ve done it before, and you’ve seen the results.”

The Bilgewater trader snorted. “Aye, and look how far it’s gotten ya. Vander and Silco’ve been eatin’ Stillwater slop for what—two years now? Is that the kind of security you’re sellin’ us?”

Alright, you’d had enough.

Before anyone could react, you flicked your wrist, sending a razor-thin shard of metal slicing through the air. Urhak’s cigar split cleanly in two, the lit end tumbling to the floor in a hiss of ash. A tense silence followed as some of the traders instinctively reached for their weapons, but you were faster. A wave of your hands, and their firearms clattered to the floor, skidding out of reach.

You stood, your presence commanding, your voice cutting through the room like a blade. “My associate has been incredibly patient,” you said, the words slow and deliberate. “But I’m done wasting time. Let’s be real—Zaun makes up two-thirds of your trade profits, even with the dock blockades. If you think you can do better elsewhere, go ahead. Pack up your mediocre goods and hawk them to some backwater village. We’ll find traders who don’t waste our gods-damned time.”

The weight of your words settled over the room like a storm cloud. One by one, the traders hesitated, their bravado dimming under your glare.

Benzo turns to you, his movements measured, his eyes narrowing as he leans ever so slightly in your direction. “I thought I told you I had this,” he mutters, voice just loud enough for you to catch.

You meet his gaze briefly and roll your shoulders, the gesture as nonchalant as it was deliberate.

“Urhak breaks the lingering tension, his voice rumbling through the room like distant thunder. “We’ll need guarantees,” he says, his words deliberate. His gaze flickers to his colleagues, who murmur in low tones, their unease palpable. “If the patrols catch us, there won’t be a second chance. No excuses, no do-overs.”

Benzo exhales sharply, but his frustration is aimed squarely at you before he turns back to the table. His composure is a mask, slipping on just long enough to face the traders. “We’ll rotate our people to guard the shipments,” he says, his voice steady. “Small teams, low-profile. No risks we don’t need to take. You hold up your end, and we’ll hold up ours.”

The traders fall into another bout of quiet deliberation, voices hushed but sharp. The Bilgewater representative eventually shrugs. “Don’t be expectin’ miracles. You don’ give us what we need, don’ blame us when it all falls apart.”

Sevika finally lifts her fist from the table, the faint outline of her knuckles still imprinted in the wood. Benzo straightens his shoulders, reclaiming his usual air of authority, and folds his hands in front of him. “Nobody’s blaming anyone,” he says firmly, his businessman tone smooth but grounded. “We’re all in this together. That’s the point.”

The meeting concluded with a fragile patchwork of strained agreements, punctuated by supplementary deals to placate the traders’ endless demands. As they filed out, heading toward the ships that awaited them at the docks, your inner circle lingered. Quiet murmurs filled the air, the tension from the negotiation still simmering in their voices.

You sat apart from the others, your focus buried in your worn notebook. The faint scratch of pencil against paper was a welcome distraction as you tallied the promised inventory of firearms, mentally accounting for time and resources. They’d need inspections, repairs, and modifications—because they never arrived in workable condition.

With a sharp snap, you closed the book and rubbed a hand over your face, dragging your palm down to stifle the mounting frustration. Your new bandana lay limp around your neck, black and distinctly free of bloodstains. You were nearly 25 now… Two years. Two years since they were gone, and it already felt like a lifetime. In their absence, the weight of Zaun had pressed heavier on you than ever.

Piltover’s interference had worsened tenfold. No crossing the bridge without papers. Mandated curfews. Power outages that choked entire districts in darkness. The blockade at the docks was a vice on your trade, tightening every day. And the promenade? A ghost of its former self, crawling with Enforcers. The fighting rings were shut down. Businesses folded under the strain.

Zaunites had always been resilient, but now they were desperate. And desperate people fought back���often recklessly. Without resources, without backup, rebellion wasn’t a fire—it was a spark struggling to catch in the damp.

You adjusted the oversized vest draped over your shoulders. It hung loose, three sizes too big, and though his scent had long since faded, you still found comfort in wearing it. A small fragment of the past. A piece of a world that no longer existed.

“I told you I had this.” Benzo’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp with annoyance. His frustration lanced through your skull, worsening the pounding ache that had been building all evening. You really needed coffee.

“Do you have any idea how sideways that could’ve gone?” he continued, his tone rising just enough to set your teeth on edge.

You snapped your gaze to him, already irritated. “They still think they can push us around,” you shot back, stepping closer, your voice rising to match his. “And you let them!”

Benzo’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly. “We don’t have the luxury of throwing our weight around without consequences,” he said, his voice low and hard. “And we can’t afford another enemy right now.” He turned abruptly, his eyes landing on Sevika. “Go keep an eye on them. Run security on their ships if you have to.”

Sevika lingered, her gaze flicking between the two of you, as though calculating whether to push back. After a moment, she sighed and turned toward the door. “For what it’s worth, I’m with Min.”

“I don’t recall asking,” Benzo shot after her. His voice was sharper than necessary, and it drew a pointed look from both you and Felicia.

Before tempers could flare further, Connol stepped in, his calm, even tone cutting through the tension. “Fighting between ourselves isn’t fixing a damn thing,” he said firmly, stepping between you and Benzo. His broad hands rested lightly on your shoulders, as if grounding both of you. “In case anyone’s forgotten, we don’t have the manpower to be a divided force right now.”

Benzo exhaled sharply, his shoulders dropping as his anger softened into resignation. He looked at you again, and you met his gaze.

For a long, silent moment, the two of you simply stared at each other. His exhaustion mirrored yours, the weight of Zaun evident in every line of his face. His eyes, usually sharp with purpose, were dull—drained beyond recognition. You understood the feeling all too well.

Neither of you was Vander. Neither of you was Silco. They had been an unstoppable force, even when they were at each other’s throats. You hadn’t fully understood the weight of their positions until they were gone, ripped from Zaun and sent to rot in Piltover’s cells. Now it was on you and Benzo to pick up the pieces, to hold together the tattered remnants of a revolution that sometimes felt like it was bleeding out faster than you could save it.

The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken words, until Benzo finally looked away. He turned to the others, quietly issuing instructions as Felicia stepped forward to lend her voice to the plan.

And you? You tightened the vest around you again, steeling yourself for what came next. Because there was always something.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly once the others have filtered out, leaving just the two of you. The room feels heavier without the murmured discussions to fill the space. You glance at Benzo, guilt threading through your voice. “You’re right. I was reckless. Stupid.”

Benzo doesn’t respond immediately. He leans against the table, his arms crossed, staring at a spot somewhere past your shoulder. Finally, he exhales and shrugs. “You got the job done,” he says simply, though there’s no accusation in his tone. After a moment, he unfolds his arms and extends a hand toward you. “I know you miss him. I do too.”

“I miss them both,” you admit, your voice cracking as you clasp his hand. But instead of the firm handshake he seems to expect, you use the gesture to pull him into a tight hug.

Benzo doesn’t hesitate. His broad, stocky arms envelop you, grounding you in a way that words never could. He’s thinner now than he used to be, you knew you were too, the stress of the past two years carving its toll into both of you, but his hugs still feel like home. They always had, since that first day in the dump.

You press your face into his shoulder, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this without them, Benz…”

His arms tighten around you, a protective squeeze that’s equal parts comfort and reassurance. “I know, Fishie,” he murmurs.

***

One might imagine that living in a warring nation would be a constant thrill, every day a unique and dangerous adventure. And in some ways, they’d be right. But when every waking moment is consumed by survival, by the relentless grind of uncertainty and danger, the days begin to blur together.

Nights are spent patrolling the crumbling streets, ducking under shadows to avoid the cold, watchful eyes of curfew enforcers. By day, there’s the ceaseless clatter of tools as you work on gun engineering and mechanics in the dim light of your makeshift livingroom workshop. Taking care of your parents took considerable time, even with Mikaels improving health. Not to mention actual shift work at the factories you were still employed at. The bridge barriers made it impossible to continue working at Morichi’s, but you still had to make a living. So you took what you could on this side of the bridge, toiling in the suffocating heat and deafening noise of the factories, each shift bleeding into the next.

The loss of Vander and Silco’s leadership wasn’t the only major impact of their incarceration. The loss of income was a huge hit to your day-to-day lives. You managed to scrape by Mikael’s treatments, but food was steadily more expensive, funds were running dry. Numbers were already tight, but now you almost felt strangled.

And then there was the tunnel.

The one project that felt like you were finally doing something that mattered, something right. In a world that seemed to be crumbling at the seams, the tunnel was your proof that not everything had to fall apart.

Engineering the damn thing had been an endeavour. You and Connol had spent countless sleepless nights over that past 24 months slogging through its damp, claustrophobic depths. Every leak you patched, every weak point you reinforced, felt like a small victory.

The leaks were relentless at first. Water seeped in from all sides, turning the tunnel into a slick, treacherous path. You and Connor worked in knee-deep muck, sealing crack after crack until your arms ached and your fingers felt raw. And then there were the weak points—entire sections that seemed one heavy step away from collapse. You reinforced them with steel sheets that you bent and shaped with your own hands.

Months turned into years as the project evolved. It started as a desperate plan to bypass Piltover’s stranglehold, but it became something greater. A lifeline. A sanctuary. It was Felicia who had the brilliant idea of connecting the tunnel to a long-abandoned mining cavern nearby. She and a few of the older minors had mapped the area, their experience with the mines proving invaluable. The cavern was vast, its winding corridors a maze that could confuse even the most determined enforcer. With the connection established, the tunnel transformed into a network—a hidden artery for Zaun. Connected to the mines, but far enough away as to allow for passage without much air corruption.

Slipping into the manhole that led to the tunnel, the muffled sounds of labor greeted you before your boots even hit the ground. The faint echo of crates scraping against the floor, grunts of effort, and low conversations filled the air. It didn’t surprise you to find Felicia already there, gesturing sharply as she directed a small group maneuvering heavy-looking crates toward the mining hub.

“How’s it looking?” you asked, sliding down the ladder and brushing the grime from your hands. Your eyes quickly scanned the wooden crates stacked against the damp tunnel walls.

Felicia turned to face you, her expression softening the moment she saw you. In her arms, a familiar blue-haired toddler bounced excitedly, letting out a piercing screech when her wide, blue-grey eyes landed on you. Powder squirmed and made grabbing motions with her chubby hands, her little braids bobbing wildly.

“Everything’s going smooth so far,” Felicia replied, her voice heavy with skepticism. She shifted Powder on her hip with practiced ease. “Although, little miss over here has been trying to make mischief. As usual.”

You couldn’t help but grin. “Mischief? Her? Nah, not my Pow-Pow,” you said, holding your hands out. Powder immediately launched herself at you with an excited squeal, her tiny arms wrapping tightly around your neck as if she hadn’t seen you in months. You pressed a kiss into her hair, the faint smell of damp tunnel and baby soap filling your nose. “Perfect little angel, you are,” you murmured, gently swaying her in your arms.

Felicia scoffed and rubbed a hand over her face, exhaustion carving lines into her features. “Easy for you to say. She’s been trying to climb the crates all morning. Nearly toppled a stack of rations.”

You chuckled, the sound dry. Powder babbled in your arms, reaching for the pen you always kept tucked into your pocket. You let her grab at it, her tiny fingers closing around the object with triumph. She brought it to her mouth, and you caught her hand before she could start chewing.

