#thread: medic in zaun | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunsburns · 15 days ago

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wanna be yours — vi (league of legends) !

⟢ synopsis. in the gritty underbelly of zaun, you find yourself entangled in the life of a new pit fighter: vi, a hardened fighter who wears her pain like armour. as a medic working in the fighting pit, you are tasked with patching up her wounds after matches, and you realize that while you can heal vi’s injuries, you can’t mend the broken pieces of her heart that belong to someone else.

⟢ contains. afab!reader, arcane!vi, feminine characteristics, angst, lesbians, lots and lots of longing, kinda enemies to lovers (but worse), nsfw, fingering, 17+ kinda explicit.

⟢ word count. 15.2k+

⟢ authors note. i spent the last few weeks working on this fic and i am really happy with how it turned out!! eek!! happy reading!! <3 :)

You’ve grown used to the sight of blood.

It streaks across the tiled floor in dark smears, trails on the edge of your workbench, and stains the tattered cloths shoved into the waste bin. The scent of copper lingers in the air, mingling with the faint tang of disinfectant.

You’ve made it work, though. You have to.

Your bench is lined with the tools: sutures, gauze, tape, and a half-empty bottle of antiseptic you’ve been meaning to replace. You keep it organized, and meticulous because chaos out there demands control in here. The pit fighters appreciate it, and you, in their own way. There’s always a pep in their step when they leave your little corner, heading to the bar with fresh bandages and a story to tell.

Some linger longer than they need to, chatting while you clean up. The regulars know your rhythm—when to crack a joke to ease the tension or when to stay quiet and let you focus. The brawlers come to trust you, and trust is hard to come by lately.

Maybe it was because you weren’t trying to punch the lights out of their eyes.

The room itself is far from perfect. Cramped, poorly lit, and barely adequate, it feels more like a storage closet someone forgot to clear out than a proper medical station. You’ve done what you can to make it your own. A few paintings hang crookedly on the walls—cheap prints, but bright enough to cut through the gloom. Candles flicker in the corners of your desk, casting a soft glow that doesn’t do much for the lighting but makes the space feel warmer, more welcoming.

The pit fighters notice. They never say much about it, but you catch the way they relax when they sit down, their shoulders loosening just slightly as the room wraps them in its quiet. It’s your small rebellion against the harshness of Zaun, a reminder that even here, there’s room for gentleness.

Sometimes they repay that gentleness in their own way—a drink after a fight, a nod of thanks, or a protective presence when the streets get dangerous, walking you home. You’ve been here long enough to know that loyalty is rare in Zaun, but somehow, you’ve earned it.

The fighting arena roars with life, the crowd’s cheers rumbling through the walls like distant thunder. Tonight’s fights have been loud—louder than usual. People running around with their coloured tickets based on who they were betting on. You glance at the clock.

There’s been a buzz all week about a newcomer, someone fresh and untested.

Vi, they call her.

Scrappy and wild, with a chip on her shoulder and fists to match. The kind of fighter who comes in all swagger and leaves in pieces.

You haven’t met her yet, but the bookies’ chatter alone has you bracing yourself. First fights are always the worst—too much pride, not enough sense.

The door rattles, hard enough to make the jars on your shelf tremble and you can hear muffled shouting from the other side.

It slams open, rattling on its hinges, but you don’t look up right away. Your focus is on threading a needle carefully through the gash along the side of Ryker’s jaw—a nasty wound from an earlier fight. Ryker’s been coming here for years, but never with complaints. He’s one of the good ones, fighting not just for himself but for his daughter, scraping by on the cash these matches earn him. He sits hunched over, still radiating the heat of adrenaline.

“Don’t fucking shove me,” a voice grumbles from the doorway. “Fuck off, Loris!”

Your attention shifts to the two figures stumbling into the room. One of them—a broad-shouldered man with a face like he’s eaten rocks for breakfast—could easily pass for one of the fighters. But it’s the girl he’s dragging by the arm that catches your eye.

She’s all jagged lines and sharp edges, her messy, dark pink hair sticking up in uneven tufts. Blood drips lazily from her nose, smudging against the back of her hand when she wipes at it, and her scowl is carved so deep it feels like her only expression.

“I don’t need a medic,” the girl—Vi, you hear the man mutter—snaps, yanking her arm free. “I need a drink.”

“Protocol,” He replies flatly, giving her a shove that nearly sends her sprawling.

Vi catches herself with a stumble, shooting him a glare before surveying the room with obvious disdain. Her gaze lands on you, and her lip curls faintly. “This it? Cozy,” she mutters, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

You ignore her, focusing on the final stitch on Ryker’s jaw. “You can take a seat,” you say evenly, nodding toward the empty couch by the far wall.

“No thanks,” Vi shoots back, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. She leans against the wall instead, glaring at nothing in particular.

“Too proud to sit down, blue belly?” Ryker mutters, casting a sharp glance from his seat. His voice is low, edged with a warning. “Or has the guilt of hunting your own finally caught up with you?”

“Ryker,” you say softly, your tone a quiet scold. The last thing you need is a fight breaking out here.

But his words make you look at Vi more closely. Her features are familiar, in a vague, nagging way. It clicks as you take in the hard set of her shoulders, the stubborn way she holds herself, and the bruises already blooming across her cheekbone. A new batch of enforcers had swept through Zaun a few weeks back, leaving havoc and clouds of Grey in their wake. They’d brought their brutality, painted their violence into the walls of the city, and then disappeared like ghosts, leaving Zaun more broken than before.

That’s how it usually went with them.

However, you had never heard of someone from the undercity becoming an Enforcer before.

Vi scoffs, slurring her words just slightly. “I don’t know—d’you wanna find out?”

You pause, needle halfway through a stitch, tension coiling tight in the air. “Don’t,” you warn softly, already sensing where this is headed.

Ryker shifts forward on the bench, his battered knuckles flexing. “You wanna go another round?”

Vi pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “You wanna lose again?” she challenges, her voice low and sharp.

“That’s enough,” you snap, moving quickly to step between them. Loris mirrors your movement, his larger frame serving as an immovable barrier.

“Sit. Down,” Loris growls at Vi, his glare enough to make her hesitate. With a huff, she leans back against the wall again, though her fists remain clenched in her jacket pockets.

You shake your head and turn back to Ryker, finishing the last stitch with practiced ease. “You’re done,” you tell him, rummaging through your cabinet and handing him a small bottle of pain meds. “Keep it clean, change the bandage twice a day, and stay out of trouble—for your sake and your daughter’s.”

Ryker stands slowly, still throwing a glare Vi’s way. But his expression softens when he looks at you. “Thanks,” when he says your name, his voice is warmer than before. “You’re too good for this place.”

You offer him a faint smile. “Take care, Ryker.”

He leaves, brushing past Vi with a grunt, and the room feels quieter—tense but quieter. You turn your attention to the newcomer, who’s leaning against the wall, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, tracking your every movement.

“Alright,” you say, already washing your hands and gathering fresh supplies. “Your turn.”

Vi doesn’t move from the wall. “I’m fine,” she insists, “patch up the ones who actually need it.”

Your gaze flicks over her—the bloody nose that’s started to run again, the gash seeping through her sleeve, and the raw swelling on her knuckles. “Sit,” you say, your voice firm.

She doesn’t budge.

You meet her gaze, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long, a quiet standoff neither of you seems willing to break. Your fingers tap once against the counter, but your glare doesn’t waver. You won’t repeat yourself.

Loris, the man who dragged her in, steps forward with a roll of his eyes, giving her a nudge with his elbow. “Sit down, Vi.”

She winces at the pressure on her back, her bravado faltering for just a split second. With a low grumble, she finally drops onto the bench, slouching with exaggerated indifference, her arms crossing tight over her chest.

You grab a clipboard and step closer. She watches you like you’re some kind of nuisance.

“Name?” you ask, clicking your pen.

“Vi,” she mutters, her eyes fixed on the far wall.

“Vi what?”

“Just Vi.”

You suppress a sigh. “What’s your full name?”

“I said, just Vi.”

There’s an edge to her tone, enough to make you glance up. Her jaw is set, her expression daring you to press the issue. You don’t. Instead, you scrawl it down and move on. “Fine. Age?”

“Old enough to fight.”

Your pen stills mid-note, the corners of your mouth tightening as you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Of course, you are,” you say dryly, setting the clipboard aside with a little more force than necessary. “Alright, let’s start with the obvious,” you say, gesturing at her face. “Your nose is bleeding. Tilt your head back.”

Vi’s brow arches like you’ve just said something funny. “I said, I’m fine.”

“And I said, tilt your head back,” you reply, your voice steady but no less firm.

Her gaze sharpens, a flicker of defiance lighting in her eyes, but she tilts her head back with a dramatic huff. “Happy?”

You ignore her tone, stepping closer to inspect the injury. The faint scent of sweat and iron lingers between you, and for a moment, you notice the heat of her skin where your gloved fingers gently tilt her chin.

“Doesn’t feel broken,” you mutter, reaching for a clean cloth to dab away the blood. She flinches as the fabric touches her skin, her muscles twitching under your fingers. “Relax,” you say softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she mutters.

Your hand falters, just briefly. There’s a weight to her words, a sharpness you weren’t expecting, but you push past it. “Well, I mean it,” you reply quietly.

Her silence stretches as you work, less hostile but no less charged. The closer you look, the more details you notice: the faint scars lining her skin, the inked letters etched into her cheekbone, the edge of a tattoo just barely visible beneath her collar, and the faint shine of her silver nose ring.

“Jacket off,” you say, gesturing to the gash on her arm.

Her gaze snaps to yours, wary and sharp. “Why?”

You give her a flat look. “Because I can’t stitch it through fabric.”

For a second, she doesn’t move, her body tensing as if bracing for something. Then, with a muttered curse, she shrugs out of her jacket, tossing it onto the bench beside her.

Her arms are a mess—old fighting hand wraps soaked with blood and dirt wrapped tightly around her forearms. You offer to replace them, but she cuts you off. “I’ll do it myself.”

You let it go, focusing instead on cleaning the fresh wound. Her muscles tense every time you touch her, but she doesn’t flinch again. “You can relax, you know,” you say, trying to sound light. “I’m just trying to help.”

Vi lets out a bitter snort. “You’re not the first to say that.”

You pause, but you don’t press. She’s lashing out on you. That’s the most you can make of it.

The silence stretches again as you stitch the wound, her eyes watching you closely, unreadable. When you finally glance up, your movements stilling, she shrugs.

“What?” you ask, unable to help yourself.

“Nothing,” she says, leaning back.

You hold her gaze for a beat longer before shaking your head and returning to your work, wrapping the freshly stitched wound with clean bandages. She stays quiet, watching until the silence becomes heavy again.

Then, without warning, she speaks, her voice quieter but cutting. “You know, you’re wasting your time on these people. Half of them wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

The words hit like a punch, sharper than anything she’s said before. You freeze mid-motion, your fingers hovering over the bandage as you process her bluntness. Slowly, deliberately, you resume wrapping her arm, tucking the end of the bandage into place with more care than you think she deserves at that moment.

“Good thing I don’t do this for their gratitude,” you reply evenly, though the edge in your voice betrays a flicker of irritation. You’re trying not to let it get to you.

