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lullabyes22-blog · 28 days ago

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Snippet - Girl Talk - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Vi and Sevika: Unlikely Bffs

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

"Transcending survival," it sounds like a direct quote, "and achieving sovereignty."

Vi lets off a low whistle.

"Sovereignty," she repeats. "That's a big fucking word."

"Yeah, well."

The sigh rides a languid plume of smoke. Satisfaction, Vi thinks. But also fatigue. Whatever toll Silco's absence exerted seems nothing compared to the one his return's exacted.

Strangely, Vi recognizes the feeling. With her romance with Caitlyn rekindled, it is impossible to feel contentment: apart or in proximity. Closeness only opens the floodgates for more want. More worries. More risks to lose what's been regained.

Then she thinks of the kiss she and Caitlyn shared inside the café: warm, safe, solid. Of the longing that preceded it; and the closure that followed. Since then, the bedrock certainty has stayed beneath Vi's feet even as reality spins its dizzying wheels.

Yet, here is a fellow Fissurewoman stuck in a quagmire. Loyal to her last breath, and lonelier for it.

"And that's all there is?" Vi takes the plunge. "What about… y’know? You and him?"

Dark eyes lock on Vi. "Where're you going with this?"

"Nowhere. Just... seems like there's been a falling out."

"And if there was?"

"I'd say 'tough shit,' and move on. Not my circus; not my monkeys. Unless they're living right next door." Vi gestures: at the ebbing signs of festivity around the dockside. At the promise Progress Day offers, for Piltover and Zaun both. "You've kept me in the loop for a year. The least I can do is lend an ear if something's up."

"Thought we weren't doing debts."

"This isn't about debts."

"Then what's it about?"

"Honesty. Or have you spent so long in Silco's shadow, you've forgotten how to be real?"

Sevika says nothing. Her footsteps eat the cobblestones; her drags devour the cheroot. Her profile stays inscrutable. If she's contemplating socking Vi in the jaw, or contemplating other matters entirely, she doesn't let on. That'd be tantamount to losing face.

Vi is, whatever else, half a Topsider.

Half a Topsider—but she's snitched not a damn thing that could be held against Zaun. Nothing to pad the Council's dossiers: no dirt on Silco's business dealings. Jinx's name had been kept exempt entirely. Silco had expected—hell, encouraged—her to spin tales and secure her safety. He knew each song would come with privileges: sweeten deals; polish connections; bolster clout.

If she'd played it right, she'd have been the Council's pet canary, crooning into a platinum-plated microphone.

Vi kept her lips zipped.

Six months at Silco's side, and she'd done squat to capitalize on the ordeal. Nor will she. Whatever beefs exist, they are private property. Silco may have jettisoned her, Vi may hate him, their mutual grudges may stretch for leagues. And yet there was a bargain struck between them—Silco and Vi—the night the Void encroached on their home.

They'd become fellow survivors in an unholy alliance that no outsider could understand.

Now Vi's silence is the silence of the Fissures: inviolate. She'll carry it till her deathbed.

Maybe Sevika recognizes that.

She doesn't soften, exactly. But her words, when they come, don't hold the usual granite.

"No falling out," she says quietly. "At least, not where Zaun's concerned. That bag's secured, tagged, and marked as Top Priority."

"And the rest?"

"The rest's the usual. I've got my squeezes. He's got his. Keeps the ashes hauled, and the gears oiled." The granite returns; so does a degree of the old wickedness. "Though if it's gossip you're after, here's a tidbit. Your girl is back in Silco's good graces. And she's planning on sticking around."

The cobblestones dip underfoot. Caitlyn's face flashes, but of course that's not who Sevika means.

"Nao?" Vi blurts.

"The one and only."

"I thought she was done turning tricks."

"Oh, the tricking's been put to bed. She's Zaun's mistress-in-chief now. Direct line to the Eye." Off Vi’s stunned silence, Sevika tips a shoulder. "Silco's got his hands in plenty of pockets. And Maven's the one who's pulled every pair of those monogrammed drawers down. Every state secret, every political scandal—it all funnels through her. Guess Silco decided it's smarter to have her onside."

"Motherfuck."

"Yeah, she's got a few of those on file too." Something rueful glitters in the dark gaze. "Thought I'd give you the heads-up. Silco's been trotting her out for public engagements lately. So you might see her viz in the papers. She sure fits the look of a high-class mistress. Posh accent. Poised walk. Polite manners. Plus a dash of brass to keep it interesting. Not to mention—" An expressive cupping, "—a brand new boost to the decolletage. Twenty-ninth birthday gift, courtesy of the Boss."

Vi shakes her head.