“How’s the moving going?” you asked, shifting Powder’s weight onto your hip while you glanced back at the crates.

“The firearms are heading to the mining hub, like you wanted,” Felicia said, motioning to the group lugging the heaviest crates. “I’m splitting the rations and water supply—half near the residential opening so they’re easier to access if things get tight.”

“Smart,” you said, pulling out your notebook one-handed. You jotted a quick note, using Powder’s squirming form as a makeshift desk. Her hand reached for the page, and you tilted it out of her grasp just in time. “And you? How are you holding up?”

Felicia sighed, her shoulders slumping as though the question alone carried weight. “The chem-barons are brutal, Min. You should see the factories down there. People are working longer hours for less pay—and those are the lucky ones who still have jobs.” She ran a tired hand through her hair, her thumb brushing over Powder’s cheek. “It’s hard. Really hard.”

Your chest tightened. You glanced down at Powder, who had abandoned the pen and was now tugging at the frayed edge of your vest. “I know,” you said softly. “You’re not alone in that. If you need a break, come by for meals. Seriously, Fel, we’ll make it work.”

Felicia let out a noise that was half-laugh, half-scoff. “Oh, sure. And when exactly are you finding time to cook for me, Nanny Min? When was the last time you had a proper meal? Or some sleep? No offense, sweetheart, but you look like death.”

You shrugged, the motion heavier than you intended. “What else is new?” you muttered. The exhaustion was bone-deep, clinging to you like the dampness in the air. You weren’t sure you even remembered what it felt like to wake up rested.

Felicia placed a firm hand on your shoulder. “Min, I mean it. You can’t keep burning yourself out like this. We need you. Zaun needs you. But you’re no use to anyone if you collapse. After Niya…we can’t lose you too.”

“I’m handling it,” you said, the response automatic and hollow.

“Are you?”

You hesitated, your grip tightening slightly on Powder. The toddler hummed, oblivious to the tension, and grabbed at your face with sticky fingers. Her palm landed on your nose, making you sigh and shake your head.

“Trust me, Fel. You’re not going to say anything I haven’t already heard from Benzo, Sevika, Mikael, Babette, or my mother,” you said, flicking the pen from Powder’s grasp and sliding it back into your pocket. “I’m handling it.”

Felicia didn’t look convinced, but she let out a low sigh and dropped her hand from your shoulder. “Just… don’t let it break you, Min,” she said. Her tone softened, but the concern in her eyes remained sharp.

You didn’t respond, instead watching as she turned back to the crates and started issuing instructions again. The room settled into a familiar rhythm: the scrape of crates, the shuffle of boots, and Powder’s soft babbling filling the space. But Felicia’s words lingered, heavy in the air.

When had you last eaten a real meal? Or slept more than a few hours? The question tugged at the edges of your mind, but you pushed it away. There wasn’t time for that. There was never time.

“Come on, Pow-Pow,” you murmured, brushing a hand over the toddler’s braids. She looked up at you with a toothy grin, and for a moment, her laughter broke through the weight pressing on your chest.

The echoes of shuffling crates and the rhythmic commands of Felicia's voice faded as you continued to sway Powder in your arms, the hum of the tunnel now a steady background. For a fleeting moment, everything felt almost... normal. As if this could be a day not haunted by the weight of survival or the ghosts of lost leaders. But the crackling tension in the air wouldn’t let it last long.

You glance over at Felicia, her tired yet determined expression etched into your memory. As she coordinates the laborers, directing them with a precision that only comes from years of doing what’s needed to keep Zaun's pulse alive, you feel a surge of admiration. She was right—we need to do this, but at what cost?

Suddenly, the muffled clatter of boots approaching breaks the fragile silence. A figure steps into the tunnel’s dim light, the shadows catching on his messenger uniform–like the one Silco used to wear. You recognize him as a regular, one good at his job. His presence shatters the illusion of calm.

“Min,” his eyes lock onto yours and immediately, you set Powder down, although she stays latched onto your leg. “Been trying to track you down for ages.”

You cross your arms, straightening your shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

“New notice from Topside, get a load of this.” He reached into his vest, pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment that he thrust toward you without hesitation.

You took the note, unfolding it with a quick snap of your fingers. The seal was unmistakable—Piltover. Your stomach churned as you scanned the words.

“In light of the escalating unrest within the Undercity, Piltover’s High Council has decided to implement a tax on all businesses operating in the lower sectors of Zaun. The tax will be enforced immediately. Failure to comply will result in fines, asset seizures, and the possibility of further punitive actions. Tax rates will be determined based on business size and output. Enforcers will begin inspections at once.”

“For fuck’s sake!” The words tore out of you, raw and jagged. You hadn’t meant for the rage to bubble over so violently, but once it started, there was no stopping it. The crumpled parchment landed on the ground with a dull thud as you hurled it, your chest heaving.

Your hands shot up, threading through your short-cropped hair, pulling lightly at the strands as if the pain might somehow ground you. You clenched your jaw, trying desperately to keep the flood of frustration from overwhelming you completely. But it wasn’t working. Every breath felt sharp, shallow, like it wasn’t enough to fill your lungs. The metallic hum of the tunnel around you—normally a distant comfort—felt suffocating, oppressive, as if the walls themselves were closing in.

Why does it feel like everything is falling apart?

Your thoughts spiraled, one after another, crashing like waves in a storm. The tax, the factory work, the constant surveillance, the dwindling resources—it was relentless. No matter how hard you worked, no matter how much you sacrificed, it was never enough. Zaun was slipping through your fingers, piece by piece.

Then you felt it—a tiny hand resting gently on your thigh. It was a touch so light, so soft, that it pulled you out of your storm like a lifeline.

You looked down to find Powder gazing up at you, her big, round eyes shimmering with concern. Her expression was earnest, her little brows slightly furrowed as if she could feel the weight pressing on you, even if she didn’t fully understand it.

“Min-Min,” she cooed, her voice soft, almost like a dove’s call. She stretched her arms up toward you, her small fingers opening and closing in that familiar ��grabby hands” motion. It was a plea for comfort, but it felt more like she was offering it.

Your heart cracked at the sight. The tightness in your chest, the pounding in your head—all of it eased, just a little, under her gaze. Powder had always had this uncanny ability to cut through the noise, to remind you of the parts of the world still worth fighting for. Still worth protecting.

You glanced at Felicia, who was now carefully unfolding the paper you had crumpled and tossed in frustration. She scanned the words, her lips moving slightly as she read them to herself. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as the weight of the decree sank in.

“Can they do this?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

“They’re Pilties,” you spat, the venom in your tone sharp enough to cut. “They think they can do whatever they damn well please.”

Felicia shook her head, slipping the paper into her pocket with a grim expression. “Nobody’s going to be happy about this. The businesses are barely hanging on as it is.”

You turned to the messenger, who shifted nervously under your gaze. “Who knows about this so far?”

The young man shrugged, his wiry frame taut with unease. “Notices are being sent out all over as we speak. Won’t be long before everyone hears.”

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, exhaling sharply. Your hand instinctively found Powder’s head, your fingers ruffling her messy blue-tinted strands. She babbled contentedly, oblivious to the tension simmering around her.

Your eyes stayed on Felicia and the messenger. “Alright. Time to play crowd control. Spread the word that I’ll be on the Promenade if anyone needs to talk. And tell folks that if anyone’s going hungry tonight, I’ll have a soup on by dusk. Empty bellies are welcome.”

You made a move to leave, already thinking ahead, but the messenger stepped forward, his words rushed and urgent. “There’s something else, ma’am.”

You froze, your stomach tightening. “What is it?”

“A barge,” he said quickly. “Big one. Seen docking from Stillwater.”

The mention of the prison made your heart leap into your throat, your mind racing to places you didn’t want it to go.

“Dropping off or receiving?” you asked, your voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through you.

“Not sure,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Didn’t get close enough to see.”

You clenched your jaw, nodding sharply. “One emergency at a time,” you muttered to yourself before addressing him again. “Keep me updated. The moment you hear anything more, you come find me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the messenger said, giving a quick nod.

Without wasting another second, you turned and headed off. There was no time to dwell on the possibilities—not with a city on the verge of uproar and lives that needed saving. Your boots echoed against the damp tunnel floor as you strode forward, determination hardening your expression. Zaun had always been a place of resilience, and no decree from Piltover—or mysterious barge from Stillwater—was going to change that.

***

“I’m not cut out for this, Benz,” you mumbled, sliding down the door until you were sitting on the floor, your head resting against the cool surface.

The weight of the night pressed down on you as you shut the door behind you, the muffled sounds of the city outside faded into the background, leaving only the quiet hum of the apartment. It was almost dawn, and exhaustion clung to you like a second skin. People had filtered in and out all night, seeking reassurance, venting frustrations, or just looking for a hot meal. Now, a kitchen full of dirty soup bowls and spoons awaited you, each one feeling like another hit to your dwindling energy.

Benzo, sprawled out on the worn couch, was mid-way through unbuttoning his shirt. The fabric hung loose around his frame as he glanced at you, his expression heavy with his own exhaustion. “I know, Fishie,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “But what are you going to do?”

You groaned, rubbing your hands over your face. “…Cry?” The word came out half-serious, half-desperate as you stumbled forward, collapsing onto the dusty carpet. The coffee table—your makeshift workshop—rattled slightly, its surface cluttered with dismantled trinkets and half-repaired pistols. You curled up on your side, feeling the sting of your aching muscles as they protested the movement.

Benzo let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back into the couch. “Nah, not you,” he said, glancing over at you with a faint grin breaking through his exhaustion. “You’re too damn stubborn for that.”

You let out a low groan, flipping over onto your back. The musty ceiling above you stared back, a blank canvas for your frayed thoughts. You didn’t even have the energy for a half-decent clap back. “Says you, asshole,” you muttered, your voice barely more than a grumble.

“Hey.” His tone shifted, drawing your attention. You lifted your head slightly to meet his eyes, finding his expression unexpectedly serious. “You’re doing just fine, Fishie. Honest. We’ve got this. The guys would be proud of you—of us.”

His words hung in the air, filling the silence that followed. You stared at him for a long moment before letting out a loud sigh, letting your head fall back against the floor. The ache in your body felt heavier, but his words planted something small—a flicker of hope you didn’t have the energy to acknowledge just yet.

Instead, you turned your gaze back to the ceiling, letting the stillness settle over you both. You didn’t respond, but Benzo didn’t push. The quiet understanding between you spoke louder than words ever could.

“You ever wonder,” you begin, your voice uncertain, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “What would’ve happened if we hadn’t met that day? Back in the trash pit?”

Benzo pauses, his hand instinctively digging into his pocket for a cigar. “Not really,” he says, voice casual as he fishes it out. “Why do you ask?”

You shrug, drawing your knees to your chest as you sit on the carpet. “I mean…it completely changed my life. I was a nobody, some Bilgewater rat fresh off the boat. And now…”

The soft click of his lighter cuts through the stillness as he lights the cigar, the faint glow flickering in the dim room. He takes a long drag, exhaling a ribbon of smoke that curls lazily into the air. The familiar scent fills the space, oddly comforting.

“You’re on our island of misfit toys. Closest thing our people have to a council.” His voice is steady, almost teasing, but there’s a weight behind it. He hums thoughtfully, the cigar bobbing slightly between his fingers. “You should be proud, Fishie. This revolution wouldn’t be the same without you.”