She’s new. Clearly, she’s fighting off some kind of pent-up frustration. She must have anger issues or something. You wonder how many hits Ryker got on her before she knocked him out.

Her chuckle is low and humourless, more of a scoff than anything else. “Right.”

You hope he got a solid six or seven punches in.

You step back, peeling off your gloves with a deliberate snap. There’s a moment where you consider saying something more, but you swallow the impulse. Professionalism, you remind yourself.

“You’re all set,” you say curtly, gathering up the soiled supplies. “I’d suggest taking tomorrow off. You know, to let the wound heal before you go back out there.”

Vi grabs her jacket, standing in a single fluid motion. She doesn’t look at you when she replies, her tone casual but dismissive. “I’ll live.”

You wish Ryker had broken her nose.

You shake your head, already turning back to tidy your workstation, unwilling to watch her saunter out.

Loris, standing by the door, offers you a small, almost apologetic smile. “Thanks,” he says, his voice warmer than hers ever was.

You manage a smile back, but it’s shallow, worn. The door swings shut behind them, leaving you alone in the cramped room. The exasperation settles in like a weight, not heavy but persistent.

For a moment, you stand there in silence, staring at the supplies on your counter. You shake your head again, this time at yourself.

What the fuck is her problem?

You know you shouldn’t be surprised when Vi stumbles into the medic room again the very next day. The fights at Antis’s brawling ring are infamous for their relentless schedule, especially on weekends when the bets come pouring in before sundown. It’s barely dusk now, but the underground buzz is already unmistakable—the muffled cheers and jeers vibrating through the walls.

Vi comes alone this time—or at least she leaves Loris waiting outside the door. You catch a brief glimpse of him through the crack in the door, leaning against the wall with a drink at his lips, shaking his head like this is just another day for him.

The door slams shut as Vi shoulders her way in, her boots heavy against the floor. She’s holding one hand against her face, blood dripping sluggishly through her fingers and trailing down her arm.

You have to bite back a smile at the sight.

She’s ditched her jacket, and the sleeveless collared top she’s wearing looks like it’s seen more fights than she has—worn thin, patched up in places, and stained with a lifetime of blood and sweat. Her hand wraps are shredded and still filthy, hanging loosely around her forearms. The gash on her arm has reopened, the stitches torn apart as if they were never there to begin with.

You take all of this in within seconds, and something tightens in your chest—a mix of frustration and satisfaction. “You can’t fight back-to-back nights,” you say, your voice sharper than intended as you grab your gloves and a fresh set of supplies.

Vi grunts, brushing past you to sit on the bench. “I can do what I want,” she snaps, her words muffled by her hand still pressed to her face. Her defiance is unshaken, but the tremble in her shoulders gives her away. She’s hurting.

Now you start to feel bad. But just a little bit.

You’ve seen this before—new fighters crashing into the medic room with the same mix of bruised pride and bloodied skin. They fight like there’s no tomorrow, each punch is thrown carrying something more than just adrenaline. Some fight for money, some for escape, and others just because they don’t know how to stop. There’s always a reason. You can’t help but wonder what—or who—Vi is fighting for.

With a quiet exhale, you turn to the counter and grab your supplies. The clatter of tools fills the silence as you steel yourself for the inevitable pushback. “Let me guess,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at her. “Antis needed someone to keep the bets high, and you couldn’t say no.”

Vi drops her hand from her face, and for the first time, you see the full extent of the damage. A deep bruise blooms across the bridge of her nose, nearly swollen shut in one eye, while blood smears across her mouth and drips down her jaw.

She glares at you through the mess, her voice sharp. “It’s none of your business.”

“No,” you admit, stepping closer and gesturing for her to tilt her head back. “But I’m the one who has to patch you up. So humour me.”

She scoffs but tilts her head back, letting you inspect the damage. Up close, the bruise looks worse—angry and dark, already spreading across her pale skin. Her nose isn’t broken (unfortunately), but it’s close, and the blood smeared across her upper lip makes her look like it’s been bitten off. You grab a clean cloth and start wiping the blood away. Your movements are brisk but careful, and she winces slightly as you press the cloth to her skin. Still, she doesn’t pull away, just sits there stiff and unyielding.

“You’re going to tear open the stitches every time you fight like this,” you mutter, reaching for the antiseptic. “You’ve gotta take it easy. I know how these guys fight out there—”

“I don’t need your pity,” she cuts in, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

“Not pity,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “Just words of advice.”

“I don’t need that either,” she snaps, her jaw tightening as you dab antiseptic on the wound. “Just patch me up so I can go. I’m only here because Antis won’t clear me for my pay otherwise.”

“Yeah, it’s protocol,” you say, capping the bottle and setting it down beside you.

“It’s stupid.”

“It was my idea.”

Her head jerks slightly, her eyes flicking toward you for a beat. There’s something almost vulnerable in her expression before she quickly looks away. She doesn’t answer right away, her gaze fixed firmly on the far wall. When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter, almost bitter. “...Still stupid.”

You smile faintly as you reach for fresh bandages. “Yeah, well, stupid or not, it’s keeping people alive. Even stubborn ones like you.”

Stubborn is definitely a nicer word than what you really want to say.

She doesn’t respond, and the silence stretches between you as you unwrap the old bandage around her arm. Her fingers twitch against her thigh, like she’s itching to leave, but she stays seated, her posture rigid. You can’t tell if it’s pride or exhaustion keeping her there—or maybe both.

For the rest of the session, Vi is quieter than usual. Her sharp retorts are replaced by a heavy silence that seems to weigh down the air in the room. Outside, the muffled roars of the crowd echo through the thin walls.

As you work to clean and re-stitch her arm, you glance at her every so often, noting the way her jaw tightens and her fingers tap restlessly against her thigh. It’s like she’s bracing for a blow that might never come, her body constantly coiled, ready to spring.

You take a step back, pulling off your gloves with a snap. “You’re good to go,” you say, your voice softer now. “But you need rest.”

She snorts, grabbing her jacket off the bench without looking at you. “Can’t rest. I’m on a winning streak.”

You arch a brow. “You’ve only been here two days. I wouldn’t count that as a streak.”

“Don’t really care what you think.”

“You should. You’re sleep-deprived, by the way. Your eyes barely focus. Get more sleep. And you need to drink more water.”

Vi huffs a dry, sarcastic laugh, “Sure, doc. Whatever you say.”

You want to argue, but she’s already out the door, leaving behind only the faint scent of iron and the lingering weight of words left unsaid. Loris nods at you through the open door as she stalks past him, his gaze flicking back to you briefly.

The door swings shut behind them, leaving you alone with the distant hum of the crowd and the bloodstained bench. For a long moment, you just stand there, staring at the scraps of torn bandages scattered on the floor, the mess she left behind.

It’s not long after that you learn her name is Violet.

The knowledge of it nearly makes you laugh.

Violets. You’ve never actually seen them, but a friend of yours, a painter, once gifted you a piece featuring soft, delicate purple blooms. It hangs over your bedside table, a rare touch of beauty in an otherwise bleak city. You like to imagine those flowers are violets, though you’re not entirely sure. Flowers aren’t exactly a common sight in Zaun.

The irony of her name strikes you every time you think about it. Violet. There’s nothing soft or delicate about her—not the way she fights, nor the way she speaks to you.

She didn’t tell you her name herself, of course. That would require her to speak more than three sentences in your direction, which feels like an impossible feat. No, funnily enough, it was Loris who let it slip, though you suspect he knew exactly what he was doing. It wasn’t much of a ‘slip’ rather than straight-up telling you her name.

It happened a night at a bar near your work. You’d gone with some friends, seeking a much-needed reprieve. The bartender, a friend of yours, had slipped you a couple of free drinks, and in a haze of warmth and exhaustion, you noticed Loris at the bar. He looked out of place, all gruffness and silence amid the lively chatter, so you invited him to join your table.

Several drinks in, your curiosity got the better of you. You leaned closer to him, your voice barely cutting through the music and chatter as you asked him about his pink-haired friend.

Loris wasn’t much of a talker, you realized. He’d spur out a few words or two, maybe a grunt or nod.

Loris made a face, his usual stoic front slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of amusement. He leaned in, his breath heavy with the scent of cheap beer, and gave a rare grin. “Sleeping,” he said simply, before adding, almost as an afterthought, “Her name’s Violet, by the way.”

Violet. You didn’t expect that, and it must’ve shown on your face because Loris chuckled softly.

It doesn’t take long for her name to start climbing the ranks at Antis’s. Fighters and spectators alike talk about her with equal parts fear and admiration. “Antis’s money-maker,” they call her, and it’s not hard to see why. When word spread about the unbeatable pink-haired girl, business began booming. Crowds flooded in, the promise of blood and spectacle drawing them like moths to a flame.

At first, she was just another new fighter, opening matches against scrappy, overconfident rookies. But that changed quickly. Within weeks, she was headlining brawls, her name alone enough to pack the stands. She didn’t just win—she dominated, often taking on two, three, even four opponents in a single night. And you? You kept count. You had to.

She tore through supplies faster than you could restock them. Bandages, antiseptics, meds—all of it consumed at an alarming rate. You’ve patched her up more times than you can count. But what stands out most isn’t just the state of her after a fight—it’s what she leaves behind.

Her opponents don’t come to you for minor injuries. No, they stumble in half-broken, their faces smashed and unrecognizable. Each night growing worse for wear. She fights with a ruthlessness you’ve rarely seen, a fury that feels almost personal. You can’t help but wonder what drives her. Is she trying to make a point?

She’s changing, turning into something the crowd craves. Her old, worn clothes have been replaced—black jeans, already ripped at the knees, and a sleeveless black tank that clings to her frame. She’s losing pieces of herself, or maybe just hiding them.

You still can't believe that there's a girl named Violet out there beating the shit out of people for money.

One day, you accidentally walk into her in Antis’s office. You’re here to drop off some invoices for medical supplies, your mind preoccupied with balancing the clinic’s dwindling stock against the rising demand. But when you open the door, you find Vi and Antis inside, deep in conversation.

Antis looks up first, his sharp eyes narrowing at your intrusion. “You’re early,” he grunts, though there’s no real annoyance in his tone. If anything, he seems amused. “Perfect timing. We were just talking about her look. What do you think?”

Vi shifts uncomfortably, her arms crossed over her chest. She doesn’t meet your gaze, her expression unreadable. You glance between them, caught off guard. “Her… look?”

Antis gestures to Vi with a sweep of his hand, his grin wolfish. “Yeah. Gotta sell the whole package, y’know? The crowd loves her, but they’ll eat up a good aesthetic, too. We’re thinking something that screams ‘unbeatable.’ Right, Vi?”

Vi’s jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, you think she might snap at Antis. But she doesn’t. Instead, her gaze flicks to you, like she’s waiting for something—your reaction, maybe, though you can’t figure out why it matters.

You clear your throat, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. “She doesn’t need to change anything. She’s already pretty... unforgettable.”

Antis’s booming laugh fills the room, but you barely hear it. Your focus is locked on her. Something flickers in her eyes—a fleeting softness, vulnerability, gratitude, maybe?—before she schools her expression and looks away. You tell yourself it’s nothing, just a trick of the dim light.

A few days later, she shows up in the medic room again. But this time, it's different—she’s not limping in, not dripping with sweat or covered in bruises. She’s just there, standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a casual air that catches you off guard. Her knuckles brush the doorframe absentmindedly as if she’s unsure whether to knock or let herself in.

