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kikiiswashere · 28 days ago

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Saturday Sneak Peek

Children of Zaun - Chapter 30

Councilor Bone seeks out the Children

The cold season had not been kind to Bone. The freezing temperatures had seized his lungs, near stilling any attempts for breath. He had visited the Council physician with the intention of getting medication. But, after an examination, he was told that little was too be done. The blight in his lungs was too pervasive. Even increasing his dosage of decongestant was unlikely to do much of anything. The doctor had looked at Bone somberly, and apologized. At this point, the only means for relief would be morphine.

Bone refused.

He wouldn’t be able to do his job under the influence. And with the Council, Enforcers, and Rynweaver squeezing the Undercity, his presence in Chambers was needed more than ever.

He arranged a temporary living space for himself within the Council Building so he would not have to travel in the whipping winds. His Council peers – save for Heimerdinger – whispered and hissed about it. If Bone was so ill that he could not venture outside, should he not resign?

Unfortunately for them, Bone’s body was failing; not his fortitude. And since he was lucid, and could still make it and participate in assembly, there were no grounds to remove him.

Every day, when Bone sat in the small apartment he had carved out in the Council Building, he stared out the window at the Promenade across the river. He watched his home, the city he was fighting for. The city that was desperately, dangerously fighting for itself.

From his seat, Bone could make out some of the larger graffiti emblazoned on Promenade buildings.

FREE ZAUN

FUCK TOPSIDE

WE ARE THE STORM’S FURY

He thought about that day in the café. Of the owner and that customer mentioning The Last Drop in a way that left his weak heart pattering. When the warm came, he told himself, he would travel down to the Entresol and pay The Last Drop a visit.

The warm came.

Bone moved back into his loft on the Promenade after the first full week of consistent above-freezing temperatures. He shuffled about his space, wiping down the dust that had accumulated on the surfaces during his time away. He tossed away the old food in the icebox, wincing at the waste. He vomited several times into the toilet, and sputtered bloody globules into the sink. The warmer weather did not ease Bone’s breathing. It kept him from fully choking, but it did not relax his lungs like it had in the past.

Bone blot his clammy forehead with a handkerchief, staring down at the sizable, glistening wad of blood, mucus, and tissue in the sink. His hands were shaking, but not only from the effort of keeping himself upright. Fear sluiced through his veins. Not for death itself. Fear that he would not be able to temper the conflict boiling between the Underground and Piltover. People had already died.

He had to try.

Despite being told it would do little good, Bone took a double dose of the decongestant, wrapped a long scarf around his neck, mouth, and nose, grabbed his cane, and set out for The Last Drop.

It had been a long while since Bone had traveled low into the Undercity. For no other reason than time and his health. But as he stepped off the conveyor car and hobbled down the lanes, a jabbing pang of regret prodded his heart. For one, the Undercity was beautiful and impressive. A testament to the tenaciousness of her citizens.

Two: His constituents – those that recognized him, anyway – regarded him aloofly. A thin veil of suspicion clouding their eyes when they looked at him, and were tight-lipped if they spoke to him.

He wanted to understand their distrust. Logically, he could arrive at an understanding: even though he was from the Undercity, he was still Councilmember. And Council was notorious for their abuse and neglect. And despite what Bone had been able to accomplish during his time on Council, it was barely a stitch in the gaping, festering wound.

But he couldn’t help but feel a small slice of anger and sadness at his peers’ recoil. Hurt that his work and love of their home was not acknowledged or believed in. Hurt that they were lumping him with them.

The Lanes were a kaleidoscope of color covered in a miasma of grey mist. The Enforcer presence was heavy, but that did not seem to stop anyone from going about their evening. People crowding around food stalls, meandering in and out of brothels, haggling at trader stands. Trenchers had always kept a wide berth around Enforcers, but now the air between them and the officers was charged to dangerous levels. An Enforcer wiped away Zaun propaganda from the side of a building, and the nearby Trenchers fixed them a look so hateful it took away what little breath Bone had.

The minute the Enforcer stalkd on, a young street urchin popped out of the alley shadows. Armed with a chunk of chalk, they redrew the Zaun graffiti. Bone frowned deeply behind his scarf and carried on.

It had been years since Bone had been to The Last Drop. When the establishment came into view, he felt a bittersweet wave of nostalgia. In his youth, he and the crew of miners he worked with would gather there after a too-long shift. They would be tired, battered, and filthy – and perhaps they should’ve gone home – but they would fill the chairs around a table, and drink ale. The togetherness relievied them in a way the sleep could not.