You frown, resting your chin on your knees. “I don’t know about that,” you murmur.

Benzo’s gaze sharpens as he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re the smartest out of all of us, Fishie,” he says firmly. “Even with my charm and Silco’s head for strategy. You think any of us have anything close to that engineering brain of yours?”

“I’m good with gears,” you reply, shrugging again. “But…I don’t think I’m supposed to be a leader. All this responsibility? Everyone relying on me, looking to me for answers…I don’t know how Vander and Silco do it. They make it look so…effortless.”

Benzo leans back again, taking another drag from his cigar. He watches the smoke swirl for a long moment, as if searching for the right words. Then, he reaches out, extending the cigar to you.

“Well then,” he hums, a small, reassuring smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I guess it’s a good thing you’ll always have one of us to help you along the way, right? We’re in this together, Min. I can promise you that much.”

You stare at the offered cigar for a moment before taking it, holding it delicately between your fingers. The warmth of the ember radiates against your skin, grounding you. You look at him, his steady presence like a lifeline in the chaos, and for the first time that night, you allow yourself to breathe.

“Thanks, Benz,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he nods anyway. It’s a quiet understanding, a bond that doesn’t need words to be felt. In this crumbling world, you weren’t alone. And for now, that was enough.

The apartment was silent, save for the faint crackle of Benzo’s cigar and the occasional groan of the pipes in the walls. The world outside was stirring—Zaun never really slept—but for a moment, here in this little bubble of exhaustion and cigarette smoke, everything felt still.

Benzo stretched out on the couch, head tipped back, his eyes half-closed as he murmured, “You’re gonna burn out that brain of yours, Fishie, if you don’t sleep soon.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” you replied automatically, the corner of your mouth twitching into a faint smirk.

“Don’t tempt fate,” he muttered, a hint of humor slipping into his voice.

Just as the quiet began to settle in again, a sharp knock echoed through the apartment. It wasn’t hesitant or unsure like the knocks you’d been getting all night—it was firm, deliberate, almost impatient.

Benzo glanced toward the door, his brow furrowing. “Someone’s got timing, I’ll give them that.”

You sighed, pushing yourself up from the floor with a groan. “It’s probably someone from the Promenade,” you said, brushing off the dust from your trousers. “Maybe they didn’t get the memo I’m done playing soup kitchen for the night.”

Benzo waved a lazy hand, settling deeper into the couch. “Your circus, your monkeys.”

You rolled your eyes and made your way to the door, rubbing at your tired eyes. “Alright, alright,” you called as you turned the latch. “I’m here, I’m here—”

The door swung open, and your words caught in your throat.

Standing in the doorway were two figures you thought you’d never see again, not outside of Stillwater’s cold, suffocating grip. Vander, towering and solid as ever, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorframe. And Silco, sharp and composed, his eyes glinting with that calculating gleam you’d never forgotten.

The world seemed to tilt for a moment, your mind struggling to process what you were seeing. They weren’t supposed to be here. They couldn’t be here.

“Minerva,” Silco said smoothly, his voice a razor’s edge of familiarity. His lips curved into a faint, sardonic smile as if he was amused by your stunned silence.

But it was Vander who drew your attention, his warm, familiar presence anchoring you to the moment. He stepped forward, just enough for the dim light of the apartment to catch the edges of his worn face. His gaze softened as it met yours, and he smiled down at you, that same reassuring, unshakable smile you’d longed to see for two years.

“Hello, Minnie,” he said, his voice rumbling low and steady like the earth itself. “Miss me?”

[evren-d]

EDIT: definitely turned into a massive rant about Vander's politics, I tried to not be petty and I failed, I can't fix it with another draft, he drives me nuts. In this unassigned essay I literally will...

Vander criticism incoming because I re-watched the Sevika rematch in the last drop and holy moly did he do Vi dirty (What his guardianship style meant for Powder, Mylo, and Claggor all deserve their own posts) and I can’t think about Vi’s struggles without thinking about VanderLand™. Not saying he didn’t do good, not saying he couldn’t have been worse, just that…:

Vander preached against fighting, but lived (comparatively) large off of his reputation for fighting AND through the exchange of a blind eye from the enforcers in return for keeping his own community under heel. Grayson saying, “I keep out of your business and you keep your people off of my streets” or whatever, suggest to me the passes that Vander has enjoyed in his interests over the years.

His thriving business, the life he projects, no fighting oppression, only bar-keeping, but we see him throw his reputation around as a favor to to his friends, like Huck and Babette. Would the undercity merchant/business owner class want your protection if they knew what was up? Maybe, Benzo was on board. What about the rest of the undercity that aren't enterprising? Silco saying, "Not JUST for the Lanes, but for the whole of the underground," is huge.

It pays to be Vander’s friend, but no one else could possibly realize the success that I think he pretends he did. The lifestyle he's trying to get Vi to subscribe to (VanderLand) doesn’t actually exist. Everyone is seeing that but him and Vi is boiling over in confusion and frustration and self-doubt and anger.

If any other kids had caused the damage in Piltover that made Marcus go all ham, their parents would not have had the luxury of negotiating with Grayson, and I honestly don't believe that Vander would have turned himself in to protect them. When Vander or Grayson die, the little pocket of safety that he's carved out for the lanes will be lost, this only benefits a select few for as long as Vander can pull it off.

Bless you Sevika for leaving him behind, my god. The way he claims all responsibility for the day of ash is honestly just insulting. If you hadn’t led them across that bridge, maybe someone else would have, my guy.

Look at the lengths Sevika and others go to to fight YOU so they can have another chance to fight the real enemy without you protecting your cushy life (and kids, yeah, yeah, but it’s still painfully short sighted. People had kids the first time around, some people in the bar calling to fight back with Sevika surely also have kids. That’s -why- they want to fight) all over the conversation. He talks to vi like he opened and closed the book on revolution - get out of the WAY OLD MAN.

To Vi he’s like, Yes, I live a better life for myself, my family, and my friends leveraging just the sheer -memory - of when I used to fight, but you can’t.

There's a difference between self-defense in dangerous streets and planning a heist to steal your way through life, but he seems to lump them together. Then in the same conversation telling her that fists aren’t the answer, he checked quality assurance checked that she kicked Deckard’s ass, because ultimately that is what he expects from her. Attacking the root cause of gangs like Deckard's is immature and selfish, but you better be a good enough fighter to beat the shit out of them on call. WHAT a moving target.

What I saw in Vi’s delirium in the bar in the Sevika rematch was Vander dissing her guard and telling her she has no choice but to keep fighting, that she’s needed, whether she’s wanted or not. And yeah, it’s not Vander that said that, it’s in Vi’s head, but it's reminiscent of things we did see him tell her as a teenager, that message of “you are the only hope that the people you love have, you're responsible for everything that happens when you interact with them, you're not allowed to not interact with them, in fact you must -lead- them. Also, you're stupid.”

For that to be what her brain cooks up for her mentor to say to her to stay conscious and in the game, the way that she accepts it with a huffed laugh and it actually HELPS HER is so gaahhhhhhh.

Fundamentally, (in the admittedly very little we saw in act I of uniquely stressful time,) I feel that he offloaded the effort and responsibility of mentoring, nourishing, and raising all four kids individually, to Vi. He literally made the others leave the room before giving the soft side of his lecture in the basement, then barked at, confiscated from, and threw stuff at the Mylo and Claggor on his way back upstairs. To expect Vi to take his guidance in, make sense of it (impossible), and redistribute it to the others is not cool, and that's why he makes me grump.

[mangohgeckoh]

Chemical Reaction (Chap 4)

"Day of Ash, Day of Water"

--

The bar fell silent when Ophelia trudged into the crowded establishment. Arms behind her back, she had used her shoulder to push the door open. Her clothes were stained with a mix of sand and blood, her eyes were irritated from her tears. Vander rushed to her, taking her shaking form in. “Oh, Oph,” he rushed behind her to see her hands restrained from enforcer handcuffs. Silco, who had been sitting at the bar, also sprinted towards her. His eyes were wide by the sight of distress she was in. A crowd slowly began to form consisting of the Last Drop’s regulars who had been worried about a fellow trencher.

Ophelia tried to form words but she could only let out dry sobs as she stared at the floor, guilty. “A-Allie,” She tried to speak. Vander froze. “The child?” He said from behind her, working the handcuffs off her sore wrists. Ophelia nodded frantically. “What has happened?” Silco spoke, concern stricken across his face. Now that her hands were free, she brought them to her face. “Dead.” … Silco took the cuffs from Vander who had been too surprised to say anything. The customers of the crowd exchanged worried looks. The children of Ophelia’s camp were well known around the Drop. It was one of the only safe places they could play. Silco’s blue-green eyes gave Vander a weak look. “Enforcers. This is Piltover handcuffs.” He said after examining the cuffs. Vander’s brows furrowed, anger taking over them. “She was a child.” Ophelia cried, throat burning with each word. “She only wanted to protect me.”

Silco watched Vander’s hands ball up into shaking fists.

“This ends today.”

-

A meeting was called to order. All of Vander’s patrons, who knew each other very well like a secondhand family, gathered in The Last Drop. Except no drinks were exchanged. Ophelia sat at one of the tables that lined the sides of the bar, Silco wrapping bandages around her wounds. “My fellow Zaunites,” Vander’s voice bellowed from the middle of the dimly lit room. Everyone Ophelia knew everyone that was present. Felicia, Anton, Benzo, Connol, everyone this side of the Undercity turned up and more. The bar had hit max capacity shortly after Vander’s speech started. “Today another one of our own has fallen,” Pain was present on his face but he pressed on. “Except this time it was a child that suffered from Topside’s cruelty.” He glanced over at Ophelia. Her yellow eyes were trained on the floor while Silco patched her up, he was listening intently. She was now a broken young woman, grief stricken. “How many more of our own will suffer? How many more of our children will face the same fate before we show Topside we are people too?” Aggravated whispers fell over the crowd. Vander was getting to them. “How many more murders from these enforcers will need to happen before we show Topside just how powerful we can be?” His voice had risen, rage overcoming him. Suddenly, he turned and stomped towards the bar. His large arm reached over the counter before he pulled two large crude-looking gauntlets out.

“It’s time we show these Pilties how loud we can be!” He roared after putting them on. The room fell quiet. For a moment the bar was filled with heated exchanges before a voice rose over everyone else's. “It is time,” Silco stood, unsheathing a blade from his miner’s coat. “It is time we show these bloated Topsiders who we are. What the children of Zaun can do.” With that, the crowd erupted into rage-driven cheers.

Zaun was ready.

Zaun was ready for war.

-

It started at the bridge connecting the Twin Cities, Piltover and Zaun. Two large groups gathered on each end. Armed enforcers formed a line, blocking the entrance to Piltover’s gate, the entrance to equality. Vander stood at the head of the mob, his people behind him, his arms disappearing under the sleeves of his gauntlets. He eyed the enforcers blocking their path. The foremost officer opposing Vander had a cocky attitude. “Tell your people to disarm and shove off. This doesn’t need to get ugly.” He threatened. Vander stared daggers into the man’s eyes. “The way I see it,” Vander looked over his shoulder, his greasy hair flowing in the dry wind, “Things are already ugly. You’re outnumbered, so you’ll be the ones shoving off.” He inhaled before spitting on the officer’s shoes.