“Do you need something?” you ask, glancing up from where you’re restocking the shelves. “Are you hurt?”

She shrugs, pushing off the door and stepping inside. “No, just… it’s quiet in here.”

Your brows knit together. Quiet?

She didn’t seem like the kind of person to seek out quiet, especially not in a place like this. “You came all the way here because it’s quiet?”

“Yeah,” she says simply, her tone flat, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She grabs the chair from your desk, spins it around, and sits backward on it, resting her arms over the backrest. “Problem?”

“No... it’s just…” You trail off, unsure how to articulate the strangeness of it. Instead, you turn back to organizing supplies, aware of her eyes on you. “Never mind.”

These visits became more frequent whenever she didn’t fight. And she even stays back for a bit after you patch her up. Sometimes she speaks, but more often than not, she doesn’t—simply sitting in that chair, letting the distant noise of the arena, the cheers and shouts, fade into the background. She’ll stare at the walls or absentmindedly tap her fingers against the chair’s edge, lost in thought, but there’s a serenity about her, an unfamiliar stillness that you start to recognize.

She never tells you what brings her in—if something is weighing on her mind or if it’s just a need to escape the chaos. And you don’t ask. Instead, you begin to anticipate her visits, a strange comfort taking root in the space between you.

The conversations are sparse, but you begin to notice the small things: the way her body relaxes when she settles into the old couch, the weight lifting from her shoulders as she stretches out, the way she’ll let herself drift off into a light sleep. It’s almost like you’re giving her a moment of rest she didn’t know she needed.

Vi strides in, her steps heavier than usual, and tosses a small, overstuffed bag of coins onto your desk. You recognize it immediately—one of the payout sacks Antis gives to the fighters, filled with their share of the betting pool. This one looks heavier than most, jingling with an unmistakable weight as it lands right on top of your paperwork. You pause, your pen hovering midair, and stare at it.

Her grin spreads as she catches the look on your face—wide-eyed and mildly incredulous. “Don’t worry, it’s not for you,” she teases, her tone light and mocking.

You roll your eyes, setting the pen down with an exaggerated sigh. “This from your fight last night?”

Vi nods, her grin twisting into something sharper, a little more wicked. “Some of my best work,” she replies, her voice carrying the faintest edge of pride.

You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow as your gaze sharpens on her face. “I don’t know,” you counter dryly. “He broke your nose, and the whole side of your face is swollen. Doesn’t sound like your best to me.”

Standing up, you step closer, brows knitting together in concern as you get a better look at the mess of bruises she’s sporting. Without thinking, your hands lift, reaching toward her face to assess the damage.

Vi flinches. It’s quick, almost imperceptible, but enough to make you hesitate. Your hands hover in the air, faltering. “Sorry,” you murmur, your voice soft.

She coughs awkwardly, shifting her weight. “No, uh—no. It’s fine,” she says, a little too fast.

This time, when you move again, she doesn’t flinch. She lets you gently brush your fingers over the swollen, splotchy skin along her cheekbone and jaw, and you feel the heat radiating off the inflamed area. Your touch is careful, clinical, but you can’t help wincing at the sight. “You’re kidding yourself if you call this your best work, Vi” you mutter. “Did you even ice this like I told you?”

Her eyes roll so hard you’re almost worried she’ll sprain something. She grabs your wrist—not roughly, but enough to lower your hand—and shrugs. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

You give her a deadpan look. “I did.”

Her smirk returns, a little more genuine now, though she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she sits on the edge of your desk and starts digging absently through the bag of coins, her fingers brushing over the shiny hexes and cogs. She doesn’t pull anything out, just lets her hand linger there.

“I brought you food,” she says suddenly, her voice casual.

You blink, momentarily thrown. “Food?”

She lifts a greasy paper bag into your line of sight, and you realize you hadn’t even noticed it when she walked in. “Yeah, you know. The stuff you eat when you’re hungry.”

“Okay, asshole,” you mutter, but the corner of your mouth quirks up despite yourself.

She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Got it for Loris and I, but he’s, uh… busy. Doing... someone else.” Her tone is flat, like she couldn’t care less, but there’s a flicker of something there—an edge of amusement, maybe. “So, more for us.”

You watch her for a second. You like to think that you can see right through her sometimes, that you can read her, but as usual, she’s an enigma. There’s something in the way she said us that makes your chest feel a little lighter, but you don’t let it show. “Thanks,” you say simply.

“Well, don’t get used to it,” she shoots back. There is kindness she tries to hide, though it’s written all over her expression.

She settles onto the old medical bench, pulling out boxes of food from the bag. You wince internally at the sight, thinking about the number of people who’ve bled, puked, and worse on that very bench. Just hours ago, Vi had been sitting there herself, nose snapped out of place, grinning through bloody teeth and swollen lips and teary eyes. Now, she’s perched there like it’s nothing, tearing into her meal with that same reckless ease she carries into every fight.

“Is this where I’m supposed to remind you how unsanitary this is?”

She shrugs mid-bite, unbothered.

You don’t bother arguing. Instead, you take the box she pushes toward you and settle in. The two of you eat in silence.

The days begin to blur into one another as Vi’s visits grow more casual. At first, you barely tolerated her—a pit fighter like so many others, bruised and bloody and reckless, shuffling into your medic room with the same bravado they all wore like armour. But somewhere along the way, you start to realize you actually don’t hate her company.

And as Vi continues her rise with pit fighting, you realize you also like to take care of her afterwards, even if it is your job or not. Each fight ends quicker than the last, her victories coming faster and fiercer. With every knockout, her confidence blooms—bold, intoxicating.

You’ve always been able to tell why people fight. Some thrive on the violence, seeking it out like a drug, their eyes lit with a manic fire that never seems to dim. Others do it out of desperation: to keep a roof overhead, food on the table, some semblance of stability in their lives.

At first, you were certain Vi belonged in the first category. The way she took punches, how she barely flinched when you patched her up—she didn’t just endure the pain. She absorbed it. Relished it. She wore her scars like trophies, and it almost seemed like she was chasing something more with every bruise and break.

But then you started noticing other things. How her clothes, once old and frayed, began to look newer. The leather jacket she bought just last week, the new earrings glinting against her skin, the sturdy boots she’s traded her worn ones for. Loris mentioned she moved out of his apartment recently and got her own place, though most of her money seemed to go toward booze.

You realize that fighting for Vi isn’t just about survival or enjoyment. It’s an outlet—a way to lose herself in the chaos and the violence, to drown out whatever it is she doesn’t want to face.

One night, you do something you’ve never done before: you buy a ticket to one of her fights. You’ve seen enough carnage in the medic’s room to last a lifetime, but something about Vi pulls you in, like gravity. The crowd is as raucous as ever—cheers, boos, the metallic clang of Antis’s bell marking the start and end of each match. You don’t join in the noise. You just watch, feeling out of place among the spectators who are here for the bloodlust.

And then Vi steps into the ring.

It’s the first time you’ve seen her fight, and it’s nothing like you imagined. You’d seen the aftermath—the blood, the bruises, the broken bones—but witnessing her in action is something else entirely. She’s skilled, fast, brutally efficient, her punches calculated yet devastating.

The man she’s up against is nearly twice her size, but it doesn’t matter. She ducks under his swing with ease, her fist connecting with his jaw in a single, bone-crunching motion that sends him sprawling. The fight is over in less than a minute, and the crowd roars its approval.

Your eyes linger on her, unable to look away. Her back is to you, sweat gleaming on her exposed skin, highlighting the intricate tattoo that snakes across her shoulders. When she turns, she seems to know exactly where you are, her gaze locking onto yours even in the chaos of the crowd.

Your breath catches. The rise and fall of her chest, the bead of sweat tracing down her neck, the raw, undeniable power in her every movement—it’s overwhelming.

Something stirs deep inside you, hot and wanting.

You leave before her second fight starts, slipping through the crowd and into the tunnels. The line waiting for you in the medic room feels endless, yet the blur of bruised faces and bloody wounds can’t distract you. Vi’s image lingers—sweat on her skin, her breath heavy after the fight, and the way her eyes found yours in the crowd.

You never bring it up, and Vi doesn’t either.

But something changes.

That night, as you treat her wounds again, it feels different. She’s quieter than usual, her usual cocky smile missing. You notice how her eyes linger on your hands as you work, following the glide of your fingers over her skin.

Your gloves feel thinner tonight, or maybe it’s just your imagination. You’re hyperaware of every small movement—how her skin feels warm under your touch, the sharp contrast of the calluses on her knuckles against your palm when you steady her hand to examine it.

She doesn’t flinch when you press a damp cloth to the gash on her temple. Normally, she’d tease you, mutter something about your bedside manner, or complain about the sting even though the both of you know she can take it. Instead, she just watches you, her gaze unwavering.

It’s almost unbearable.

Sweat, blood, and alcohol. That is what she smells like. Thick and hanging on your tongue like smog.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” you finally say, your voice softer than you intended.

Vi’s lips quirk, but it’s a faint ghost of her usual grin. “Just tired, I guess.”

It’s a lie, and you both know it.

You focus on cleaning the cut, trying to steady your hand. But her closeness throws you off. She’s sitting on the edge of the cot, her knees brushing against your thighs whenever she shifts. The room feels smaller.

“Almost done,” you murmur, though it feels like you’re saying it more to yourself than her.

Vi tilts her head slightly, giving you better access, and the movement draws your attention to the curve of her jaw. There’s a bead of sweat lingering there, catching the dim light, and you have to force yourself to look away.

“Take your time,” she says.

Your fingers pause for just a second before you continue cleaning the wound. Her words hang in the air, charged and heavy, and you wonder if she knows how they’ve started to affect you. You reach for the bandages, your hands brushing against her skin again. Her breath hitches—just barely—but it’s enough for you to notice.

“There,” you say, pulling back slightly. “Done.”

But your hands linger for a moment too long, your fingers still ghosting over her cheek. You’re not sure if it’s you or her that doesn’t pull away first.

Vi’s eyes are on you again, darker now, and the air between you crackles with something unspoken. You don’t know if it’s the proximity, the adrenaline still lingering from her fight, or the way her lips part slightly like she’s about to say something—but you can’t take it anymore.

“I should clean up,” you say abruptly, turning away to gather the used bandages and cloths.

For a moment, she doesn’t move, and you think she might say something to stop you. But then you hear the rustle of her leather jacket as she stands, the creak of the cot as her weight leaves it.

“Thanks,” she says.

You glance over your shoulder, just in time to see her slip through the door. She doesn’t look back.

Her visits dwindle after that night. Fewer and fewer until she stops coming altogether. She starts fighting nights back to back, ignoring protocol and refusing to see you after each one.

You try to shake it off.

To ignore it until you can't.

And then you visit her one day.

It’s not in the medic room or the fighting ring. It’s at her door, and it’s jarring, her address scribbled on a small piece of paper that Loris gave you.

You can’t tell if Antis is pushing Vi to fight more or if Vi willingly puts herself through it every day. She is always in rotation, more so than any other fighter. It’s gotten to the point where people are betting on how long Vi could remain undefeated.

You hate how you immediately perk up when her door opens.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice low and guarded.