It's difficult not to feel a measure of resentment toward Nao. Especially after she'd set Vi up to walk into the ambush in the Abattoir. And yet, there's a twinge of pity, too. However shiny Nao’s golden perch, it sits within a shark's glistening jaws. Whatever gains come of staying close, there's always the risk of waking up with those teeth buried in your throat.

Nao should have left when she could.

Then again: wasn't that the advice she'd given Vi?

As for Silco: what's his gameplan? A mistress isn't his style. Too many demands: energy, attention, affection. Demands he'd rather invest elsewhere. Perhaps Nao's meant to serve as window-dressing as he slinks out of the shadows and into the social spotlight. Keep the gossip mill spinning with decadent sleights-of-hand, while he cuts dirtier deals behind the scenes.

Except Vi doesn't buy it. Silco's smallest decision serves a dual purpose. But he's too subtle to misdirect through such showy gambits as a kept woman on his arm. If he's brought Nao back into the fold, his agenda extends beyond mere showmanship. He wants her within arm's reach: he wants her in his crosshairs.

Meaning Nao's not simply a plaything: she's leverage.

And the fallout—if things go south—could put her six-feet-under.

As if reading Vi's mind, Sevika says, "I've warned her to watch her step. She thinks she's in the Big League. But there's no keeping pace with a man who's ten miles ahead and counting." Her tone darkens; Vi hears grief and envy both. Neither take precedence. There's only an inevitability that comes with long-lived loyalty. "He runs hot; you just run behind. And if you don't run fast enough, you'll burn."

"You've always kept pace. Always run the closest."

"And now, Maven's using my playbook to cut corners."

"She ought to know better."

"Ought to."

"So should you."

Sevika's brow holds that familiar uptick.

"I just mean," Vi says, "it's a shitty hand to be dealt. You've been all-in for years. Now someone else is in the chips."

Understatement is a risky ploy. But Vi has learnt its uses. It gives nothing away—but it also leaves room for backing out. For denial, if that's the way Sevika wants to swing it.

Because even if her remarks are confirmation—yes, this is a breakup—that doesn't mean she wants to dwell in the reality.

In her place, Vi wouldn't.

Because, fuck, she gets it. Heartbreak hurts. Sevika may be older, tougher; the only fighter to meet Vi toe-to-toe. But that doesn't make her infallible. It takes a hundred sleepless nights to perfect that level of sangfroid.

More than anyone, Vi thinks the woman deserves an easy chair by the fireside.

Maybe that's why she asks:

"You doing alright?"

"We swapping girl-talk now?" Sevika scoffs. "Not our scene."

"We can afford to switch it up now and then." Vi kicks a stray pebble with the tip of her boot. "I just… hell. I'll say it. I'm grateful to you. When I was in Zaun, you gave me a square shot. Even if it was to keep the game rolling. After shit hit the fan, you kept the city from splitting at the seams. Silco ought to give you a fucking medal. Instead, he's with girl a half his age, who's profiting from all your groundwork. Soon, he'll either snap her in half, or find a juicer catch. But what about you? Will you still be on his hook?"

"Never been off it."

"But why?" Another pebble goes skittering. "He's not worth it. Believe me. I'd be happy to kick him in the nuts if it'd make a lick of difference."

"It'd make a lick of difference." A smile: fair-off, flickering. "But he'd still be the same bastard. Besides. You break his dick, you're breaking one of Zaun's national treasures."

"Ew."

"Thought we were switching it up."

"Not that way." Vi's spasm is visceral. "I just don't get it. You can't tell me it doesn't chafe, knowing Nao's strutting in your shoes." A sudden candor makes its way past her defenses: "When I was in Zaun, Caitlyn... she took up with someone else. An heiress. The press got wind, and splashed the pictures on every rag Topside and Down-Low. Gotta tell you. It felt like an axe to the jaw, seeing her with another chick. Like breaking up ten times over. You can't say it's not as bad with you. That you're not..."

The quirk in Sevika’s brow cuts higher. The query's clear: Jealous?

Vi nods. Sevika shakes her head.

"He's welcome to whomever," she says. "Same way I'm free to fuck who I choose."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"You're a rookie at this game, Vi. You've been with that Piltie of yours for what—eighteen months, give or take? And you think you're entitled to judge? Please. Try a decade, and we'll swap war stories."

A smoke ring ripples past Vi's nose: a perfect O-shaped provocation. She doesn't rise to it. Sevika's a natural sparrer: there's nothing she relishes more than a blow-by-blow.

But Vi understands her aim isn't to throw down. It's to throw Vi off her game.

This conversation is veering dangerously close to Sevika's heart-of-hearts. With it comes the temptation to divert, distract, derail. But the moment's past. In its place is a weary sense of trust.

At the end of the day, Vi and Sevika aren't scheming power-brokers.

Just two brawlers rolling with life's punches.

"Is that how long you've been with together?" Vi dares. "A decade?"