The leading officer blew a whistle. Everything happened fast. Enforcers pushed their way into the crowd, mowing down anyone in their way with imposing metal shields. Ophelia watched as her own people were trampled into the concrete of the bridge. “Load up!” Anton crashed a box onto the ground behind her, she turned and saw a glimpse of molotov cocktails before they disappeared into the hands of enraged rioters. Surrounded by the crowd, her senses were buzzing, her adrenaline pumping.

Ophelia quickly scaled one of the bridge’s support cables. From her new perch she could see the riot unfold, molotov explosions boomed like fireworks across the bridge. Without thinking, she unsheathed three feathers from the plumage on her back. Her grip was so tight and the blades so sharp that they cut into her palm, but she was too focused on the battle below to care.

Nervous she'd hit one of the rioters, she flung the feathers towards the enforcers’ rear guard. Each one pierced the target’s armor, one slicing clean through the officer’s mask. She continued ripping and throwing her feathered blades until she began to bleed from her plucked plumage. Time slowed for her as she watched fire erupt across the bridge, the sound of shouting, fighting the sound of battle. Vander brutalizing an enforcer with his gauntlets, Silco throwing a molotov, Anton giving out Molotovs, Benzo and Dart helping an injured rioter away from the violence, Connol in a fist fight with an officer but his wife was nowhere to be seen.

She was brought back to the moment when she heard a familiar scream. Her head whipped around to see Felicia on the opposite side of the bridge, an enforcer slowly approaching her with a baton. She didn’t think when her legs started to move, focusing only on reaching her friend. Connol was quick to tackle Felicia’s attacker to the ground. Ophelia had almost reached Felicia when a bottle of liquid was tossed from her peripheral view. She froze as her friends were enveloped by flames. Ophelia’s ears were ringing as was thrown back by the blast.

The revolution had failed, it’s members consumed by rage as the riot grew increasingly violent and costly. Zaun would not gain it’s freedom today, Piltover again had shown their dominance over the Undercity. Smoke filled air and burned the lungs of those in the crowd not wearing a mask. Black clouds grew from the parts of the bridge in flames. The riot was starting to simmer down, enforcers now having the control on the crowd, but smoke still clogged the air around the bridge. Coughing, Ophelia moved as quickly as she could towards the exit she came from, trying to dodge corpses that scattered the ground.

Her eyes stung as tears fought their way out. ‘Dart’. Her best friend, the young woman helping run her orphanage, laid lifeless against the bloodstained concrete. Ophelia’s body trembled, her knees crashing on the ground next to Dart’s corpse. “No…” She sobbed, trying to shake her friend awake but to no avail. After a minute of crying over her friend’s body, the enforcer’s screams got louder and closer. Ophelia had to leave if she didn’t want to get arrested. With a heavy heart, she gently closed Dart’s eyes before standing.

Before fleeing, Ophelia stole a glimpse of the City of Progress. It had been unscathed from the riot thanks to the enforcers, the city’s towers glowed golden in the sunlight. Ophelia’s ears ticked at the sound of heavy boots beginning to push further onto the bridge forcing her to flee.

She pushed through the door of The Last Drop. It seemed to had been turned into a makeshift infirmary. The survivors that made their way back were being tended by those who stayed behind. Ophelia felt blood trickling down her face but she had other priorities, walking past volunteer medics. She saw two young girls sobbing in the corner of the room, Benzo was trying to calm them down. "Benzo…" Ophelia started, realizing who the two children were. Powder and Violet's bodies shook violently against Benzo's embrace. "Shhh," He hushed them. He looked up knowingly at Ophelia. "I know." He whispered. He had also seen their parents burn to death. Anger pricked the back of her neck. "Where is Vander?" Before Benzo could ask, the pink haired girl spoke up. "I saw him," Her voice shakey as she wiped her eyes.

"He went to River Pilt."

Embers lazily fell from the bridge, ash blanketed the ground like snow. Ophelia was following the set of footprints, it seemed Vander had been pursuing someone. Her heartrate quickened as she heard a voice. “You!” It was Vander’s. “I saw you throw it!” Her ears trained on the voices. “Don’t do that, I know you did it.” His gruff voice was shouting at someone until a shaking one spoke up. “I-I..I didn’t mean to-” Her ears perked when the other voice was interrupted by the sound of force. She listened in as her pace quickened, hoping to dissolve the situation. ‘Snarling’. ‘Grabbing.’ ‘Choking.’ “They are dead because of you!” Vander’s voice roared.

Ophelia found a clearing and saw her friend in the shallow of the lake under the bridge. “Vander! Stop!” Ophelia ran down the bluff overlooking the lake. He didn’t turn, body slumped to focus on the water beneath him. She halted to a stop when Silco was nowhere to be seen. Her ears honed in on the sound of bubbles erupting from the water where Vander’s arms were submerged.

Her heart sank. ‘Silco.’

In less than a second, Ophelia had run and pounced onto Vander’s back. Her talons sank into his shoulders as she threw weak punches against his head. “Stop! Please!” She begged, her cries echoing off the water. He didn’t relent and, from her position above him, she could see Silco’s silhouette under the water.

‘Drowning.’

Her pleas grew louder, fists beating against him. Suddenly, he screamed in pain when a knife struck him from the water. Ophelia lost her balance and fell off Vander into the water. Her face broke the surface, gasping for air. Despite the toxic filth of the water blurring her vision, she could see red spreading out across the surface. She looked for where the color was the deepest and dived in. Her eyes burned, like she had rubbed them with spice, but she had to persist, she had to find Silco.

There he was. His body was moving lethargically. He was fighting against the water. She’d never seen Silco as frightened as he was in that moment, drowning. She quickly grabbed his shirt and began to pull him to the surface. She struggled, the physical and mental fatigue from the riot, made her feel as if she was lifting a bag of bricks. Knowing he was losing consciousness, she mustered up every bit of her energy to yank him to the surface of the water, it was by sheer will that she managed to do it.

Clouds twisted above them, the sky just as garnet red as the blood flowing from Silco’s face. The feathers on her ear’s ruffled. “How could you!?” She screamed, as Vander faded into the smoke, fleeing. Her voice was coarse, her throat burned from the screaming. Silco’s body laid limp in the murky water, blood pooling around him. Her muscles burned as she dragged Silco ashore. With one final tug she pulled him out of the toxic water, laid on the bank of the river.

Ophelia toppled over in exhaustion, her palms disturbing the ash covered sand beneath them. Trying to remain calm, she scrambled back to her injured friend. Deep gashes had torn through the right side of his face, piercing his eye and continuing down his cheek. She choked on a sob, ripping a piece of fabric from her clothing, pressing it against his wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Everything happened too fast for her, but at least her friend was breathing. She cradled his head with her other hand, praying to Janna that he was going to make it. His shallow breaths were weak…

…but he was still alive.

[blood-starved-beast]

You know what would be really cool and a hit and thus something Riot will never do? Make an Arcane Encyclopedia/Guidebook.

Basically a book full of cool details and lore facts that didn't get into the show itself cause of time-constraints/never came up, or simply wasn't relevant but would be cool to know. You know, details such as how the Firelights worked/routes/day to day things, names of some of their prominent members besides Ekko and Scar, so forth. Same thing with Silco's faction, or heck Vander and Benzo's. Life in the lanes, some lore about the initial Day of Ash Revolution and such. We learn more about Felicia. Heck info on Viktor's family life or backstory. More details about Vi in prison or Jinx being raised by Silco. Sevika's backstory and what she did after s2ep4. Some lore on the Kirammans and their Ionian connections. You know, stuff that would really enhance the lore.

[inquisitorjeeves]

Thoughts on Arcane Season 2 Act 3

That last act started off pretty great, but to me slowly devolved into a rushed, kinda awful mess. Acts 1 and 2 were pretty good, and even Episode 7 was very solid, but holy hell that last episode was underwhelming.

Things I enjoyed:

Singed getting away with everything and even succeeding at his goal is honestly impressive. He’s a top 3 character for me, I have to respect his villainy paying off.

Ekko is one of the coolest characters in Arcane. The time travel device was cool as fuck and it sucks that it was destroyed by the end. Maybe he can remake it, if so, I hope he does.

The fact that the timeline where Vi dies and Jayce is either exiled or is also dead ends up feeling better than the main timeline is hilarious to me. Mylo and Claggor alive, Vander and Silco bury the hatchet, Benzo alive, Powder and Ekko are apparently a thing(?), Piltover and Zaun seem to have improved relations, everyone feels pretty stable and happy for the most part. Even that dipshit Marcus probably got to lead a better life. That’s funny in a sad way.

Sevika lived! I was expecting her to die, so I’ll take the win.

Despite the ending itself, I have to say the animation all the way to the end was top notch. Props the all the animators.

Isha was one of the best parts of season 2, seriously I’m so sad she died. Her sacrifice was one of the high points (well, low points, but you get the idea) of the entire season.

Ashes and Blood is my favorite new song from the season, and I’m glad they released a version of Enemy with the instrumentals of the opening added in.

Things that bothered me/I didn’t like:

Viktor being the mage that saved Jayce is a level of stupid up there with ‘Eren is the reason Eren gets titan powers’ for me. If the only reason you get powers is because of something you weren’t involved in that happened before you got those powers, then how did you get them the first time!!! It feels so unnecessary and convoluted. I feel like Viktor changing his mind at the end doesn’t even need that to be a thing, just seeing the end result of his ‘glorious evolution’ would probably be enough.

I can't believe that Ambessa was added to League of Legends only to completely fumble her goals in the show and die. Had a badass theme song and everything. Fucking loser.

Where did Jayce and Viktor even go??? Are they gone, trapped in a crystal, sent to the shadow realm???? What even happens if they can come back????? Can they come back???????

After everything that happened between Piltover and Zaun, even just in these two seasons, the resolution of the conflict felt underwhelming. That was a driving force behind most of the series, but in the last act feels like a footnote.

Other thoughts:

Maddie being a traitor was unexpected, at least to me. That isn’t a critique, and her death was one of my favorite death scenes ever. Says one liner, immediately killed by her own bullet. Peak comedy.

I’ve already seen people saying that Jinx could be alive. I hope it’s true since she’s far and away my favorite character in the entire show. Her spiral into suicidal depression and bounce back felt like it suffered the most from the rushed ending. If that was her on the airship, I’m glad that she left all the pain behind and gets to sail away into parts unknown.

Overall, I’m not interested in another League of Legends show, regardless of who it focuses on, because I’d rather not see an excellent first season then have to watch it stumble and break its face at the end. That is not appealing to me at all. Not even if Jinx, assuming she survived, is involved.

Also them saying ‘it was always planned to be 2 seasons’ only for the ending to feel like it does leads me to believe that anybody who says ‘it was planned like this/X was planned from the start’ is most likely talking out of their ass.

My opinions may shift with time, and who knows how I’ll feel even six months from now, but this is how I currently feel about everything.

[misfits-of-zaun]

"Okay, no, I'm not laughing. Not laughing. Are you okay? That must've hurt."((@F1shbonez))

Shit, was he just gonna keep getting jump-scared by this girl every time she showed up? This was the second time in a row now.

Eyes stinging with a blend of mortification and pain, Ekko gingerly sat up and pushed a stack of books off himself, rubbing at his head. Well, great, his startle reflex had taken out a whole-ass shelf. That was even worse than panic-chucking a random item at the wall; Benzo was going to kick him out of the shop on more mandated leave, at this rate, if he didn't pull his shit together.