Her hair is black, dripping wet and staining her pale shoulders with inky streaks. The change startles you, but what’s more disarming is the sight of her like this—stripped-down, raw. Bandages are wrapped haphazardly around her chest, serving as an impromptu shirt. Her arms, usually hidden beneath gauze and gloves, are bare, revealing the countless scars that crisscross her skin. You can kind of see where her tattoos start and end. You think they’re beautiful.

You open your mouth, but the words don’t come. Why are you here? For some reason, you hadn’t thought much about it before knocking. Now, standing here in her doorway, it feels like a mistake.

You’re not really friends.

“Uh,” you stammer, fumbling for an answer. Your gaze keeps straying to her hair, the stark black making it look longer, heavier. The pigment stains her hairline, dripping in uneven streaks along her temple. You notice how the damp strands cling to her neck, how the water pools in the hollow of her collarbone. It feels intrusive to look, but you can’t help it.

She’s staring at you, her shock quickly shifting to irritation. “You gonna stand there all day, or what?”

“I—your hair,” you blurt out. “It’s… different.”

She scoffs, brushing past you as if you’re not worth the effort of a proper reply. The door swings open wider, an unspoken invitation—or maybe just a lack of concern if you follow. You hesitate, then step inside.

Her apartment is small and dim, almost claustrophobic. The air is stale and thick with a faint tang of alcohol. The small bed in the corner is unmade, the sheets rumpled and half-pushed onto the floor. A punching bag hangs in the center of the room, its surface worn and cracked from overuse. There’s a stack of clothes shoved into the corner, and a few empty bottles litter the floor near the bed.

But it’s the quiet that hits you the hardest. It’s so different from the loud, chaotic energy she carries at the ring or the silence in the medic room. Here, everything feels muted, almost sad.

“You dye it yourself?” you ask, trying to fill the awkward silence as she settles onto the edge of the bed.

She glances at you, the bottle in her hand tipping slightly. “Yeah.”

“Antis didn’t make you do it?”

Vi snorts a small, humourless sound. “No. He suggested green.”

You try to picture her with green hair and fail. “Why black?”

“Needed a change,” she says simply, taking a swig from the bottle. The way she winces as she swallows tells you it’s not her first drink tonight. “Why are you here?”

The bluntness of the question knocks you off balance. For a moment, you forget. Then the weight of the box in your hands reminds you. “Oh, uh, I brought you some new hand wrappings. I saw them at the store and thought you could use them since yours are... shit. Yours are shit.”

Her eyes snap up to yours, something unreadable flickering in them before she looks away. “Thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” you reply, though your voice feels stiff and awkward. You shift your weight, unsure whether to stay or leave. Her gaze returns to you, steady but unreadable, and you feel the strange urge to say something—something meaningful.

“You... you okay, Vi?” you ask softly, not even sure why the words come out. You immediately want to take it back.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

You look at her, really look at her. Not in the way you do at work, but right now, as a friend(?), guest(?) in her space. The dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the way she grips the bottle of cheap beer as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright. She looks… tired. Beaten down, in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I don’t know,” you admit, your voice quieter now, careful. “I guess you just… you haven’t come by in a while. It looks like you need a good patch up again, no? Don’t worry, I won’t charge.”

The words sound too casual, too light like you’re trying to make a joke—and you are, but you can see the way her face stiffens after you say it. The faint bruises on her face, the bandages on her arms and hands, they’re a clear sign of how badly she’s been pushing herself—she’s been taking supplies from you without checking in, and you’ve noticed. You know she hasn’t gotten her pay yet. You haven’t had the chance to clear her for it since she stopped coming by after fights. It’s a faint sore spot between you both, an unspoken thing she won’t acknowledge, but you know she’s not getting the care she needs.

For a moment, her face hardens, and you wonder if you’ve crossed a line, if she’s going to snap at you. Instead, she just stares at you, her jaw tight, her eyes narrowing like she’s trying to figure out what your angle is.

You feel her gaze like a weight pressing down on you, making your skin itch.

Then, she exhales slowly, the tension in her posture easing just a fraction.

“I’m fine,” she says finally, though the words lack conviction. She shifts, setting the bottle down on the floor. “You done?”

You’re about to say something else—maybe ask again, maybe push for more—but then you realize it’s not your place. You step back, suddenly feeling like an intruder. “Yeah.”

You place the box of hand wraps on the counter, but your hands feel clumsy as you do. You want to say something more, something comforting, but the words stick in your throat. “Good luck tonight, Vi.”

She doesn’t respond right away. You turn to leave, your feet dragging slightly, unsure if you should even be leaving at all. It feels like there’s something more to say.

Just as you reach the door, her voice stops you. It’s softer than you expect, quieter, almost hesitant.

“Thanks.”

As you walk down the hallway, the ache in your chest lingers, a nebulous knot of worry, pity, and something else you can’t quite pin down. It tightens with each step, and you wonder, not for the first time, what weight Vi carries with her—and why it feels like it’s starting to settle on you too.

You shake it off, reminding yourself that you're not working this weekend. A rare luxury. Vi doesn’t need to know, and honestly, you doubt she’d even care. If anything, she’d probably be glad to be rid of you for a few more days.

That’s what you tell yourself.

The next time you’re sitting in your cramped little medical room, fussing over how some of the things on your desk are now out of place, the door creaks open just a sliver. You pause, mid-motion, and glance at the shadow shifting on the other side. When whoever it is spots you, the door swings wide with an almost violent energy, smacking against the wall behind it.

“Hey,” Vi stumbles inside, the loud thud of her boots and the echoing cheers from the fighting pit outside spilling into the room with her.

You stand abruptly, the chair scraping back against the floor as you take her in. “Vi?”

It takes you a second to recognize her. The black hair throws you off again, though the pink is already creeping back into the ends, the dye washing out like it’s given up trying to keep up with her. Paint smears her face—thick streaks running from her eyes down to her chin like some warped battle mask. She’s gripping a large bottle in one hand, cradling it as if it’s precious, her knuckles stained red.

Her smirk is crooked, her words slurred. “Won’t believe it,” she drawls, letting herself fall unceremoniously onto the old, battered couch in the corner. The springs squeak loudly in protest, and she almost knocks over one of your carefully hung paintings. “Hey.”

You frown, stepping closer. “Are you drunk?”

Her smirk widens, playful and defiant. “No.”

“No?”

“I just won,” she says, like that explains everything. “Again. Beat that big guy—metal jaw. You know the one. Knocked it clean off.”

She’s grinning like she just told a funny joke, but you don’t laugh. Fighters don’t go into the pit drunk, at least not that you’ve ever seen. They also don’t win, which is why Antis is strict about that; drunk fighters are bad fighters, and bad don’t bring in any money—he’ll kick anyone out who even smells like shimmer, let alone someone stumbling around with a bottle of booze.

You move closer cautiously, studying her.

She sits up straighter as you approach, her hair falling messily across her face. You catch a glint of her blue eyes through the strands—sharp, even with the haze of alcohol dulling the rest of her. Her gaze flickers down to her bloodied knuckles, and so does yours—red seeps through the white of her hand wraps, staining them in uneven patches.

She murmurs something, but it’s too soft to catch.

“What?”

“You weren’t here.”

Her words surprise you.

“Yeah,” you say, unsure how else to respond.

“Four days.”

“I know.”

“Why not?”

You hesitate, caught between wanting to downplay your absence and knowing she’ll see through it. “I’ve been busy. I have a life outside this place, you know that, right?”

“Right,” she mutters, though there’s something bitter in the way she says it.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her fingers gripping the bottle loosely. She stares ahead, her face unreadable, and for a moment, the room feels impossibly quiet despite the muffled roar of the crowd outside. You’re counting the seconds until someone from the pit shows up looking worse for wear, but she just sits there, unmoving.

Finally, she speaks. “Loris and I are going out for drinks at the bar next door.”

“More of them?”

She scoffs, but there’s a faint smile playing on her lips. “Fuck off. I was gonna invite you.”

“You want me there?”

“Sure,” she shrugs, leaning back against the couch. “Since you and Loris are so close.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing a plastic bag and filling it with ice. “Oh, yeah. Best friends. I thought you knew.”

She grins at that, her expression lazy but amused as you press the makeshift ice pack to her cheek. She winces, hissing under her breath, but doesn’t pull away. The familiarity of the moment settles between you, a rhythm you hadn’t realized you missed. You didn’t know how much you liked being around her, with all her flaws and quirks, until it was gone.

When she stands to leave, there’s a lightness to her movements. She pauses at the door, glancing back over her shoulder.

“But you’re coming, right?” she asks, her voice softer, less guarded.

You nod, tugging absently at the rings on your fingers. “Yeah. I’ll stop by after I finish up here.”

Her smile catches you off guard. It’s not the smirk or grin you’re used to—it’s warmer, something you’ve never seen before. “Good.”

And then she’s gone, leaving you alone in the stillness of the room. The ache in your chest hasn’t gone away, but it feels different now, lighter somehow, settling into the pit of your stomach like a flutter of butterflies.

You can’t wipe the smile off your face even if you tried.

Your night stretches on, each task blending into the next. Stitches to pull, bruises to ice, concussions to monitor. This is your rhythm—calm, focused, efficient. You don’t dwell on the blood staining your gloves or the bruised faces looking back at you. Usually, there’s a detachment, a quiet understanding between you and the fighters. You help them, and they leave.

But tonight feels different. The weight of the work presses a little heavier, the hours crawling by as the thought of Vi’s smile keeps replaying in your head. You remind yourself to focus, to get through the line of battered fighters who rely on you, but every second drags, making your usual rhythm feel offbeat.

It’s not just Vi’s smile—it’s the invitation, her softer tone, the way she paused at the door like your answer mattered more than usual. You don’t let yourself overthink it, but you do catch yourself checking the time more often than you’d like.

When the last fighter leaves, mumbling a tired thank-you, you exhale in relief. The medic room is quiet now, the faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air. You pack your supplies, stuffing gloves, gauze, and a few stray pins into your cabinets. The bathroom across the hall catches your eye as you pass, and for once, you pause.

The bathroom is dimly lit, the bulb above buzzing faintly as it flickers. The mirror is cracked in one corner, the surface smudged and grimy, but it still reflects more of you than you’re ready to see. Your sleeves are stained, and your hands are scrubbed raw but not clean enough. The uneven greenish light only makes you look worse, casting harsh shadows on your face.

You roll your sleeves up and run water into the sink, trying to scrub the splotches from your clothes. The water’s cold and your hands ache from the effort, but it feels worth it—like a small chance to put your best self forward. You straighten your shirt, brush off your jacket, and fix your hair as best as you can.

It’s not enough.

It’ll never be enough for a bar full of fighters, let alone for her. You think about going home to change, but it’s already late, and the idea of missing her is ridiculously unbearable.

Clutching your jacket tightly, you step into the downpour outside. The rain pelts against your skin, soaking through your boots as you jog the few steps to the bar. The hum of voices reaches you before the neon glow of the sign above the door does.

Inside, the place is alive.

Most of the crowd from the arena spills into the corners of the bar, still riding the high of the night’s fights. Tables are crammed with victorious fighters and their friends and sponsors, their voices rising above the heavy bassline of a song playing in the background. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, beer, and the faint tang of spilled liquor.