"We were never 'together.' Already made that plain."

"Doesn't mean there's no strings attached."

"Strings aren't the same as vows, Vi. And the more time goes by, the deeper those lines get engraved."

"Enlighten me."

Sevika smiles. A strange smile: halved and hidden. A sense of something tethered down deep. "A decade, Vi. That’s enough time to understand where matters stand. What's the bottom line, and the cost of crossing it." The cheroot's cherry brightens, then dims; two thirds' gone. "We grew up together. We fought together. Suffered the same defeats. Shared the same wins. Rode into war on the same wavelength. And when the end came, it gutted us. Me to disillusionment. Him to death."

Vi thinks back to the kitchen, and the parallelogram of sunlight creeping as Silco's confession came closer to completion. And, after: the rush of rage, so white-hot her vision went momentarily blind. That urge to grab the nearest object and drive it into his eyeball wasn't merely vengeance. It was a mercy kill.

Because she'd recognized how much had been cored out of Silco. The pieces of him that could never be resuscitated.

Never be laid to rest.

"He changed," Vi says. "He'll never be the same again."

"Nothing stays the same," Sevika retorts, without sharpness. "Everything evolves. That Piltie of yours won't be the same girl you fell in love with, five months down the line. Let alone five years. But if you play your cards right, she'll be the woman by your side till you're old and senile." A drag of the cheroot; a coil of smoke. "Ten years, Vi. Not eighteen months of fucking and fights and fun. Ten years of ups and downs. Blood, sweat, tears and doing what needed to be done. Being the kind of XO he wanted, so he could be the monster our city needed. Ten years of struggling tooth and nail to finish what we started, and hitting too many rock-bottoms to count. And each time, I watched him dig in his heels, grit his teeth, and crawl from the wreckage. He never stopped until he'd made his way to the top. Until we'd gone from the slags in the sewer to the kings of the hill." A deeper drag; a longer coil. "Ten years, and d'you think it matters if I'm jealous? If he dips his wick in a million Mavens? If we're 'together' or not? After all that's been lost and gained and fought for?" She shakes her head. "The man's occupied territory. But my blood's on that deed. It’s mine till death do us part.”

"That sounds..."

Like a fucking prison, Vi nearly says. Except that's not quite right.

Whatever Silco and Sevika share refuses to slot into a neat cellspace. And Vi's perspective's biased: it's shaped according to a private lexicon of highs-and-lows, rather than give-and-take. She's never experienced a bond where reciprocity and self-sacrifice interlock. She meets Caitlyn as an equal; Caitlyn will settle for nothing less. It's why she's so active in Vi's struggles; so committed to securing their shared future. A partnership that transcends privilege and poverty; one that hopes to eradicate the divides entirely.

That journey's worth every second spent fighting the odds.

No regrets. No surrender.

Sevika and Silco don't fit this mold. They never have. He leads; she follows. To his highest ascents, and his lowest ebbs. Maybe because she's known who he is—what they are together—long before anyone else did. Known that on the blueprint of their bond, they can build something greater. Something that belongs to them both, and yet outlasts their struggles side-by-side.

Something that transcends even the love itself.

Not survival, but sovereignty.

Yet, Vi cannot help but think: it must be hard to invest soul-deep in a cause, and not in each other. It must be harder to know you're aligned, no matter the odds. It must be downright brutal to be close —close enough to touch—but separated by a split so profound, you've shaped yourself around it, and can never fill the space in.

It must royally suck to know: Gods, I'm still in love.

Always will be.

Full fucking circle.

"It sounds..." Vi swallows. "Heavy."

"It is what it is."

"Guess so." A beat. "But you know what?"

"What?"

"If your name's on the deed, then Silco's put it there. Meaning no matter how many beds he's hopped, he's gotta come crawling home in the end." Vi holds her stare. "And when he does, I hope you make him grovel. Hands and knees. Kissing the ground you walk on all the way to Hell. Because the bastard owes you ten times over for not cutting that so-called National Treasure clean off, and mounting it on a pike." Vi crooks her pinky-finger: as solemn as a salute. "Fifty Hexes per ball, right?"

A look of naked surprise flashes across Sevika's face. Her laugh catches Vi off-guard. The husky timbre bleeds into the dark. Sevika's features, in the receding dusk, are subtly altered: young as she must've been before time dealt its blows; beautiful in the flashfire way Vi sees whenever they clash in battle.

A reminder, too. Some folks are forged to endure, no matter how rough the ride, or how rigged the game.

"Oh, Vi," Sevika says. "If you weren't kissing Piltie puss, I'd plant one on you."

"Keep dreaming."

"I've got better ways to keep warm. Though if you were offering—"

"I'd split you down your seams."

"Sweetheart," Sevika grins, "that's the idea."