Jin- Powder at least had the common sense to stifle her schadenfreude at the sight of his watering eyes.

"Okay, no, I'm not laughing. Not laughing. Are you okay? That must've hurt."

A caustic retort rose up in his throat on defensive reflex, only to turn to ash on his tongue at the jarring sight of genuine concern on her features. A second ticked by, and then another, drawing them steadily further into the acceptable response time window.

Say something, you idiot!

They're all gonna think you're crazy if you keep freaking out like this!

"...Well, I'm better off than the shelf," He managed to mutter out in the direction of the floor, before the pause took them into truly awkward territory. On autopilot, Ekko pushed himself back up to his feet, grimacing down at the mess he'd made, and tried to clean it up. His head was throbbing where he'd cracked it against the underside of the shelf.

"I just - didn't hear you come in."

Yeah, because it was perfectly normal to have such a strong panic response to someone you supposedly had been hanging out with almost every day for years sneaking up on you while you were distracted with work. Not weird at all. Ekko wanted to wince.

You are really blowing this right now - can you just act normal around this girl for five minutes?!

Considering how hard his heart was still hammering, his odds admittedly weren't looking great.

"What did you want?"

@f1shbonez

[carpejanel]

text || Ash

Janel: are you busy this weekend? I still need to come and see aspen! @benzo-ashv

[ao3feed-piltovers-finest]

Aetherium Echo

by Teal_Veil

Sweat trickled down Caitlyn’s neck, but she didn't care. Her hair, hidden beneath the hood of her cloak, clung to her skin. In any other setting, this would have been unacceptable. Her mother would insist on perfection—every hair in place, every piece of clothing immaculate. But here, in this moment, those rules didn't apply.

or

In Zaun, the metal band Aetherium Echo is making waves with their masked performances. The bassist, Novi Pulse, stands out, but their true identity remains hidden.

By day, Caitlyn Kiramman is part of an influential family in Piltover, dealing with all the pressures and expectations that come with that life. By night, she's breaking free and rocking out on stage as Novi Pulse. She's done a pretty good job of keeping her double life under wraps—until Vi comes into the picture.

Words: 5398, Chapters: 1/21, Language: English

Fandoms: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021), League of Legends

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F

Characters: Caitlyn (League of Legends), Vi (League of Legends), Jinx (League of Legends), Vander (League of Legends), Sevika (Arcane: League of Legends), Ekko (League of Legends), Mylo (Arcane: League of Legends), Claggor (Arcane: League of Legends), Cassandra Kiramman, Ashe (League of Legends), Benzo (Arcane: League of Legends), Mel Medarda, Jayce (League of Legends), Viktor (League of Legends)

Relationships: Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends)

Additional Tags: Modern AU, Alternate Universe, Friends to Lovers, Developing Relationship, Slow Burn, Fluff, Pining, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Eventual Smut, Caitlyn Needs a Hug (League of Legends), Vi is a secret sofite, Hurt/Comfort, Metal core, Metal band, Rock Star, Masks, MMA

Read on A03. from AO3 works tagged ‘Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends)’

[karlenal]

Ashley Benson and her mom, Shannon Benson spend a Mother Daughter Day together on Saturday Oct. 7th in LA

[carpe-nessa]

Nessa/Ash

Vanessa had taken the invitation from Ashley and quickly run with it, stopping to grab a little box of mixed donuts and muffins from a local bakery before making her way to her friends house. She got through the security and into the front door and thought about loudly announcing her arrival but thought against it, given the baby may have been sleeping. "Babe? It's Ness, I've arrived with yummies!" // @benzo-ashv

[makemycitybreak]

Thank u @nullheaven for the tag this was so much fun !! 🖤

M - Min Dag -- Död Mark

A - Amygdala -- Ecco2k & Bladee

K - King for a Day -- Pierce the Veil

E - Eclipse -- Pink Floyd

M - m.A.A.d City -- Kendrick Lamar

Y - You bury me -- Broder Daniel

C - Claws -- Charli XCX

I - i feel like a dog -- Meat Computer

T - The Flag is Raised -- Ecco2k & Bladee

Y - Yoshi City -- Yung Lean

B - Benzo -- Död Mark

R - Running Blind Transformer Remix -- t.A.T.u

E - Everything turns to ash - Varg²™

A - All I Wanted -- Paramore

K - Kimdracula -- Deftones

Tagging: @diamondsnforeigns @averagemitskifansthoughts & @cinnamongirl-222

[immortalbumblebee]

Chapter 25: Burnt Bullet Casings

Masterlist

They burned it all to the ground.

All of them. Gone.

The fire spread quickly in the dead of night, consuming everything in its path. Most were asleep, dreaming their final dreams, unaware that death had come for them cloaked in flames.

They must have followed Mikael back from the meeting. That was the only explanation. The only way they could have known where they—your parents, your family, your blood—lived. Along with an entire row of well-populated homes, packed with lives and memories.

Spikes of pain shot through your knees as you collapsed into the rubble of what had once been your childhood home. The jagged edges of charred wood and shattered glass dug into your skin, but you didn’t feel it. You were numb.

A piece of history—your history—was gone. The walls that once heard your laughter, the people who taught you love and resilience, the voices that comforted you in the dark. All of it, consumed and reduced to ash.

Gone.

You’d tried to find her. You clung to the desperate hope that she, the woman who had always defied the odds, could have escaped. She was a sea-faring, sword-wielding pirate of legend. Surely someone like her could outrun a fire.

But you found her.

Or what was left of her.

Two charred skeletons lay in the wreckage, their forms twisted and fused together. The blackened remains of a wheelchair rested beneath them, melted into the scorched earth. She must have gone to save him. Her closest friend, her confidant—best friends until the very end.

Your shaking hands reached out to touch the last piece of her, a scrap of floral fabric clinging stubbornly to the destruction. Her sleeping clothes. You remembered the pattern vividly. You had chosen it for her yourself, years ago, as a birthday present.

All that remained of your mother.

Your chest heaved with the weight of grief, and the world around you spun, distorted by tears that refused to fall. This wasn’t just a loss. This was annihilation.

Your throat cracks as you let out a piercing scream.

Behind you, Vander’s open sobbing broke through the crackling remains of the fire. It was a raw, unrelenting sound that carried the weight of a man who had already lost too much. You tried to look back, to anchor yourself in the presence of the others, but the tears blurred everything. All you could make out were three hazy figures standing at the edge of the ruins, barely visible through the smoke and your grief.

They hadn’t moved since you ran ahead, stumbling into the ashes the moment you arrived. Vander stood in the center, his massive frame buckling as though the sorrow were too much for even his strength to bear. He doubled over, clutching at the ground as if it might hold him steady, but his sobs only grew louder, more broken.

Silco and Benzo stood on either side of him, both too stunned to act. Silco’s jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the strain from where you knelt, but he didn’t step forward. His hands hung limply at his sides, trembling in a way you’d never seen before. Benzo’s usual spark was gone, replaced by wide, hollow eyes that stared into the wreckage as though refusing to accept what lay before him.

The silence between their sobs stretched unbearably thin, broken only by the faint whisper of the wind through the ashes. You couldn’t look at them for long. Their grief was a reflection of your own, and it threatened to crush what little strength you had left. Instead, you turned your gaze back to the scrap of floral fabric in your hands, clutching it as if it could somehow anchor you to the life you’d lost.

But even then, you knew—there was no going back. None of you would ever be the same again.

You partially stumbled, partially crawled your way back to the boys, the scrap of fabric still clutched tightly to your chest as though letting go of it would break you entirely. Your knees buckled more than once, and each time, you forced yourself up again, the weight of your grief dragging you down but never fully stopping you.

Benzo was the first to move. The shock etched across his face softened into something raw and pained as he stepped forward, closing the distance between you. Without a word, he knelt down and gathered you into his arms, pulling you close as though shielding you from the ruin around you. His embrace was warm, steady—an anchor in the chaos.

You collapsed into him, the dam finally breaking as heavy, guttural sobs racked your body. “They—” you tried to speak, but the words shattered in your throat, choked by grief too vast to articulate.

Benzo tightened his hold, his hand finding its way to your hair. “Shh,” he murmured softly, his voice trembling but determined. His fingers stroked through your hair with slow, rhythmic motions, as though trying to soothe a wound that couldn’t be healed. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

But breathing felt impossible. Every inhale dragged jagged edges of sorrow into your chest, cutting deeper with each attempt. Your mind replayed the scene over and over—the wreckage, the flames, the remains. You clung to Benzo like a lifeline, your hands gripping his coat, your face buried in his shoulder as you sobbed without end.

Behind him, Vander’s sobbing had quieted to a strangled kind of wheezing, as if the sheer force of his grief had left him without air. Silco stood rooted in place, his shoulders stiff, his eyes glinting with unshed tears. He wasn’t looking at the ruins anymore; he was watching Vander, his expression unreadable but devastatingly raw.

Benzo rocked you gently, his own breathing uneven as he whispered, “We’re going to get through this. I promise. We’ll make them pay. But right now… just let it out.”

His words were a lifeline, a small thread of something solid in a world that had crumbled around you. You clung to it, even as your sobs consumed you, drowning out the sound of everything else. Your sobs came in heavy, uneven bursts, wracking your body until it felt like you had nothing left inside but sorrow.

Behind you, Vander was slumped on his knees, his massive hands clutching fistfuls of his hair as his chest heaved with quiet sobs. The sound of his grief, raw and broken, was almost harder to bear than the silence that had preceded it. Peeling yourself away from Benzo, you fell back to your knees and wrapped your arms around the fallen man. The two of your shakings came together into one simultaneous source of unbelievable grief.

Silco hadn’t moved. He stood like a statue, his shoulders drawn so tightly they might snap, his trembling hands clenched into fists at his sides. His sharp eyes darted between the two of you and the smoldering ruins, as if searching for something—someone—to blame. His lips pressed into a thin line, the flicker of unshed tears betraying the fury brewing just beneath the surface.

“They didn’t deserve this,” Benzo croaks, wiping away his own tear-covered cheeks. “Nobody does.”

“How could they—“ your broken sobs cut you off again, and you twisted your face to bury yourself into Vander’s quivering shoulder. The words hung heavy in the air, each syllable vibrating with suppressed rage. When you finally managed to lift your head, the floral fabric still clenched in your trembling hands. “She—she tried to save him,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “They died together.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the faint crackle of dying embers and the occasional shifting of debris in the wind. Then, Vander stands. The hot tears are still flooding down his cheeks, and his whole body is shaking, but his eyes have a rage so…deep and fierce, it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Not in a riot, not in the pits. This is an entirely new anger, and quite frankly it scares you.

“Get everyone together and prepare civilians.” He commands. “We’re crossing that damned bridge.”

As your feet hit the pavement, the cool morning air bit at your cheeks, sharp and invigorating against your flushed skin. It was mid-spring, but the lingering chill made your breath visible in faint clouds as you panted, pushing yourself harder. The snippets of sky you could make out from such a lower level were painted in pale hues of dawn, streaks of pink and orange battling against the fading gray of night.

You leapt from rooftop to rooftop, the uneven terrain a familiar challenge beneath your boots. Each jump sent your heart racing, not from fear but from the sheer thrill of the motion—controlled chaos honed through years of practice. Your fingers found chimneys and radio antennae as you moved, gripping the cold metal and brick to steady yourself or pivot sharply around obstacles. Somehow, there was peace here. Angry tears still ran down your cheeks, but here, with your feet running under you…there was control, and thus, there was peace.