The dim lighting casts a warm, golden hue over the room, softening the rough edges of the crowd. People laugh, shout, and toast to victories. Some are already slumped over the bar, lost in exhaustion or celebration.

Your eyes scan the room, searching for her. Instead, you spot Loris first—his brick-like frame standing out even among the chaos. He’s leaning casually against the bar, arms crossed, but his face lights up when he sees you.

He waves you over, and you weave through the crowd, dodging dancing bodies and familiar faces who call out greetings as you pass. Your heart beats faster, a mix of nerves and anticipation, as you approach.

“You made it,” Loris says, his grin wide and genuine.

You huff, brushing a damp strand of hair out of your face, but you can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “Hi.”

Loris gives you a nod, his usual gruffness softened just a bit for you. He calls the bartender over, jerking his chin toward you to signal it’s your turn to order.

You glance at the menu briefly, though you already know what you want. After placing your order, the two of you settle into a quiet rhythm. Loris doesn’t seem like the type to fill silence for the sake of it, and you don’t mind. There’s a strange comfort in his presence.

You find yourself scanning the crowd without thinking, your eyes searching for pink hair at first, a flash of brightness that would stand out even in a place like this. Then you remember her hair is black now. Your eyes adjust, searching instead for the sleek leather of her jacket or the familiar glint of its spikes catching the dim, shifting light.

The bartender sets your drink down in front of you with a solid thud, breaking your focus. Your heart skips a beat, and you reach for the glass more out of reflex than thirst. The cool edge of it presses against your palm, grounding you.

“Happy you’re here.”

Loris’s voice cuts through the noise, low but steady. You look up at him, caught off guard. His eyes remain fixed on his drink, but there’s a weight to his words that makes your chest tighten.

“Maybe it’ll keep Vi from doing something stupid,” he adds after a beat, his tone rough but not unkind.

Your eyebrows knit together as you bring your glass to your lips. The liquor burns on the way down, but it’s nothing compared to the unease settling in your stomach. “What do you mean?”

Loris hesitates, his fingers drumming against the counter as he considers his words. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, almost reluctant. “She gets into fights sometimes.”

Your stomach sinks further. “Here?”

“Only happened twice,” he says quickly like it’s supposed to make you feel better.

“Oh.” You set your drink down, your fingers lingering on the glass. “Why?”

Loris exhales through his nose, his shoulders shifting as if the question itself is a burden. “Dunno. She won’t talk about it.”

You blink, caught off guard. “She doesn’t seem…” You trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence.

“Like a drunk?” he finishes for you. “She’s good at hiding it, most of the time. But she’s been drinking more. Gets worse when she’s stressed.”

You bite your lip, your fingers tightening around your glass. “Stressed about what? Fighting?”

He shakes his head, never answering. “She’s stubborn as shit, you know that. But something’s been eating at her, and I don’t think she knows how to deal with it.”

The words hang between you as the clamour of the bar continues around you. You glance down at your drink, the amber liquid catching the dim light, and take another sip. It doesn’t burn as much this time, but it doesn’t settle the knot in your stomach, either.

“I can keep an eye on her,” you say quietly, more to yourself than Loris. “She’s not supposed to be in the pit intoxicated anyway.”

He nods, a faint hint of gratitude flickering in his eyes. “She’s lucky to have you.”

The comment catches you off guard, and you look at him sharply, but he’s already turning back to his drink. You swallow, your cheeks warming for reasons that have nothing to do with the alcohol.

You look away.

And then you spot her.

Vi pushes her way through the crowd, a storm parting the sea of bodies on the dance floor. Her scowl deepens as she brushes off someone’s outstretched hand, her movements sharp, purposeful. The smudged paint on her cheeks—likely streaked from the rain—gives her the appearance of someone worn down by more than just the weather. Faint lines trace across her face like tears.

Your eyes trail to her arms, bare and flexing slightly as she adjusts the leather jacket slung over her shoulder. The spikes catch the dim, flashing lights of the bar, their edges softened by the haze of the room. In her other hand, she grips a glass of something amber and strong.

Your heart jumps, and you realize you’ve been staring when her gaze lifts to you. For a moment, she pauses in her tracks and just looks at you, her eyes scanning your face as if confirming you’re really here. Then, she grins—a slow, crooked thing that tugs at her lips and sends your pulse hammering in your chest.

The smile is lazy but unmistakably pleased.

She changes course, heading straight for you.

She doesn’t look drunk—not like before—but the memory of her swaying slightly in your medic room comes rushing back. You don’t miss the way her drink is already nearly empty, or how smoothly she downs the last of it before setting the glass on the bar with a clink.

When she reaches you, the faint scent of rain and leather clings to her, mingling with the sharper tang of alcohol.

“Hey,” Vi says, your name rolling off her tongue in that low, slightly rough voice of hers, and she leans against the counter next to you.

“Hey,” you grin, trying to keep your voice light even as your pulse races and Loris laughs at you. “You seem surprised to see me.”

“Not surprised,” she replies quickly, her eyes flicking to yours and then away, her smirk faltering for just a second. “Just… glad.”

The simplicity of her words sends your thoughts scattering, but before you can respond, she tilts her head toward your glass. “What’re you drinking?”

You lift it slightly, letting the dim light catch the remaining liquid. Vi eyes it for a moment, nodding in approval. “Good choice. Finish it.”

You blink, “What?”

She nudges your elbow lightly, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Come on. You’re here to have fun, right? Finish your drink, and I’ll show you what that looks like.”

Her tone is playful, almost teasing, but there’s an edge of sincerity beneath it. You hesitate, then take a longer sip, her expectant gaze making it impossible not to comply. The drink burns a little less this time, and when you place the empty glass down, she’s already holding out her hand.

“Come with me,” she says, and it’s not really a question.

Her fingers are warm when they curl around yours, her grip firm and steady as she leads you toward the heart of the bar. The crowd thickens as you move closer to the dance floor, the music pounding louder with every step. The bass thrums through the floor, climbing up your legs and settling in your chest, and the swirl of bodies around you becomes a blur of movement and heat.

Vi doesn’t let go of your hand, even as she turns back to glance at you, a faint smile pulling at her lips. For the first time in a while, there’s a lightness in her expression, a spark of something you’ve missed seeing.

Her usual confidence is there, but it’s softened, almost shy. You follow her lead, feeling awkward at first, but her laugh—low and husky—eases some of your nerves.

The two of you move together amidst the shifting pulse of the dance floor, the heat of the crowd wrapping around you like a living thing. You’re acutely aware of every brush of her fingers against yours, the subtle way her body angles toward you as if she’s drawn to your orbit.

You’re staring at her, looking at the few freckles on her cheeks you can still see under the smudged paint, at the pink ends of her dark hair, at the way her leather jacket has found itself back on her shoulders, muscular arms hiding inside the sleeves.

You think you’re a little obsessed with her.

The question forms on your lips before you can stop it. “Why did you stop coming by?”

Your voice is soft, barely carrying over the music, but it’s enough. Her gaze sharpens as she hears you, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face.

“I like taking care of you, Vi.”

For a moment, she freezes. Then, almost imperceptibly, she steps closer. Her hand slides to your waist, the calluses on her fingers warm against the thin fabric of your clothes. She doesn’t answer—not with words. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, her thumb brushing against your jaw, coaxing you to look at her.

Her eyes search yours, hesitating just long enough for you to realize what’s about to happen. Her breath, warm and faintly tinged with alcohol, fans across your lips, and a shiver runs down your spine.

And then she kisses you.

It’s quick at first, almost testing the waters—a soft brush of her lips against yours that leaves your breath caught somewhere between your heart and throat.

You pull away from her, face burning, when you notice her eyes are still closed, only to flutter open questioningly. Bright, piercing blue meets yours, and for a moment, you see panic flare in her expression.

“Fuck,” she mutters, running a hand through her rain-damp hair. “Fuck, I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” The word comes out instinctively, you cannot get rid of that stupid smile on your face. “No, don’t apologize.”

Your fingers find their way to the lapels of her jacket. Her face scrunches up, caught somewhere between hope and disbelief, but you’re not looking at her eyes anymore. You’re focused on her lips, on the faint scar cutting across the corner of her mouth.

You tug her closer.

You kiss her back.

She exhales sharply against your lips, the sound half a gasp, half a groan, as her hands come up to cradle your face and the nape of your neck. It’s as if something inside her has snapped, all her restraint slipping away as she pours herself into you.

The world around you dissolves—the music, the crowd, the cacophony of Zaun’s nightlife fading into a muted hum. It’s just her, her warmth and her touch, her breath mingling with yours as she holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring her to the moment.

Her lips move against yours with a fervour that borders on desperation, her hands mapping out the curve of your waist, the small of your back, your hips, and your ass with her eyes closed. She’s eager to have you close, to feel you.

You respond in kind, your hands sliding up her abs, your fingers tangling in her hair, tugging slightly as her groan vibrates against your mouth.

The sound she emits makes your head spin. Vi’s warmth is all-consuming. A tangle of heat and want that leaves you both breathless by the time she finally pulls back, her forehead resting against yours.

“I need to—” she starts, her voice hoarse and trembling. She glances around, as if suddenly aware of where you are. “Let’s go somewhere. Outside.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, her hand finding yours again as she guides you through the crowd. You barely register the shift in the air until you’re stepping into the rain-soaked streets of Zaun.

The alley she leads you into is dimly lit, the flicker of a neon sign casting faint, wavering light against the wet pavement. The rain is light but steady, cool droplets clinging to your skin as she turns to you, her chest rising and falling like she’s been running.

Her gaze is intense, unwavering, as she steps closer, crowding you against the brick wall. “You’re making me crazy,” she murmurs, her voice low and rough. Her hand cups your jaw, her thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path along your cheekbone.

“I could say the same,” you admit.

And then she’s kissing you again, this time with a fervour that leaves no room for hesitation.

It’s embarrassing how fast you tangle together after this, melding together into a pathetic heap out on the sidewalk for god and everyone in this podunk city to see. This time, you note with a ticklish glee settling in your stomach, your lips moving in tandem. They slit against each other with ease.

The rain seeps into your clothes, cold against your skin, but Vi’s touch is fire. Her hands are everywhere, rough and sure as they explore your body, pulling you closer, as if afraid you’ll slip away.

You thread your fingers through her hair, pulling her to you, matching her passion with your own softness. She groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and you take the opportunity to deepen the kiss, your tongue brushing against hers in a slow, deliberate caress.

Her grip tightens on your hips, fingers digging into damp fabric as she presses you harder against the wall. The rain patters around you, mingling with the sound of your ragged breaths, the occasional distant noise of the bar fading into irrelevance. She parts your thighs with one of her own and places a steadying hand right next to your face. She takes you in, wholly and completely and you let her.

The rain beats down relentlessly, plastering your clothes to your skin, but you barely notice it. Not when Vi is kissing you like this—like she’s trying to consume you like she’s been starving for this. Her body is warm, her lips are hot, insistent, and messy against yours, her teeth occasionally graze your lower lip in a way that sends shocks through your entire body.

Breathy moans expel from your mouth in tandem with curses as her leg creates delicious friction against the lace of your underwear.

“Vi,” you manage, though it comes out as more of a broken whine, breathless and desperate.

Her name on your lips pulls a moan from her, low and guttural, and the sound is enough to make your knees weaken. You think you might collapse if she weren’t holding you so tightly.