Bone’s heart ached as he neared. They were all dead now. And soon he would be, too.

The inside of the tavern was as he remembered it. Clunky mismatched tables and chairs, swaths of warm orange, yellow, and green light colored the room, the large barrels of Fissure Froth tucked right behind the bar. The man behind the counter was a young, robust-looking young man built broad and tall.

Belatedly, Bone realized some of the patrons nearest the door were eying him carefully, whispering amongst themselves. He shored up the grip on his cane and pressed forward. His gait was slow, but purposeful. His jaw grit with determination. As he continued, the cheerful chatter dwindled. The young barmaid – a slip of a thing with loose indigo plaits – held her serving tray to her chest before whisking back to the bar.

The customers at the bar – all young folk themselves – spun at her sudden appearance. The barkeep leaned over as she hurriedly whispered to them. Then, they all looked in Bone’s direction. Varying levels of shock, concern, and irritation covered their faces. But Bone pressed forward. He sidled up to the bar with confidence only age brought.

“I am here,” he said in a light croak, “to inquire about The Children of Zaun.”

#children of zaun #coz #arcane #silco #vander #original characters #zaun #the last drop

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kikiiswashere · 7 months ago

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Children of Zaun - Chapter 24

Pairing: Silco/Fem!OC

Rating: Explicit

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

Chapter Summary: Rynweaver pays Heimerdinger a visit. Grayson and Bone have a talk.

Previous Chapter

Word Count: 3.2K

Heimerdinger knew it was coming. He could only stave off this meeting with Rynweaver for so long.

It had been three weeks since the Children of Zaun had made themselves known. Three weeks since security measures had gone into effect. Three weeks since the investigation started. Three weeks – and there were no new developments or leads. And Enforcers were no nearer to tracking down the stolen money.

Rynweaver and the other families who had been stolen from were growing restless and agitated. Heimerdinger couldn’t say that he didn’t entirely understand. While money held little interest for him, he understood the frustration of having one’s belongings snatched away. Sometimes scientific research fell that way, too. Sometimes what you thought was safe, thought was yours, was suddenly slipped out from beneath you.

Money was one thing. Ideas were another.

Heimerdinger shook his head, ears flopping from side to side, and returned his attention to the paperwork on his desk. The new budget reorganization lay before him, and it turned his stomach more than he wished it would. A sidelong glance went to his fireplace, where not long ago the chair Katya Slostov had thrown into the hearth had lain, broken and splintered.

He didn’t know if she had told Viktor about the tuition increase, if he knew that his place at the Academy hung in the balance. He didn’t think so. Viktor had been carrying on like usual: pensive, studious, and dedicated. He gave no sign that he was aware that anything was afoot. Heimerdinger did not approve of keeping the boy in the dark, but Viktor was not his ward. As much as he disagreed with Katya’s decisions, he had no right to trample on them.

Instead, he focused on supporting the boy where it was in his power: in the classroom.

He praised Viktor openly for the initial sketches he had done for the boat he was planning on building in next term’s robotics curriculum. The ingenuity of its shape and proposed motor mechanism caused the yordle’s chest to puff with pride.

Viktor was leaps and bounds ahead of his classmates; even some of the older students. It would be a tragedy for him to cross the Bridge and never come back. To have his burgeoning genius swallowed up and snuffed out by the maw of the Undercity.

The soft, warm buzz of the intercom on his desk pulled Heimerdinger from his thoughts. He stared at the blinking red light by his right hand, letting the signal drone for a beat longer than he normally would.

Finally, he answered. “Yes, Miss Banforth?”

“Professor Heimerdinger, Sir Thade Rynweaver is here to see you.”

Heimerdinger utilized the last moments of privacy for his face to crumple and warp into an expression of long-suffering annoyance.

“Yes, yes. Of course. Send him in, please.”

Heimerdinger gathered the budgeting materials on his desk and stowed them away in a drawer. The door to his office quietly clicked open, Ivy graciously at the knob, directing Rynweaver inside.

Thade was dressed in his usual preferred black ensemble: tailored trousers and waistcoat, and shoes with a lacquered shine. Today, he also wore a knee-length wool coat, silver thread and buttons glistening in the cold-season’s watery light that streamed in from the window behind the desk.

“May I fetch you anything?” Ivy asked.

“Nothing. Thank you,” Rynweaver answered.

Ivy pulled her lips between her teeth and looked to Heimerdinger. He looked kindly at her, mustache lifting at its tips. A gentle shake of his head excused her, and she bowed out, the door softly snicking shut.