Once or twice, your foot caught the edge of a landing, your balance momentarily thrown off. You stumbled, arms pinwheeling for a fraction of a second, but instinct kicked in. Your body adjusted, muscles coiling and releasing with precision, and you pushed forward without hesitation.

Each step felt solid, each movement deliberate, a rhythm born of repetition and necessity. The rooftops were your domain, their precarious paths as familiar as the streets below to those who dared traverse them. The wind whipped at your face and tugged at your clothes, a constant reminder of the height and the stakes, but you didn’t slow. You couldn’t.

Ahead, the gap between buildings widened slightly, the next rooftop just a bit farther than you were used to. Your mind calculated the distance, your legs pumping harder to gain the momentum you needed. Without breaking stride, you surged forward, the edge of the roof disappearing beneath your feet as you launched yourself into the air, heart pounding in your ears.

You landed in front of an all-too-familiar apartment, your feet hitting the ledge with a muffled thud. Without missing a beat, you latched onto the side of the building and swung yourself down to a windowsill, gripping the frame to steady yourself. Inside, the warm glow of morning filtered through the glass, illuminating the scene of a family just settling in for breakfast. You raised your hand and knocked fervently on the pane, the sound sharp and insistent.

Heads snapped up in surprise, startled by the intrusion. Recognition quickly replaced confusion, and Violet, the six-year-old, bolted toward you with a delighted cry.

“Auntie Min!” she beamed, her bright eyes wide with excitement.

You managed a fleeting smile, reaching out to ruffle her hair as she reached the window. But your gaze didn’t linger on her—it locked on her parents. Violet wrestled with the latch, and a moment later, the window swung open. The rush of warm air from inside hit you, but it did little to ease the chill in your chest.

“I’m sorry to interrupt like this,” you panted, your breath hitching as you swiped hastily at the tear tracks on your face.

Connol was already on his feet, his tall frame tensing at your tone. Felicia froze mid-bite, her fork halfway to her mouth as she stared at you. Connol’s voice cut through the tense silence, low and steady, but tinged with concern.

“What’s happening out there?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “Sevika stopped by earlier, said there was some sort of fire.”

You choked back a sob, the lump in your throat threatening to swallow your words whole. But there was no time for this—not now. You clenched your fists, forcing yourself to focus, to speak.

“They’re gone…” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “Mikael, Mom, the whole damn block.”

Felicia’s fork slipped from her hand, clattering against her plate before it tumbled to the floor. The plate shattered on impact, the sound harsh and final, the eggs splattering in a messy heap. She stood there, stunned, her lips parted as though searching for words that refused to come. As she did, Violet ran back to her side.

“What?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

You nodded, your jaw tightening as you swallowed hard against the grief threatening to drown you. “We need to get the kids to the tunnel,” you said, the urgency in your voice overriding the quiver. “Now. Grab your gauntlets and whatever armor you’ve got. We’re crossing the bridge at noon.”

Connol blinked, the weight of your words settling over him like a lead blanket. Felicia, however, remained rooted to the spot, her shock giving way to disbelief.

“Wait, what?” she blurted, her voice sharp and trembling.

“There’s no time to explain,” you said, stepping into the room as if moving might make the situation feel more tangible. “We’re not safe here. None of us are. They’ll come this way next, and if we’re not ready…” You trailed off, shaking your head. “Please, just trust me.”

Felicia looked to Connol, her hands trembling as she reached for the counter to steady herself. Connol’s expression hardened, his jaw clenching as he nodded once. Without another word, he strode to the back room, where their gear was stored.

Felicia’s voice cracked as she spoke, her fear barely contained. “Are we… are you guys sure about this?”

You crouched down, meeting Violet’s wide, questioning eyes. The little girl clung to her mother’s leg, her breakfast forgotten, her small face full of confusion and worry. You managed a weak smile, smoothing her hair once more.

“Yeah,” you said firmly, though your voice wavered. “But only if we act now.”

“Min-Min…” Powder cooed sleepily, her small hand reaching out to you, her fingers brushing against the fabric of your coat. Her tired eyes blinked up at you, filled with trust and innocence that made your chest ache.

You crouched down beside her, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Hey, sweet pea,” you said softly, a flicker of warmth breaking through the storm raging inside you. Violet stood quietly by her side, clutching her mother’s hand, her gaze darting between you and the commotion around her.

Straightening, you stretched out your hands, feeling the air around you, the cool metal fragments stored in your satchel responding instantly. With swift, precise motions of your fingers, a series of lightweight metal sheets zipped into the air, shimmering faintly in the morning light. In a matter of seconds, the sheets disassembled into smaller parts, folding and snapping into makeshift chest plates, perfectly sized for the children.

You turned and knelt in front of Violet, pressing the plates into her small hands. “Do what your parents say and don’t argue, okay?” you said firmly, your tone leaving no room for debate.

Violet looked down at the plates in confusion, her brow furrowing. “What’s going on?” she asked, her voice trembling.

You hesitated, your heart twisting, but you shook your head. “Just… listen to your parents,” you repeated, your voice softer now. “They’ll keep you safe.”

You glanced back up at Felicia and Connol, your resolve hardening. “I’ll stop by the tunnel after I’ve collected everyone,” you said, your words quick but steady. “Vander and Benzo are already gathering at the bridge. Silco’s covering the upper levels. We’ve only got a couple of hours, maybe less.”

Connol nodded grimly, his face set like stone as he wrapped an arm protectively around Felicia, who was already busy helping Violet slip the plate over her small frame. Powder reached out for hers with a curious look, her sleepy haze fading as she watched you with wide, trusting eyes.

You stepped back toward the door, your hand lingering on the frame for a brief moment. “Be ready,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. With that, you slipped out into the morning light, the weight of what lay ahead pressing down on you. The sounds of the family behind you faded as you moved, replaced by the hum of your thoughts and the echo of distant footsteps.

A couple of hours later, the city was alive with a chaotic hum, its usual rhythm fractured by urgency and fear. The sun hung higher now, casting sharp angles of light that pierced through the haze lingering over the smoggy streets. Your legs burned from running, every muscle taut with exhaustion, but you didn’t slow. You’d spent the morning darting from one household to the next, gathering who you could, issuing hurried instructions, and fending off waves of questions you didn’t have time to answer. Now, as you sprinted toward the storage tunnel, the distant echoes of shouts and hurried footsteps followed you, a cacophony of people trying to prepare for the unimaginable.

The tunnel was alive with a quiet hum of activity, a stark contrast to the chaos above. This was where the vulnerable had gathered—the people you’d spent the last few hours running for. The makeshift shelter was lit dimly by lanterns, their warm glow flickering over the walls lined with storage crates and bags of supplies. Familiar faces filled the space, many of them etched with worry, some with exhaustion, but all clinging to a fragile sense of hope.

Babette and a few of the older men and women were tending to the children, their calm presence a lifeline for the little ones who didn’t fully understand what was happening. Vi and Powder sat close together, their plates of rations barely touched. Across from them, two boys—a bespectacled one with a thoughtful expression and a smaller one with spiked hair—played quietly with a makeshift game of stones and sticks. You recognized their faces but couldn’t quite recall their names.

The scent of something cooking wafted through the air, a soothing balm amidst the tension. A few of the older folks had gathered around a small camp stove, stirring pots of whatever rations could be spared. The simple aroma filled the tunnel like incense, grounding everyone in this shared, fragile moment of peace.

Your eyes scanned the room, finally landing on Skye. She stood near the far wall, deep in conversation with a pale, thin boy—Viktor. He held himself with a quiet intensity, his sharp eyes darting between her and the schematic she’d spread out on a crate.

You strode over, worry etched on your face. “Skye, my girl,” you exclaimed, your voice sharper than you intended. She looked up in surprise, and you tried to soften your tone, though the tremor in it betrayed you. “What are you doing here? You should be home across the river.”

As the words left your mouth, you couldn’t help but hear the echo of your mother in them—her firm, protective cadence slipping out of you unbidden. You swallowed hard, forcing the thought away.

But Skye only shook her head, a determined look in her eyes. “There was no way I was missing this,” she said, her voice steady. “I took the tunnel to make sure everyone was okay, you know, help out where I could.”

You couldn’t help but smile, a flicker of pride cutting through your worry. You reached out and squeezed her arm gently, the gesture as much for you as for her. “Your aunt would be so proud of you,” you said softly, your chest tightening as you thought of Mikael and the others.

Turning your attention to Viktor, you fixed him with a stern look, though there was no real bite behind it. “Look after her, okay?” you said, your voice firm.

He met your gaze, his lips quirking into a small, knowing smile. He nodded without a word, his quiet confidence easing some of your concern.

“Good,” you murmured, glancing back at Skye. “Stay here. Stay safe.” Then, with one last lingering look, you turned back to the others, steeling yourself for what lay ahead.

The bridge loomed just across the way, its towering framework cutting through the haze of the morning. You could already make out the growing crowds of Zaunites, gathered in tense clusters as the final moments ticked toward noon. Their voices rose in a low murmur, the sound carrying with it an undercurrent of fear, anger, and restless determination. You slowed for a moment, taking it all in, feeling the weight of it pressing down on your chest.

These people—friends, neighbors, strangers—were all here to fight. To risk their lives alongside yours. The enormity of it hit you like a blow, and you had to steel yourself, drawing in a shaky breath.

Was this the right thing to do? The question gnawed at the edges of your mind, that familiar tug of anxiety creeping in. This wasn’t just a scuffle. It wasn’t a stand to scare off some meddling Enforcers. This was life or death. People were going to die today. You could already imagine the river running red, the blood of Enforcers and Zaunites mingling in the murky depths.

The thought made your knees falter, just for a second. But then your mind dragged you back—to the ashes, to the smoldering remains of your home, to the charred wheelchair with the two bodies strewn over it. There wasn’t even anything left to bury. And even if there were, Zaun didn’t have graves, didn’t have a cemetery to mourn its dead. You’d have to dump them into the river like trash, like their lives hadn’t mattered.

That thought ignited something in you, a fire that burned hotter than your doubt. No. Their lives did matter. And if you had to spill blood to prove that, then so be it.

Your resolve hardened, and without another thought, you broke into a sprint. The bridge grew closer with every pounding step, the roar of your heartbeat in your ears drowning out everything else. This was your fight, your family’s fight, and you wouldn’t let fear stop you now.

Pushing your way through the crowd, you kept your eyes scanning for your guys. The mass of Zaunites surged with restless energy—miners clutching their gauntlets, tinkerers with hastily strapped-together armor, and others wielding whatever they could scrounge: pipes, crowbars, old rifles. The tension was electric, the air thick with the hum of whispered strategies and nervous chatter.

Then you spotted them, of course, at the front. Vander, Benzo, and Silco stood in a tight group, speaking with others, handing out last-minute instructions, and adjusting their gear. They moved with purpose, their presence a grounding force amidst the chaos.

Silco locked eyes with you first, his sharp gaze cutting through the crowd. He lifted a hand, gesturing you forward, and as you approached, he tilted his head toward the far end of the bridge.

You followed his line of sight and saw them—the Enforcers. A small battalion stood gathered just beyond the chain-link fence that had been erected long ago to keep Zaun in its place. Their polished armor gleamed even in the muted light, their weapons at the ready, their posture rigid.