Your head spins. You feel like you’re dissolving, every nerve alight as you lose yourself in her touch. Your lungs burn, screaming for air, but you can’t pull away. You don’t want to. Instead, you cling to her, fingers tugging in her hair.

It’s overwhelming—her heat, her strength, her desperation. She’s chaos and want, all Violet and nothing else, and you’re caught in her pull, like a leaf tossed about in a gale. It terrifies you, the way she consumes your thoughts, your senses. It feels like being set aflame, every kiss, every touch fanning the fire until you’re sure you’ll burn to ashes.

Her hands slide lower, shoving into the back pockets of your pants, and she grips you firmly, guiding your hips to rock against her. The movement is deliberate, slow at first, but the friction makes you whimper, a sound that seems to drive her further. Vi pulls you closer, dragging your body against hers in a way that makes you shudder.

Your breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, each one punctuated by her low moans. You don’t think you’ve ever felt like this—untethered, your body moving on instinct as you grind down against her leg. Her hold on you tightens, fingers digging into you, her strength reminds you of all the noses she’s broken, all the wounds you had to tend to because of her. The thought makes you dizzy, makes you crave her more.

Vi’s hips roll up into you, meeting your movements with a messy rhythm that leaves you trembling. The heat pooling in your stomach builds steadily, like a fire that refuses to be sated, even under the torrent of rain.

You let your hands wander, sliding up the hard planes of her stomach, your fingers tracing the ridges of muscle through her soaked bandages. You’re struck by how solid she feels, how strong, and it makes your chest tighten with something you can’t quite name. When your palm presses lower, cupping her over her pants, she keens—a quiet, needy sound that has you aching to hear it again.

Oh, you want her to do that again, you’re going to make her do that again.

Her grip on your hips becomes almost bruising, her breath coming faster as she sighs into your mouth. “Fuck,” she mutters, the word a rough exhale that sends a shiver down your spine. And then, barely audible, she mumbles, “Cait.”

You falter, the word barely registering over the storm and your own pounding heartbeat. It’s unfamiliar and foreign, and it sticks in your mind like a splinter.

Her lips are on yours again, insistent and wild, her teeth catching your bottom lip as her hands slide up under your shirt. Her fingertips are warm despite the rain, leaving trails of fire along your skin as she pushes the wet fabric higher. You shudder under her touch, goosebumps rising in her wake, your body arching instinctively toward her.

Your mind is a tangle of emotions and half-formed thoughts. You’re hyper-aware of everything—of the rain soaking through your clothes, the way her breath mingles with yours, the quiet groans she can’t seem to hold back.

She moves with purpose, her lips finding the sensitive skin along your jaw, then lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. Each touch sends a fresh wave of heat through you, making it harder to think, to breathe.

Your fingers are clumsily slipping into her underwear and then you’re there, fingers brushing right against her clit—she’s so wet that your fingers brush right through her folds, gliding like silk.

“Vi,” you whisper again.

Her answering hum vibrates against your skin, and she pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. Her eyes are half-lidded, the blue of them dark and turbulent, like the sea during a storm.

You lean in, pressing your lips to the sensitive spot just below her jaw. It’s a place you know well, one you’ve touched countless times in the dim light of your medic’s room, dabbing at bruises and wiping away blood. Each time, she’d jerk away ever so slightly. Now, you press your lips there with the same precision, but the sense is wholly different.

She shifts beneath your touch, her breath hitching as your mouth moves deliberately along her neck. The breathy moans she leaves by your ear fuel you, spurring you on as you focus on the rhythm of her breathing, the way her body responds to you.

“Good,” she mutters, her voice rough and uneven. “Fuck, feels so good.”

Her hand moves beneath your shirt, her palm rough and calloused against the softness of your skin, digging under your bra. She cups your breast, her thumb brushing over your nipple, and the sensation sends a jolt through you, sharp and electric. Her other hand tangles in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your scalp tingle.

It aches, but you’re smiling, even as the rain continues to pour, soaking through your clothes and plastering your hair to your face. You sneak a glance at her, and the sight nearly undoes you. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her dark lashes clumped together with rain and dark, smudged makeup against pale, bruised skin. Her lips are parted, searching for something—your lips, your skin, something to kiss.

You don’t make her wait. She bites at your neck, teeth grazing your skin, and you gasp, your hand instinctively moving to her hair. You tug, and the sound she makes—a guttural, desperate moan—sends heat pooling low in your stomach.

She mutters your name, her voice soft yet filled with a hunger that shakes you to your core. There’s a plea disguised in her tone, a silent plea to give her everything, to let her take all you have to offer.

And you will. You’ll give her everything. Your time, your care, your thoughts and prayers, every piece of yourself. Your leg, an arm, the air you breathe, and the food you make. You’d give her your heart, too, if only she’d take it.

Her body trembles against yours, her chest heaving as her breath comes in sharp, shallow bursts. You can’t tell if it’s from the cold rain seeping into your bones or from the way your fingers move against her. You trace light circles over her clit, teasing, testing, and the way she reacts—hips jerking, her hands clutching at you desperately—you think she wants your warmth, and you hope that is what she chases after.

When you slip a finger inside, she gasps, her voice breaking into soft, fractured sounds that make your chest ache. It takes a few tries, careful adjustments to find the spot that makes her fall apart, but when you do, it’s like a floodgate opens. Her moans grow louder, more desperate, her body tensing beneath your touch as she winds tighter, tighter—

“Cait…” The same name from before slips from her lips like a whisper at first, so faint you almost miss it.

Then she says it again, her voice catching on the syllable, and your world tilts.

“Cait… Cait…” she chants, the name tumbling from her lips in fervent prayer, each utterance cutting through the haze that had clouded your mind.

It tastes bitter. Bitter like the alcohol still lingering on her breath. Bitter like the realization sinking into your chest.

You freeze, suddenly sober.

Your hands falter, and Vi doesn’t seem to notice at first, still panting, still trembling, her forehead pressed against yours. The furrow in her brow deepens when you pull back, untangling yourself from her arms.

“What—? Why’d you stop?” Her voice is hoarse and confused, the desperation still thick in her tone.

“Who’s Cait?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

“What?”

Vi blinks, her face a mask of confusion before her expression shifts. Guilt flashes in her eyes—raw and unguarded. It’s a look you’ve seen before, maybe once or twice.

“You keep calling me ‘Cait.’” You can’t meet her gaze as you say it. Your chest tightens, your throat burns, and suddenly, the space between the two of you feels suffocating.

You reach for her hand still under your shirt, running your thumb over her split knuckles. It’s a gesture that feels too tender now, and you pull her hand away from you, stepping aside to put distance between your bodies.

“I don’t know…” Your voice cracks as you say it, your mind grasping for anything to make sense of this moment.

“Shit. Shit.” Vi curses under her breath, running a hand through her wet hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—Cait’s just… someone I used to know, alright?”

The rain pours harder, the chill sinking into your bones as you cross your arms tightly against your chest. You glance down the alley, to where the streetlights cast faint glows on the wet pavement. Anywhere but her face.

“Um… I think I need to go,” you mumble.

“You just got here.” Her voice is low and unsure, and it makes you stutter for a moment. She takes a step toward you, one hand lifting as though to touch you, but she freezes mid-motion, her fingers curling into a fist.

“I know.” You force the words out. “But it’s been a long day.” You take a step back, and then another.

“Please.” Her voice cracks on the word. “Don’t leave.”

You pause, your breath hitching at the desperation in her tone. It tugs at something in your chest, something that still wants to turn around, to reach for her and say everything is fine. But it’s not fine. Not anymore.

“Vi…” Her name feels raw on your tongue. “You’re drunk. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

“No.” She cuts you off, the panic in her voice sharp enough to pierce through the rain. “No, don’t say that. I’m not drunk—”

“You are.”

Her words are rushed, and frantic, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as you. You shake your head, stepping back again, the cold of the brick wall scraping against your palm as you steady yourself.

“You’re clearly not in the right state of mind right now,” you say, your tone firmer this time. It feels like a lie, like a mask you’re slipping on to hide the crack forming in your resolve. “I’ll see you tomorrow, alright? Just… rest easy. You fight early tomorrow.”

She exhales sharply, a sound halfway between a sob and a growl, her hands clenching at her sides. “Fuck. Fuck!” The frustration explodes out of her as her fist slams into the brick wall beside her, the dull thud reverberating in the air.

The sound makes you flinch, your shoulders stiffening as you start walking away. Her voice chases after you, raw and broken, but you can’t bring yourself to turn back.

Your lips burn where her mouth had been, a phantom heat that refuses to fade despite the freezing rain. You wipe your hands against the damp fabric of your pants, but the scent of her lingers—smoke, leather, and something wholly hers. It clings to you like a ghost.

The sunlight catches you off guard the next morning. It filters in through the grimy window of the medic room, cutting golden beams through the usual haze of smog. The light feels almost intrusive, prying into the shadows you’ve grown accustomed to.

You glance at the old clock on the wall, your eyes heavy from lack of sleep. Last night replays in your mind like a broken record—Vi’s voice, raw and regretful, the taste of her still lingering on your lips, and that name, Cait, slipping like a shard of glass between your ribs.

Outside, the faint hum of Zaun waking up filters through the walls. Fighters pass by the door, their voices carrying muffled excitement or hushed murmurs about Vi’s loss.

“She’s never been this off her game,” someone says as they pass. “Wonder what’s eating her.”

You tighten your grip on the bandage roll in your hand, trying to ignore the way your stomach clenches.

The sunlight persists, illuminating every imperfection in the room—the cracks in the walls, the scuff marks on the floor, the faint stains on the counter. It’s the first time you’ve seen this much light down here, and yet it only seems to highlight everything you want to forget.

You try to focus on your work, lining up supplies that don’t need organizing, folding bandages that don’t need folding. You think about how Vi’s presence, chaotic as it was, had somehow made this job bearable. Her grins, her dry wit, the way she sat in that chair like it was her throne—it had all made this dim room feel a little less oppressive.

But today, the chair stays empty.

Word of her loss had swept through the Pit hours ago. Even the ones who bet against her—out of spite or fear—seemed shocked. You’d caught snippets of conversations, whispers about how Vi had gone down hard, how her opponent’s hit had landed with a sickening crack that echoed through the arena.

Ryker confirmed the details when he came in, his voice low as he described the sound her body made hitting the floor. The image had stuck with you, sharp and unrelenting, as you waited.

You expected her to show up the way she always did—bleeding but defiant, swaggering in with that cocky grin, already downplaying her injuries. But as the hours stretched into evening, the worry settled deeper.

Maybe she’d gone straight to the bar again, skipping protocol out of spite. You wanted to believe it, even if it wasn’t fair. If anyone had the right to be upset, it should be you.

You paced the cramped room, the sound of your boots scraping against the floor the only thing keeping you grounded. You told yourself you didn’t care—it wasn’t your job to chase after fighters who wouldn’t take care of themselves. But deep down, it stung.

The thought of her turning back to old habits—of her brushing you aside like you never mattered—settled in your chest like a bruise you couldn’t rub out.

And then the door creaks open.

Vi steps inside, her silhouette framed by the soft, golden light spilling through the window behind her. She hesitates in the doorway, a shadow of her usual self. Her confident swagger is gone, replaced by a tired, battered figure. The black paint streaked across her shoulders has smeared into her skin, blending with dried blood and sweat. Her leather jacket hangs heavily from her hands, and her makeshift top is damp, torn in places, and caked with dirt.