“Blessed Snowdown, Mr. Rynweaver.”

“And to you, Professor.”

Thade draped his coat over one of the chairs in front of the desk, and took the other for himself.

“Did Miss Banforth not offer to take your coat?”

Heimerdinger eyed the expensive article, its black so pitch that it sucked up light like a sponge.

“She did. But I trust you understand my hesitancy in handing my things over.”

Heimerdinger’s ears folded minutely.

“I understand how frustrating this is for you and the other families involved, Mr. Rynweaver.”

Thade reached into the inner pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a slim, silver cigar case. He pulled a matching lighter from his trouser pocket. He did not ask if he could smoke, pulling out a thick cigar and lighting it as if it were his own home.

Heimerdinger’s pink nose wrinkled, his eyes pricking at the intense smell of the smoke.

As Thade went to tuck the case away, he stopped and gestured it to his host, a thick eyebrow lifting.

“I don’t smoke. But thank you.”

“It is frustrating,” Thade sighed, settling into his seat. “And I know that LeDaird is doing everything within his power to right this wrong. To not only recover my funds, but to also put a stop to these terrorists. Stop them before they can do anything truly heinous.”

Heimerdinger nodded, but his mind whirred, wondering when Rynweaver was going to get to his reason for this appointment.

“How may I help you today, Mr. Rynweaver?”

A thick plume of sweet, eye-stinging smoke rose above their heads, refracting the sunlight streaming in through the window. The smoke slowly spun through the air, its tendrils leisurely unfurling and dissipating before the answer came.

It annoyed Heimerdinger, this power play.

“My grandfather told me stories about you, Cecil. From his father, who in turn heard them from his own. Stories about Piltover’s brilliant and dedicated founder. A Yordle – a being tied to spirit and magic, and yet you favor scientific progress and humanity’s growth. Foregoing your, arguably, natural inclinations to bear this great city-state.”

Rynweaver gestured his hand to the space above Heimerdinger’s head, signaling to the sprawling cityscape below the window.

As the man spoke, Heimerdinger’s plush coat hackled and puffed under his clothes. He kept his face open and neutral, but inside he was bristling. Mostly because of Rynweaver’s arrogance and, thus far, vague motives. It also irked him to be called his first name by someone who was not invited to do so. The generalized, vague, and misinformed commentary on his race’s cultural background made his blood hot.

“I am flattered your grandfather spoke so highly of me,” he decided to say. “He was a good man.”

Thade nodded in agreement. “He loved this city. As did my father. As do I, Cecil. As do you.”

He took a lengthy drag from his cigar. Heimerdinger’s ears twitched, sensing that this meeting’s point was about to be revealed.

“I understand that LeDaird is doing everything within his power right now. And yet, no results have been yielded. Not an inkling of information, much less the recovery of my and the other family’s money.” He rolled his cigar between his fingers, blue eyes following it carefully. Then, his voice darkened, “Honestly, I am not anticipating seeing my coin again. Those sump-snipes have probably spent it or sent it away to some secure location. They are most likely preparing a more serious strike.”

The heat in Heimerdinger’s blood chilled, leached out by how Rynweaver’s eyes seemed to go black.

“The Enforcers need more teeth. The Undercity needs to be made afraid. They know how to tolerate a squeeze, a slap on the wrist. These Children are unprecedented, and Piltover must be protected.”

“They are Piltovan citizens, Mr. Rynweaver.”

“And yet some percentage of those citizens committed a terrorist attack. The rest protect them with their silence.” Rynweaver looked at Heimerdinger, cold fire blistering in his gaze. “They do not love Piltover as you or I do. Surely you can see that. We need to protect our city of progress.”

Heimerdinger’s ears tucked back, his thick brow dropped. Lowly, he asked, “What would you have me do, Mr. Rynweaver?”

Thade crossed his long legs. “I am asking you to consider throwing your weight around more. You are Piltover’s founder and greatest champion. While the idea of Council is to ensure a system of checks and balances, and an equitable division of power, everyone knows that push come to shove, your word is law.

“Give LeDaird more leash and tighten up on Bone’s. Allow captains of industry – such as myself – who employ a large populace of the Undercity to use our influence to help flush out these traitors.”

“It is not that simple – “

“It could be though,” Rynweaver bit back. “This is your city, Cecil. And these Children are threatening it. Do not let them.”

With that, Thade lifted from his seat, cigar in hand. He paused and looked around the office before stepping over to the fireplace and crushing the ember end into the hearth’s wall. He tossed the remains into its ashy mouth and went for his coat.