“They called in reinforcements,” Silco said, his voice low and steady as you reached him. “Probably another swarm waiting at the other end, ready to move if we break through here.”

You nodded, your jaw tightening. “So we’ve got a challenge,” you said, your tone even, though your pulse quickened.

His lips twitched into a small, grim smile. “We always do.”

Vander turned at the sound of your voice, his broad shoulders tense but his expression softening slightly when he saw you. “You ready?” he asked, though the question felt more rhetorical than anything.

“More than ready,” you replied, your hand instinctively going to the daggers strapped to your sides. You glanced back at the crowd, then to the fence, then finally to your friends.

Vander’s gaze flickered between the two guys and you before settling fully on you, his eyes soft yet intense. With a tilt of his head, he motioned for you to step aside with him. Without a word, you followed, moving just out of earshot of the others.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice low, carrying the weight of unspoken fears. His eyes locked onto yours, so deeply it felt like he was peering into your very soul. “You know I love fighting by your side, but if I lose you out there—” He stopped, his words faltering as he looked down, shuffling his feet. His hands balled into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. “I just need to hear that you’re sure. In this. 100%.”

You paused, his worry echoing in the pit of your stomach. But then you stepped forward, reaching for his arm. His gauntlets were already strapped on, the polished metal gleaming, but you couldn’t resist tinkering with them. Your hands moved automatically, adjusting bolts, reinforcing weak points. A few scraps of nearby cast iron flew to your fingertips, and you molded them into plates, fastening them over the knuckles with practiced ease.

“You know what I’ve learned about metal?” you said, not looking up from your work. “Everyone thinks it’s strong, unyielding, immovable. But the truth is…” You tightened the buckle around his forearm. “It’s incredibly malleable. You just have to know how to reshape it.” Finally, you met his gaze, your voice steady and unwavering. “It’s time we show these bastards they’re not immovable. They’ve taken everything from us. It’s time we prove they’re breakable.”

A slow smile spread across his face, one that carried both pride and pain. Then, without warning, he lifted his heavy, gauntlet-clad arm and wrapped it around you, pulling you close. His lips met yours, the kiss long and deep, filled with every unspoken emotion between you—grief, fear, determination, and a love that neither of you dared to fully voice.

When you pulled away, your foreheads rested against each other, breaths mingling in the tense air. His blue-gray eyes softened even further as he murmured, “Minnie?”

“Yeah?” you whispered, your heart pounding.

“I love—” he started, but you pressed your hand gently against his lips, shaking your head.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “Don’t do that, Vander. Not now. Tell me later. After we win this thing… okay?”

A low, genuine laugh rumbled from his chest, the sound so rare and so beautiful after the hell of this day that it made your heart ache. “Looking forward to watching you kick ass out there,” he said, his smirk returning as he brushed a strand of hair from your face.

You grinned, leaning up to press a quicker, playful kiss to his lips. “Right back at you, Handsome,” you teased, stepping back toward the crowd, ready for what came next.

Ripping the dagger from the Enforcer’s ribcage brought with it a grimly satisfying squelch, the blade reluctant to part from its victim. The man crumpled to the ground in a heap, his helmet bouncing once on the bridge’s metallic surface with a hollow clang before rolling into the haze. At some point during the chaos, the Enforcers had deployed a barrage of smoke bombs, flooding the bridge with thick, suffocating clouds of gray. The setting sun cast a crimson glow over the Bay Area, its bloody hues mirroring the carnage below.

Pain flared in your knee—a sharp, persistent throb from a graze you’d taken earlier. The bullet had barely kissed the surface, but the damage was enough to leave you limping. Still, you refused to slow down. Your bloodied hands gripped the hilt of your dagger like a lifeline, your movements swift and calculated as you darted from one victim to the next. The metallic tang of blood clung to the air, mingling with the acrid stench of smoke, and your every breath fed the wildfire burning within you.

Your mind had been lost to the frenzy long ago. There was no thought now, no strategy—only instinct, only survival, only the burning need to punish. Adrenaline surged through your veins, sharpening your senses as your body moved on autopilot, propelled by sheer rage and momentum. You were a blur of vengeance, a specter in the fog.

But even in the chaos, one gnawing thought refused to be silenced. You’d lost them.

The boys.

Somewhere along the way, in the endless storm of violence and smoke, you’d lost sight of them. Your heart pounded for more than just the fight now—an icy thread of dread wove itself into your adrenaline. You scanned the hazy battlefield, desperate for a glimpse of their faces, a sign that they were still alive, still fighting. But the fog was too thick, the bridge too vast, and every second spent searching was a second you couldn’t afford.

A shadow lunged at you through the mist, and you reacted without thinking, your blade meeting flesh before the figure had a chance to strike. Another enemy down. Another delay.

“Where are they?” you hissed under your breath, your voice drowned out by the chaos.

The bridge creaked beneath your feet as you steadied yourself, wiping the blood from your brow with a trembling hand. You eyes scanned your surroundings as you darted forward, silently praying to find one of them any of them.

Please don’t be dead.

Eventually, through the suffocating haze, a familiar silhouette emerged—Silco. Relief washed over you like a breaking wave, momentarily dousing the fire of fear and exhaustion in your chest. You staggered toward him, calling out his name, your voice hoarse from the smoke and strain. But he didn’t respond.

His focus was fixed elsewhere, his frame unnervingly still.

It wasn’t something he was looking at. It was someone.

Your steps faltered as you drew closer, a creeping dread prickling at the edges of your mind. When your eyes followed his line of sight, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Felicia’s distinctive hair, vivid even in death, splayed out against the bloodied ground like a broken halo. And Connol’s lifeless eyes stared skyward, empty and unblinking.

Your breath hitched. The sight of them—people you’d fought beside, people you knew—hit you like a bolt of lightning. Grief coursed through you, sharp and unrelenting, shocking your system and stealing the air from your lungs.

“No…” The word fell from your lips, barely audible as you closed the distance between you and Silco, your knees threatening to buckle beneath the weight of the moment. You reached for him, grabbing his arm with bloodied fingers, trying to snap him out of whatever trance he’d fallen into.

“Come on,” you urged, your voice trembling but firm. “We can’t stay out in the open like this.”

But he didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch. His gaze stayed locked on the bodies, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, hollow, almost unrecognizable.

“This isn’t what I wanted to happen…”

His words hung in the air, heavy and cold, as if they could somehow stop time itself.

You tightened your grip on his arm, shaking it slightly, your desperation mounting. “Silco, please. We have to go. Now.”

Still, he lingered, his expression a mixture of shock and something deeper—something raw and wounded. It was as if the world had shrunk to just the three of them: Silco, Felicia, and Connol. And you, no matter how desperately you tried, couldn’t pull him out of it.

“This isn’t how I thought things would go.” He croaks out, almost a whimper.

“They knew the potential cost,” You explain, desperately. There’s a time and place for mourning, and you’re clearly pushing thoughts and feelings down right now, but the need to save your friend keeps you going. “Now let’s go!!”

“Not here…” Silco murmured, his voice breaking through the chaos, raw and trembling. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “This wasn’t the plan! None of this was supposed to happen!”

“Silco!” you exclaimed, panic sharpening your tone as you grabbed for him again. “This isn’t your fault! And we’re sitting ducks here! We need to move—”

But he wrenched his arm away from your grasp, spinning toward you with a fire in his eyes that nearly made you recoil. “Don’t you see, Minerva? This is my fault! All of it. Their deaths, this battle, the fire—”

“The fire was lit by the Enforcers, Silco!” you shot back, your voice rising, desperate to cut through the storm building in his head. “You know that! This—this wasn’t your doing!”

His shoulders sagged slightly, but there was no relief in his posture. His chest heaved, his breath shallow and uneven, and when he looked at you, it wasn’t anger anymore. It was something far worse. There was a silent plea in his eyes, a vulnerability so rare and so foreign that it froze you in place.

Despite the smoke swirling thickly around you, obscuring the bridge and the carnage, his expression brought clarity, cutting through the haze like a blade.

And then he spoke again, softly, so softly it barely reached you over the din of the battlefield.

“Unless you mean the first fire…”

The words hung between you, heavy and damning, like the strike of a bell tolling doom.

Your heart stuttered, your breath catching as the implications hit you like a physical blow. “Silco…” The name fell from your lips, no more than a whisper. You took a hesitant step back, your mind racing to put the pieces together, your voice trembling with disbelief. “You didn’t…”

He didn’t answer.

His silence was louder than any confession.

The ground beneath you seemed to shift, unsteady, as though the weight of his unspoken words threatened to break it apart. The world narrowed to just the two of you, the distant sounds of battle fading into a dull roar as you stared at him, searching his face for some shred of denial, for anything to prove you wrong.

But there was nothing. Only the unyielding truth reflected in his eyes.

“Silco,” you choked out, your voice breaking, “tell me you didn’t.”

Still, he remained silent. And the smoke swirled around you both, thick and suffocating, as the fire burned on.

The bridge trembled under the weight of approaching boots, but it wasn’t the Enforcers who appeared first—it was Vander.

His massive frame emerged from the smoke like a storm given form, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles shone white even in the fading light. His eyes burned with fury, zeroing in on Silco with laser focus. He must have heard. Every word.

“You,” Vander growled, his voice a deep rumble that made your stomach drop. “You started this.”

“Vander, wait—” you began, stepping forward, but it was too late.

He charged.

Like a freight train, Vander’s heavy boots thundered across the bridge as he closed the distance between them. Silco barely had time to turn before Vander collided with him, grabbing him by the collar and lifting him clear off the ground.

“You lit the fire!” Vander roared, shaking Silco like a ragdoll. “You brought this hell down on all of us!”

Silco struggled, his hands grasping at Vander’s iron grip, but his voice cut sharp through the tension. “And you left me to rot!” he spat, venom dripping from his words even as his feet dangled above the ground. “Don’t you dare pretend your hands are clean!”

“Stop it!” you shouted, lunging forward to grab Vander’s arm. You pulled with all your might, but he barely budged. “This isn’t the time for this!”

“Stay out of this, Minerva!” Vander barked, his eyes never leaving Silco’s. “He knew! He let them die!”

“And we’ll all die if you keep this up!” you snapped, planting yourself between them as best you could. “The Enforcers are coming! You think they’ll wait for you two to settle your score?”

As if on cue, the sound of boots and shouted orders rose over the chaos. A battalion of Enforcers appeared from the smoke, rifles raised, their figures backlit by the flames consuming the city behind them.

Silco’s feet hit the ground as Vander dropped him, the need for survival momentarily overriding his rage. Without a word, both men turned toward the incoming threat, their shared fury redirected at a common enemy.

“Stay close!” Vander barked at you, stepping forward as the first shots rang out.

You moved instinctively, ducking low as a hail of bullets whizzed past, ricocheting off the metal bridge. Silco, always quicker on his feet, darted to the side, his blade flashing as he closed the gap between himself and the nearest Enforcer.

The fight was immediate and brutal.

Vander tore through their ranks like a wrecking ball, his fists meeting helmets with bone-crushing force. Every swing was heavy, deliberate, leaving bodies crumpled in his wake. Silco was more precise, weaving through the chaos like a shadow, his dagger finding weak points in armor and flesh.