Her face tells the rest of the story. A swollen eye, a nose bent at an angle that makes you wince just looking at it, and a constellation of bruises across her cheekbone and jaw. Blood has dried in crusty patches along her hairline and temples, merging with the remnants of the black paint she hadn’t bothered to wash off.

She lingers there, gripping the edges of the doorframe like she’s bracing herself for rejection. You’re about to speak when her gaze finds yours, cutting through the silence like a knife.

“Hey,” she says, her voice scratchy and low.

You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, willing your tone to stay steady. “Took you long enough,” you say lightly, turning toward the counter to grab the salve and bandages.

When you glance back, the ghost of a smirk flickers on her lips, but it vanishes just as quickly. She steps further inside, lowering herself into the chair with a muted groan. There’s no quip this time, no offhand joke. She just sits there, shoulders sagging, staring at her bloodied hands like they belong to someone else.

You pull on your gloves, the snap of latex breaking the silence. “What happened?”

Her shrug is stiff, “Guess I wasn’t fast enough.”

There’s an edge to her voice, sharp and bitter. It’s self-directed, steeped in frustration, and it takes you by surprise. You soak a cloth in antiseptic and step closer, gently dabbing at a jagged cut above her eyebrow. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“Why didn’t you come sooner?” you ask, your tone soft but firm.

Her jaw tightens, and her hands curl into fists on her lap. “Didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

You pause mid-motion, your hand hovering just above her skin. Her words feel like a slap, and you’re not sure if the sting comes from the accusation. “I still like to take care of you,” you say quietly.

Vi scoffs, the sound is humourless and tired. “That’s your job.”

“Yeah, but,” you counter, meeting her gaze head-on. “I like doing it.”

The confession hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken between you. Her shoulders tense as she processes your words, her eyes darting away like she can’t bear to look at you.

You try to focus on cleaning her wounds, “You should’ve come earlier. You shouldn’t do this to yourself.”

“Why not? Seems to be what I’m good at.”

Her words strike a chord, a pang of hurt and anger swirling in your chest. You step back, giving her space as you set the cloth down. The sunlight streaming through the window catches on her hair, painting her in a halo of gold. She looks almost ethereal, and it breaks your heart, because you know she doesn’t see it.

“Vi…” You hesitate, unsure of what to say.

She looks up then, her eye searching your face. Her voice cracks when she speaks. “I don’t get it. I’m a jerk, right? Always have been to fucking everyone, even Loris and my sister and I... I mean, I’ve been a dick to you since day one. Why don’t you just… let me fuck myself up?”

“I’ve thought about it,” you admit, a hint of teasing laced in your voice. “But then I’d be a pretty shitty medic, wouldn’t I?”

Her lips twitch upward again, but it doesn’t quite stick. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice so quiet you almost miss it. “For everything.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

“I didn’t mean to…” She trails off, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The sincerity in her voice twists the knife deeper, but it doesn’t change the truth. “It’s okay,” you manage.

“No, it’s not.” She finally looks at you, her blue eyes clouded with something you couldn’t quite place. Regret? Shame? “I… You deserve better than that. Better than me.”

Her words hit like a punch to the gut. You swallowed hard, forcing a small smile. “You’re being dramatic. I’m fine, really.”

Vi shook her head, leaning back against the chair. “You’re not. You’re just too good to say it.”

Her eyes flick up to meet yours, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped spinning. You can see the pain in her expression, the regret and the sorrow, but there’s something else, too—a longing that mirrors your own.

But it’s not enough.

You step back, and the distance between you feels like miles. “You should rest. I gotta fix your nose.”

Vi nods, leaning back in the chair. The sunlight catches on her bruises, highlighting every mark, every scar. She looks like a warrior, battle-worn and beautiful, and you know you’ll never forget this image of her.

As you work in silence, you can’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like if things were different—if whoever Cait was didn’t haunt her, if she could see you the way you see her.

But deep down, you know the answer.

She’ll never be yours.

But you’ll always be hers.

When you finish, Vi hesitates for a moment longer than you expect, her movements slow and deliberate, as though she doesn’t know where to go next or what to do. She stands, and the way her shoulders rise, like she’s summoning what’s left of her strength, makes your heart ache.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Of course. It’s what I’m here for.”

As the words leave you, they feel hollow. You want to reach for more, to say something else, to make her understand. You want to scream, to tell her that you could be enough for her if she’d just let you. You could make her believe that she’s worth more than the pain she’s carrying. But instead, all you do is smile. It’s soft, strained, and bittersweet.

She doesn’t meet your eye as she turns toward the door. You watch her move, each step deliberate, like she’s carrying an invisible weight. For a fleeting moment, it’s as if she’s pulling the room with her, dragging everything back into the shadows.

And then, she’s gone.

The door clicks softly behind her, leaving the room eerily silent. You sit back in your chair, the quiet pressing in around you like a heavy fog. The warmth from the light seems to linger, but it doesn’t reach you anymore.

You sit back in your chair, staring at the empty space. The room feels colder and quieter, and you realize that, no matter how much you wish otherwise, she’ll always carry pieces of someone else with her.

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vinnybox · 12 days ago

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Cleave wants to know if he can make Steb make other expressions (It takes him a while but he eventually gets there)

FUCKED UP MY SLEEP AGAIN </3 So I'm gonna info dump about Cleave's name and why I chose it + Steb and Cleave ship name

↓ Info dump under cut ↓

SO FUNFACT ABOUT CLEAVE'S NAME!!!

Initially, I was gonna call him Pitch but the name didn't stick to me as much until I explored some more words that could potentially be used to reflect him as a character while also fitting into the world of Arcane. Especially since I want his name to give off a vibe that he's from Zaun too and I want it to feel memorable.

I randomly thought of the word "cleave" and went to look for its meaning. Turns out!!! Cleave is a Janus word where the word has meanings opposing itself!

CLEAVE to divide by or as if by a cutting blow or to adhere firmly.

So I was like wow!!! That's fun!!! And I had a base idea for Cleave being something along that! Being one of the other depending on the context and how he's used.

For most his life he's been used as the more common meaning which is to split something apart and he never saw himself as more than that. Only when Steb is introduced into his life will he come to realize he's more capable than what he thought of himself :) Something about "These talons has only ever known how to hurt. Not heal."

SO THE SHIP NAME... Why Sleave??? 🤨🤨🤨

Combining Steb and Cleave would make Sleave (hah... sound like Steve...) which I'm TOTALLY SANE ABOUT (I Initially called them FishBone because Vultures specifically bearded vultures eats Bones LMAO)

BUT ANYWAY, I went searching to see if Sleave was an actual word cause like... English isn't my first language and I dont wanna accidentally use words I shouldn't. Imagine my surprise when Sleave IS an actual word and the meaning was... more fitting than I expected for the pairing!

Cleave is like a mess of threads... Then there's Steb who is most likely a field medic who would be good with sewing/mending wounds.. DO YOU SEE MY VISION!!!!!!

#Steb arcane #arcane oc #steb x oc #original characters #oc #vinny rambles #post #doodle #guys im so not sane IM DERANGED EVENNNN #aughuhuagaURAHRG #thanks for coming to my TedTalk of derranged rambling about fictional people

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eatmyheartoutjpg · 1 month ago

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𓇻 𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗧𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗦 ˢᵉᵛⁱᵏᵃ ˣ ᵍⁿ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 ;; Shortfic. Platonic (can be seen as rom). You are a horrible fighter and very much weak. So, no one understands why you're the other hand of Silco, and alongside his second in command, Sevika. But one day, she stumbles back and you show off your skills. 𝘼/𝙉 ;; If you're wondering how I'm cranking these out, it's because these were sitting in my drafts and I've decided to post them after a bit of refurbishing! Also, not a big fan of this one, doesn't have a smooth flow.

11.23.24 Masterlist

The dim glow of neon buzzed faintly outside Silco's office. Zaun always hummed with life, but tonight, there was an edge to it—a tension that hung heavy in the air. You sat quietly in the corner, as you often did, thumbing through a well-worn medical journal that had somehow survived the grime of the Undercity. Silco was across the room, doing his usual paperwork. Both of you remained silent, the only sounds being his pen scratching paper or the flipping of your pages.

Silco didn't pick you for your combat skills—everyone knew that. You weren't Sevika, with her mechanical arm and ruthless efficiency, nor were you one of the brash enforcers who made Piltover's elites shudder. You were soft, meek even, compared to them. The whispering never stopped. "Why keep a fragile little thing like that so close?"

You didn't care at all, you're only here to work.

The door slammed open, and Sevika staggered in, the floorboards loudly squeaking underneath her weight. Blood seeped through a gash in her side, staining her coat. She leaned heavily on the doorframe, her usual air of dominance replaced by exhaustion and pain.

"Sevika." Silco's voice was sharp, but calm, as he rose from his chair. His cold eyes flicked to you. "Do something."

You were already moving, tossing your book aside and rushing to Sevika's side. She waved you off with a grunt, trying to brush past you, but her knees buckled.

"Sit down before you collapse," you snapped, uncharacteristically firm.

Her glare could've melted steel, but she complied, sinking into a chair. "Don't need a damn babysitter," she muttered, clutching her side.

"You need stitches," you said, pulling open your satchel. You always carried it, just in case—gloves, thread, antiseptic, syringes, and tools you'd cobbled together over the years. "And maybe a tetanus shot if whatever stabbed you wasn't clean."

You snapped on your gloves, stretching them around your fingers. You seemed oddly calm, as if this were routine.

"How do you even—?" Sevika started, but winced as you pressed gauze against the wound.

"Hold still." Your hands moved with precision, cleaning the wound and threading the needle. You heard her grunt in pain. "This would be easier if you stopped squirming." You felt the warmth of her blood coating your gloves.

Silco watched from the corner, silent but attentive. His gaze was calculating, as though measuring you against some invisible scale.

Sevika's breathing steadied as you worked. Her grumbles softened into a grudging silence, and when you tied off the final stitch, she finally spoke. "

You're good at this," she admitted, though her tone was reluctant. She never knew you could do this. She's never seen you work.

"Better than being good at fighting, don't you think?"

Silco’s lips twitched—just barely—but it was the closest thing to a smile you’d seen from him. "Better indeed," he murmured.

Sevika leaned back in her chair, examining your work. "Guess I owe you one," she said gruffly, though her tone suggested she wasn't thrilled about it.

You shrugged, collecting your things. "Just doing my job."

For the first time, the room was silent—not out of suspicion or derision, but respect.

The quiet between the three of you didn't last long. Sevika shifted in her chair, grimacing as she tested her side. "Still hurts like hell," she grumbled, though there was less edge to her tone.

"That's because you're not a machine, Sevika, no matter how much that arm makes you think you are," you replied without missing a beat, gathering the bloodied gauze and tossing it the nearby bin before tugging off your gloves in suit. "You'll need to take it easy for a few days. No heavy lifting, no bar brawls, no running headfirst into walls,” You paused, turning to your employer, Silco, "And work no jobs." You saw Silco narrow his gaze before nodding in agreement before you turned your head back at Sevika. "Understood?"

Her laugh was sharp, almost incredulous. "Take it easy? You do realize who you're talking to, right?"