Sliding his arms in their sleeves, he addressed Heimerdinger once more, “Thank you for your time, Professor.”

Heimerdinger’s pink nose twitched at the sudden use of one of his titles.

Thade strode for the office doors, and over his shoulder wished again, “Blessed Snowdown.”

The cold season was always hellish on Bone’s illness. The chill in the air froze the blight in his lungs and trachea into sharp, painful, icy stabs every time he ventured outside. Which made it difficult for him to put his ear to the ground and try and learn about these Children of Zaun.

He did his best, though.

In the days following the Council’s bulletin and subsequent decisions about movement and trade in the Undercity, he hobbled up and down the streets of the Promenade and upper Entresol attempting to glean information from anyone he could.

What hurt more than the pain in his lungs, were the looks of distrust he received from some of the Undercity citizens he approached. The ache sat low in his stomach and tugged down on his heart. He never thought something would stand between him and his people.

He lived for them, would die for them.

It was in those moments – when he was looked up and down, suspicion curling their lips, and doubt in their eyes – that Bone feared he had failed. That he had spent too much time across the river in Piltover’s mighty towers. That all the work he had attempted to do, and what little he had achieved, had gotten stuck in the blankets of kelp that stitched either bank of the Pilt together.

Had he lost that much touch with his constituents?

One afternoon, though, when the sun sat bright and heavy in the sky, he caught a small break.

He had shuffled into a small café that sat on the lip of the Promenade, near a conveyor car station. He’d spent a few hours canvassing the Skylight Commercia to no avail. Disheartened, and chest burning from the cold, he decided to stop and get something warm to drink before limping home.

The few patrons in the establishment looked up as he stepped in. Only a few nodded, the others kept to their drinks and thin sandwiches. Bone coughed into his scarf and approached the cash register. He ordered a mint tea and paid with two gold hexes. When the cashier blanched and sputtered, trying to explain that she did not have the change for such coin, he insisted she keep it regardless.

Bone perched himself on a stool seated in front of the large, greasy windows that looked out onto the conveyor car station. He watched all manner of people and creatures pile into, and traipse out of various cabs. The color and diversity of the Undercity always tugged at something prideful in him. Despite its setbacks, he loved that so many beings from Runeterra settled here, made the Undercity a veritable melting pot.

As the cashier brought him his tea, Bone watched as a conveyor car operator exited his vehicle and trot towards the café. He was a big man – wide, with skin the color of rust. The café’s door jingled merrily open as he pushed through, and a flurry of greetings were sent his way.

Bone’s stomach and heart dropped further. Was it jealousy?

“Tolder!” the cashier greeted. “Usual?”

“Yeah. ‘N can I get,” his gruff voice ground to a hum as he eyed the glass display case full of sweet breads and pre-made sandwiches. “Can I get one o’ the wharf rat tails? They’re muh boy’s favorite.”

“Sure thing.” She placed a steaming paper cup on the counter, and then whipped a paper bag open, reaching for a pastry drenched in glaze at the front of the case. “You gonna be at The Last Drop tonight?”

“Plannin’ on it. Hopefully there’s some idea o’ how to get these fuckin’ enforcers off our backs. Pigs.”

Bone’s ears perked at the man and woman’s exchange. He knew The Last Drop – what Trencher didn’t? – but it had been years since he’d last gone, back when it was under original ownership. He had heard through the grapevine that the previous owner had died in recent years and had passed the establishment to a longtime employee.

Something about what the pair said caused his heart to flutter in interest, his gut poking him with intuition. Bars, taverns, restaurants had long been places for Undercity citizens to meet and gripe about Piltover. But there was something more concrete in their tones, more bite. The word ‘idea’ felt weighty. Promising.

“Thanks fer the coffee and Rat Tail,” the man said, slapping a fistful of coins on the counter and heading for the door.

Bone watched the man stride back towards his conveyor car, and his mind whirred. He sipped at his tea, thinking. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched the woman behind the counter take a wet rag and wipe down the sides of the display case. He wondered if LeDaird or Grayson had, or were planning on investigating The Last Drop.

Draining his cup, Bone stood and limped to the counter, placing the small ceramic mug near the register.

“Thank you.”

The woman looked up from her dusting, and nodded, her lips a thin line.

As he opened the door, a gust of cold, salty wind blew past him. Hurriedly, he pulled his scarf up around his mouth and hacked into it, leaning heavily on his cane. Behind the wet fabric, he grimaced. His lungs burned and throbbed, and he felt light-headed. Indeed, it was time to head home for the day.