You followed, moving in tandem with them, your own blade finding its mark as you danced between attackers. The three of you moved like cogs in a machine, instinct and desperation driving you forward as the bridge became a battleground once more.

But even in the chaos, the tension between Vander and Silco simmered, threatening to boil over. You caught glimpses of it in their movements—in the way Vander’s blows were harsher than necessary, as if still fueled by his anger, and in Silco’s sharp, calculated strikes, each one a reminder of his own resentment. Until, just as the crowd began to thin, Silco was gone. “Silco!” Vander roared, his voice tearing through the chaos like a thunderclap, echoing across the bridge. It wasn’t just a name—it was a battle cry, filled with fury and anguish so raw it cut through the smoke and carnage.

But Silco was gone.

Whether he had fled into the haze or been swallowed by the tide of Enforcers, you couldn’t tell. You didn’t have the luxury to wonder. The Enforcers were everywhere now, pouring in from both ends of the bridge like a tide of steel and smoke.

There was no time to think. No time to mourn. Only time to fight.

You ducked as a baton swung toward your head, the rush of air sharp against your ear. Pivoting on your injured knee, you drove your blade upward, catching the Enforcer beneath his chin where his helmet didn’t protect him. He crumpled with a gurgle, and you barely had time to yank your dagger free before another came at you.

This one was quicker, his movements calculated, his rifle swinging toward you. You sidestepped just in time, slamming your shoulder into him and throwing him off balance. His weapon clattered to the ground, and you drove your elbow into his throat before finishing him with a swift, clean slash.

Blow after blow, you moved through the chaos, a whirlwind of blood and steel. Pain radiated from your knee, but you pushed through it, the adrenaline dulling the worst of it. The metallic stench of blood mingled with the acrid smoke in the air, and every breath burned your lungs.

Vander was a force of nature beside you, his massive fists smashing through armor and bone alike. He roared as he fought, a towering inferno of rage and power. One Enforcer tried to grapple him, but Vander grabbed the man by the chest plate and hurled him into two others like they were nothing more than dolls.

“More incoming!” you shouted, your voice hoarse as you parried a blade aimed at your side.

“Let them come!” Vander bellowed, grabbing a metal pipe from the ground and swinging it like a club. The sound of it connecting with an Enforcer’s helmet was sickening, and the soldier dropped like a stone.

The Enforcers didn’t relent. They swarmed like locusts, their numbers seemingly endless, and every time you thought you’d carved out a moment’s peace, another wave surged forward.

One soldier got too close, slamming the butt of his rifle into your ribs. Pain flared as you stumbled, gasping, but you refused to fall. You turned the momentum into a spin, slashing low and slicing through the back of his knee. He cried out, collapsing, and you ended him with a thrust to the chest.

“Minerva, stay on your feet!” Vander barked, his voice cutting through the cacophony.

You glanced at him, sweat and blood streaking his face, his eyes wild with the need to protect. But he couldn’t shield you from everything—not here.

The two of you fought back to back now, a unit forged in desperation. You could feel the weight of his movements behind you, hear the crunch of bone under his strikes.

Another Enforcer came at you, but this time you were ready. You ducked low, slashing his Achilles tendon, and he fell with a scream. A boot to his face silenced him.

“We’re being overrun!” you shouted, glancing toward Vander.

But before he could respond, an explosion ripped through the air, shaking the bridge beneath your feet. Smoke and fire erupted from the far end, throwing friend and foe alike into chaos. The bridge groaned ominously, its metal frame straining under the onslaught.

“Fall back!” Vander shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. He grabbed your arm, hauling you to your feet as the Enforcers regrouped for another push.

“We’ll never make it across!” you shouted, your voice barely audible over the din.

“Then we fight!” he growled, releasing your arm and charging headlong into the fray once more, his war cry ringing out like a bell of defiance.

And so you fought, side by side, as the bridge became a battleground, a place where survival was the only victory that mattered.

When the last Enforcer fell with a guttural cry, he crumpled to the blood-soaked bridge. The clash of mining gauntlets and the deafening roar of gunfire faded into an eerie silence, broken only by the distant crackle of flames and the groaning of the bridge beneath its grim burden.

You stood amidst the carnage, chest heaving, your dagger trembling in your blood-slicked hand. The haze of smoke was thinner now, allowing the crimson light of the setting sun to bathe the scene, illuminating the broken bodies scattered around you.

Vander was beside you, his massive shoulders rising and falling with each ragged breath. His pipe hung limply in one hand, streaked with blood and dented from the ferocity of his strikes. Sweat dripped down his face, mingling with the cuts and bruises that marred his skin.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. There was nothing to say, no words that could give meaning to the slaughter around you. The adrenaline that had carried you through the fight was ebbing now, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache in your muscles and the sharp sting of every injury you’d ignored.

Then, more footsteps. You both whipped your head around, expecting more Enforcers, but…

There was Violet, with little baby Powder at her side.

Their wide eyes, shimmering with tears, were filled with terror and confusion. The smoke and blood around them seemed far too heavy for children to bear, and yet they stood there, frozen, their small forms trembling in the aftermath of the carnage.

Their fear hit you like a wave, crashing against the fragile wall you’d built to keep the horrors of the day at bay. Your chest tightened as their gaze shifted between you and Vander, silently searching for an answer, for reassurance that everything would be okay.

But their parents…

Oh god. The thought struck you like a blade, twisting deep in your heart. Felicia’s hair, Connol’s eyes—lifeless now. The memory of their crumpled bodies surged back, vivid and merciless.

As if sensing your hesitation, Violet took a hesitant step forward, her small hand gripping Powder’s shoulder protectively. She opened her mouth, but no words came out, just a choked sound that made your stomach twist. Her eyes darted between you and Vander, pleading silently, the question clear.

“Where are they?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision, and you felt them spill over before you could stop them. Your throat constricted as the weight of what you’d have to say—or worse, what you couldn’t say—threatened to crush you entirely.

For a moment, he just looked at them, his gaze softening ever so slightly. Then, with a subtle tilt of his chin, he gestured toward Felicia and Connol’s bodies, still lying in the haze behind you.

Violet’s face crumpled, her brave facade shattering in an instant. Powder’s grip on her sister tightened as she buried her face against Violet’s side, her tiny shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“No,” Violet whispered, shaking her head, her voice cracking. “No, no, no…”

You turned away, unable to watch as the realization dawned on them. The pain in their cries cut deeper than any blade. Your hand pressed to your mouth, trying to stifle the sob threatening to escape, but it was no use.

Vander didn’t speak. He didn’t try to comfort them with lies or empty promises. He simply stood there, a solid, steady presence as the two girls clung to each other, their grief echoing through the smoke-filled air.

It was you who spoke next, your voice muffled and trembling as she looked up at Vander with tear-streaked cheeks. “What… what do we do now?”

Vander’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. For a moment, he didn’t answer, and you saw the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders like a physical burden. Then, with a sounding ‘thud’, his gauntlets fell to the ground, chipping the bridge in the process with their weight.

“We take care of each other,” he said finally, his voice steady but low. “That’s what we do.”

That’s all folks!

The idea that this story is done after nearly three goddamn years…terrifying! Thank you all so much for sticking around this long, it really means the world to me that people out there actually care about my writing. So thank you everyone, especially those of you who have helped me with this process *cough cough @conretewings cough cough*.

And thank you to all who comment and reblog. Yall are the reason I do this.

There will be a sequel in the works, so stick around for more fun in the future and Happy New Year everyone!!

[fatherson-showdown]

I POSTED THIS TO THE WRONG FUCKING BLOG neways heres the contestants list. decided to stick with a "one duo per fandom" rule for this but i didnt have enough so i ended up adding two criminal minds submissions

ill reblog this with the list of matchups once i finish randomizing them all

extremely long post warning eloel (please tell me if i got the father-son order wrong i dont know like half of these people)

The Spy and The Scout/Jeremy (Team Fortress 2)

Pigsy and MK (Lego Monkie Kid)

Dr. Eggman and Metal Sonic (Sonic franchise)

Darius Deamonne and Hunter (The Owl House)

Kohachi Inugami and Kabane Kusaka (Kemono Jihen)

Hueso and Leo (Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles)

Bowser and Bowser Jr. (Mario franchise)

Lord Garmadon and Lloyd Garmadon (Ninjago)

Brom and Eragon (The Inheritance Cycle)

Prince Robot IV and Squire (Saga)

Alfred Pennyworth and Bruce Wayne (Batman franchise)

Dustfinger and Farid (Inkheart trilogy)

Victor Frankenstein and his Monster (Frankenstein)

Domingo Montoya and Inigo Montoya (The Princess Bride)

Silas and Bod Owens (The Graveyard Book)

John Reckless and Jacob Reckless (Mirrorworld)

Conrad Grayson and Daniel Grayson (Revenge)

Denver and Moscow (La Casa de Papel)

Atticus Finch and Jem Finch (To Kill a Mockingbird)

Dunstan Thorn and Tristran Thorn (Stardust)

Phil Dunphy and Luke Dunphy (Modern Family)

Link and Scout (Grey's Anatomy)

Tony DiNozzo Sr. and Tony DiNozzo Jr. (NCIS)

Jason Gideon and Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds)

Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker (Star Wars franchise)

Morland Holmes and Sherlock Holmes (Elementary)

Wednesday and Shadow Moon (American God)

The Cigarette Smoking Man and Fox Mulder (The X-Files)

Leto Atreides and Paul Atreides (Dune)

Mufasa and Simba (The Lion King)

Baloo and Mowgli (The Jungle Book)

Aslan and Peter (The Chronicles of Narnia)

John Parry and Will Parry (His Dark Materials)

Anansi and Charlie (Anansi Boys)

General Tilney and Henry Tilney (Northanger Abbey)

Arthur Pendragon and Mordred (Arthuriana)

Denethor and Faramir (Lord of the Rings)

Gepetto and Pinocchio (Pinocchio)

Heathcliff and Linton Heathcliff (Wuthering Heights)

Marlin and Nemo (Finding Nemo)

Brás' father and Brás de Oliva Domingos (Daytripper)

Kratos and Atreus (God of War)

Gregory Edgeworth and Miles Edgeworth (Ace Attorney)

Goofy and Max (A Goofy Movie)

Son Goku and Son Gohan (Dragon Ball)

Greg Universe and Steven Universe (Steven Universe)

Mr. Ping and Po (Kung Fu Panda)

Stoick the Vast and Hiccup (How to Train your Dragon)

Kumatetsu and Kyūta (The Boy and the Beast)

Aku Aku and Crash Bandicoot (Crash Bandicoot)

Lawrence Fletcher and Phineas Flynn and Ferb Fletcher (Phineas and Ferb)

Professor Kukui and Ash Ketchum (Pokemon)

William Afton and Michael Afton (Five Nights at Freddy's)

Lucifer and Satan (Obey Me!)

Ozai and Zuko (Avatar: The Last Airbender)

Benzo and Ekko (Arcane)

Dad Egbert and John Egbert (Homestuck)

Lord Death and Death the Kid (Soul Eater)

George and Lance and Bow (She-ra and the Princesses of Power)

Jake the Dog and Kim Kal Whan (Adventure Time)

Henry Fisher and Sal Fisher (Sallyface)

Asgore Dreemurr and Asriel Dreemurr (Undertale)

Gomez Addams and Pugsley Addams (The Addams Family franchise)

Will LaMontagne and Henry (Criminal Minds)