As Bone approached the building his loft was in, he was surprised to see Captain Grayson standing in front of the building’s iron and glass door. She was dressed in her uniform and captain’s hat, but her breathing mask was slung around her neck. She remained still, hands behind her back, seemingly unperturbed by the way people walking by would give her a wide, wide berth.

Bone winced. He wished she wouldn’t meet him at his home. It was difficult enough to get his people to trust him; having the Captain of the Enforcers on his doorstep could only cause his constituents to pull away further.

But it had been challenging for he and she to touch base. The minute the Children of Zaun’s letter fell into LeDaird’s hands, Grayson’s time and priorities were automatically spoken for.

“Councilor Bone,” she greeted as he limped up.

“Captain Grayson,” he wheezed from behind his scarf. He glanced around and said, “Come upstairs. I don’t want us to talk here.”

He led her inside, and up the winding metal stairs to his front door. Grayson thought it odd that an old, sick man would be made to have to deal with stairs.

“Is there not a lift?”

Bone coughed and shook his head, wispy hair fluttering side to side.

They arrived at a large, ornately carved door and the Councilor used a key to let them both inside.

Grayson said a quiet thank you as she stepped through the threshold, her eyes habitually roaming over the new environment, taking notes. Small, with high ceilings. Large windows looked out over the river at Piltover, its skyline looming. The space was sparsely furnished and had no noticeable smell.

Behind her, Bone had begun coughing again as he removed his coat and scarf. He batted her away as she stepped over to help. He thumped his cane against the wood floor as the last gasps of the fit lurched from his throat.

“Follow me,” he wheezed, shuffling in the direction of a small, but neat kitchen.

With shaky hands, he filled a glass with water and took a careful sip. His throat burned and head throbbed.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” he finally said, turning. One hand held his cane, the other braced against the countertop.

Grayson watched him carefully. He looked worse than usual, and she was concerned she’d have to leap forward and hold him up.

She set her hands behind her back again, and said, “I am here to touch base.”

A small derisive huff shot from between Bone’s teeth. “Of your own volition? Or on orders from the Sheriff.”

“Both.”

The Councilor nodded and renewed the grip on his cane, standing as tall as his short stature would allow. There was a moment before she spoke where he took her in. Like the first time he’d met her, he sensed her goodness. Her reasonableness. He knew she was the tool he needed to get enforcer brutality in the Lanes under control.

“Sheriff LeDaird is wondering if you have heard anything.”

“Only LeDaird?”

Grayson’s lips thinned. “Admittedly, I am curious, too. There are terrorists in the Undercity, Councilor Bone. My focus right now has to be rooting out the Children of Zaun. You and I cannot do our work while they are free.”

Bone’s wooly brows dropped, knowing she was right. He couldn’t get what he wanted without her. He couldn’t have her time and resources while she and her team were investigating terrorists. The idea to tell her what he had overheard today in the café crossed his mind. But he kept it to himself. After the last several days of doing his own searching, and experiencing the unexpected withdraw of his community, he was nervous to give Captain Grayson anything. It was bad enough that people had seen her on his step.

What good was securing Grayson’s time if his own people didn’t trust him?

There had to be another way.

“I have not heard anything, Captain.”

Grayson looked disappointed as a sigh blew from her nose, arms dropping to her sides. Briefly, Bone felt badly about withholding information from her. But, if he could get to and disperse the Children before the Enforcers closed in, there would be minimal bloodshed, he would hopefully recement his people’s trust, and he and Grayson could carry on with his plans.

“I am sorry, Captain.”

She nodded ruefully. “Thank you. Let me know if you hear anything.”

She turned and began to head back toward the front door.

“Captain Grayson,” Bone called. She turned, eyes questioning. “When you need to seek me out, please do it at my office.”

The smallest embarrassed flush tinged the tops of her wide cheeks. “Yes, Councilor. Apologies.”

He waved the concern aside, and kindly said. “Blessed Snowdown, Captain.”

“Blessed Snowdown, Councilor.”

Notes: A quick lil' chappie. Comparatively speaking 😅. What do we think? Will Heimer cave to Rynweaver's pressure? Is Bone making a good decision leaving Grayson in the dark??

Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear yout thoughts in the comments or reblogs ❤️

Coming Up Next: The Children celebrate Snowdown at The Last Drop. After weeks of avoiding him, Katya asks for a moment of Silco's time.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @pinkrose1422 @dreamyonahill @sand-sea-and-fable @truthandadare @altered-delta

#children of zaun #coz #arcane #arcane fanfic #heimerdinger #grayson #original characters

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