She doesn't take orders from you, Silco has to say it himself.

You raised an eyebrow, unbothered. "I do. And I also know if you pop those stitches, you'll be right back here begging me to patch you up again. And I don't like beggars." You spoke in a lightly mocking tone.

Sevika started to retort, but Silco cut her off. "Sevika." His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of finality. "You'll do as they say. You're no good to me half-dead."

For a moment, Sevika looked like she might argue, but she thought better of it. Instead, she leaned back in the chair with a huff, the cushion collapsing behind her. She muttered something under her breath about "soft hands" and "too many rules."

Silco turned his attention to you, his mismatched eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you.

You straightened, feeling his gaze like a weight on your shoulders. "I know how to keep people alive." You did not turn around, instead keeping your eyes transfixed on Sevika, looking for any hints of discomfort.

"And that, it seems, is worth more than I gave it credit for," he replied, his tone softening just slightly. "Zaun needs fighters, yes. But it also needs people who can mend what others break."

Sevika snorted, crossing her arms. "You're lucky, y'know," she said, nodding toward you. "Most people like you wouldn't last a day down here. Seems you got the skill to.”

You didn't reply, instead focusing on cleaning your tools. You weren't one to bask in attention, at least of all from the likes of Sevika or Silco. Still, her words lingered in the air, carrying an odd mix of grudging respect and curiosity.

"I'd rather keep it that way."

Her huff was faint, hesitant. “Thanks... doc.” You weren't the bruiser, the muscle, or the enforcer. But you were something else, something Zaun desperately needed. And Silco knew it. That's why he kept you close.

ˢᵉᵛᵉⁿ

#arcane #arcane x reader #arcane x you #arcane fanfic #arcane series #fanfiction #fanfic #headcanon #wholesome #gn reader #cute #arcane season 2 #arcane season two #sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika

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fishymedic · 1 month ago

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(Under Construction, don't mind the dust)

-Oc, multimuse, crossover, multiverse friendly -18+ (writer is 21+ he/him) -Themes are heavy given source material; will be tagged if graphic/in depth but yes there'll be medical talk, mistreatment mentions towards him regarding his species+being from zaun,etc -Iconless, multi para format -High Activity also active at mercer -Sideblog, cannot follow back but i would if I could

Rules

-It should go without saying but hate isn't allowed (racism, transphobia, ableism) -Don't godmod -Please feel free to interact, multiple memes/threads etc are encouraged this is a coop hobby after all -All my knowledge is the show+things people mention Bio

~basics~

Name: Steb Age: ?? Species: Vastayan *humanoid, fish features in eyelids/ears+skin Gender: Trans Male he/him Sexuality: Bisexual (male leaning) Occupation: Street Medic, Field Medic, Officer ranked Enforcer

Born, raised in Zaun as a rather expressive child drawn towards trouble. Or much more specifically the act of helping others. In the act of healing, medical attention that is never ending in need around where he grows up. Learning to reign his emotions in more when rather young.

Finding himself quite frequently on scene of skirmishes or volatile encounters with scrounged together aide. There for the bystanders who often get caught up in the bloodshed. Or help clear the streets when trouble goes down.

Stealing a bag of medical supplies one evening from Piltover. Of far much more use to him, to Zaun than topside after all and like one bag of supplies would make a dent in things. In this act however getting caught and an choice presented as others would put it. Either he gets locked up, or he can become an enforcer- a medic. His only condition being to take the supplies back home.

Ever the outsider, not allowed to go back home. Under contract to never talk about the deal cut. Though he isn't the most talkative person in general. Most he speaks usually being in terms it's the only communication possible, for other's or work purposes.

#(I thought it would be fun to have his poking prodding for the pinned post)#(it shows character)#(which is his menace energy and that the medic in him was checking if loris was responsive)

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kikiiswashere · 1 year ago

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Children of Zaun - Chapter 14

Medical Magician

Pairing: Silco/Fem!OC

Rating: Explicit

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

Chapter Summary: The Children devise a temporary plan as Enforcers stalk the Lanes after the botched robbery. Katya and Sevika teach the revolutionaries some basic first aid. Enyd's motherly instincts kick into overdrive. And act on it.

Previous Chapter

Word Count: 5.3K

Wednesday evening came and Katya filled the pockets within her father’s coat with rolls of bandages, tubes of ointment, and vials of medicine. Unbeknownst to the haughty, Piltie medical staff assisting at the mines, she was carefully pilfering the gross abundance of supplies they had brought with them.

A bottle of painkillers here, a spool of surgical thread there.

In the afternoon on Monday, when the medical aid from Piltover finally showed up, Silco sneaked into the small curtained-off section in triage where Katya was setting an unconscious miner’s leg. He expected her to jump at his surprise appearance, but she remained attentive and focused on her task, only giving him a quick flick of her eyes as an acknowledgement.

“The Topsiders are here,” he had whispered.

“I know,” she replied. “I’ve already heard them grumbling about assisting in the rescue efforts.”

“They are currently bringing in their first shipment of medical equipment and supplies.”

Katya’s fingers stilled for a brief second in setting the splint.

“First?”

Silco nodded, the corners of his lips tilting in that tiny smirk he frequently wore.

“If I start occasionally sending Brothers and Sisters to you for minor medical assistance, do you think you could hand off supplies to them?”

Katya wrapped the miner’s leg in a length of gauze, stabilizing the splints, and secured it with tape.

“I do not know any of the others,” she said, finally looking at him. “How will I know if they are one of us?”

“We’ll use a secret word.”

As the day progressed, and as the doctors and nurses from Piltover – and their bountiful supplies – settled in, more miners were unearthed. Most alive, some inevitably dead or close to it. Most of the clinic’s focus was on aiding the survivors; but some was given to those workers who got dinged up during the excavation. Clocked on the head by a rock or beam, pulled muscles from loading rubble into carts, cuts from being careless with equipment.

Katya made a point to be the staff member who aided these people. If she heard them murmur ‘Zaun,’ she’d hand them a small, random assortment of goods.

A couple times, she was hesitant to pass items off. One instance, the girl seemed too young, knobby-kneed, and button-nosed. But she looked fierce and determined, so Katya slipped her a couple vials of tranquilizers. The second time, a young man who looked to be about the same age as her, sauntered into her make-shift exam room and leaned against the table. He looked hungrily at her, and when she went to examine the wrist he said he had hurt, he leaned in too close and whispered the secret word in a low, husky breath. She deemed his wrist to be fine, and sent him along with a box of bandages. She decided it would not be right to deny other Brothers and Sisters because one happened to behave sleazily. It carried on like this Tuesday and Wednesday, Katya stowing away her own stash to bring to The Last Drop, and for her clients, as well.

Once her coat was sufficiently packed, Enyd’s empty bag crossed over her shoulder, she locked her home and headed toward Sevika’s. Her friend and her family lived in a too-small apartment a few streets down from the heart of one of the Undercity’s major marketplaces. Katya slid around the outskirts of the stalls and tents, occasionally dipping through a narrow alley between vendors when an Enforcer appeared on her path.

She turned right at a wide-mouthed lane, followed the winding street away from the pulse and flicker of the marketplace, and came to a stop in front of a tall apartment building. It leaned so heavily into the canyon of the street that metal beams had been drilled and soldered into its across-the-street neighbor to keep it propped up.

Katya stepped under the portico and skimmed the directory before pressing the call button for Sevika’s unit. The outgoing drone was quickly cut off by the line being picked up.

“I’ll be out in a sec!” Sevika hurriedly promised. Behind her voice, Katya could hear the distinct whining and griping of her little brother. Before she could understand what the child was on about, the call was cut.

She stepped back into the lane, worrying the loose thread in her pocket. True to her word, Sevika appeared quickly; noisily running down the stairs and bursting through the door. Her silver eyes glimmered with annoyance; thick upper lip stuck in a curled sneer.

“Everything alright?” Katya asked.

Before her friend could answer, a small, piercing voice shot down from on high.

“Sevika!”

She growled and turned her head up. Katya followed her gaze and the voice up the face of the building to a window that was pushed open. A small boy with a mop of straight black hair and deep russet skin was hanging out halfway.

“I wanna come!” he cried.

“Go back inside, Lu!” Sevika yelled back. “You’re not coming with! Saraph will be home with the twins in thirty minutes!”

“Please!”

“NO!”

Lu huffed and scowled. “You’re the worst!”

“Right back at’cha, you little turd!”

He stuck out his tongue and blew a very wet raspberry in Sevika’s direction. He then ducked back into the apartment and slammed the window shut.

“Little fucking menace,” she hissed under her breath.

“He’s a child, ‘Vika,” Katya admonished.

“He’s a brat.”

It was the medic’s turn to scoff, “He is – what? – eight? He’s a dítê.”

Sevika rolled her eyes and began stalking down the lane, Katya at her heel. They walked in silence until the younger sighed, and asked, “What did you want to teach the Brothers and Sisters tonight?”

Per Benzo’s idea, Katya had approached her friend Monday afternoon to ask if she would consider helping her teach the other revolutionaries how do administer basic first aid. Sevika had enthusiastically agreed, a wide, white smile splitting her coal-streaked face in half.

“I was thinking it would be best to keep it simple,” Katya replied in a hushed voice. “How to wrap and bandage wounds.”

Sevika nodded, “Simple enough.”

Just as with the previous Wednesday, the pair rounded the back of the tavern and performed the intricate knock. After a moment, Silco opened the door. He appeared stiff and agitated.

“You’re early,” he commented as they slipped inside. He eyed the bag over Katya’s shoulder, squinting in confusion. “Is that? – “

“Your mother’s bag, yes,” she answered. “I did not know when I might see her again. Can you return it?”

Silco sighed and mumbled, “She’s here. You can give it to her yourself, if you’d like.”

“Your mom’s here?” Sevika asked, disbelieving. “Like, for the meeting?”

“Yes,” he answered tightly, “for the meeting. She wants to know what’s going on.”

“That’s great!” she chirped. “Maybe she can encourage older Trenchers to join us!”

Katya watched the man’s face pinch and she said, “Do not saddle his mother with such a big expectation, ‘Vika.”

The trio entered the large stockroom. Crates had already been butted up against the walls, and a small number of people had already arrived. Enyd sat at the back of the room, stitching the hole in a shirt. Vander and Mek stood near the front of the room, both of their hulking frames leaned over a stack of crates as they quietly spoke. The augmenteer had a stubby pencil in his hand and he scribbled over a scrap of paper. Benzo was propped up in a ratty wingback chair, his injured leg held up by a small box. He still looked a little sallow and tired, but Katya noted that his eyes were not nearly as fever-fogged as when she had last seen him.

“Sevika, can you go ask Benzo if we can use him for our lesson? I want to go put these supplies away.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” she responded, leaving Katya and Silco’s sides.

“You have supplies?”

She nodded. “In my coat.”

When his eyebrows dipped, she opened one half of her coat and opened one of the secret pockets she’d sewn into the seams. She reached in and produced a small bottle of painkillers. Silco’s eyebrows and the corners of his mouth lifted, and an amused breath puffed through his lips.

“Very innovative,” he praised.

He walked with her to the corner of the stock room where she and Vander had stashed her first offering of supplies the week before. Watching Katya pull vial after vial, bandage after bandage, syringe after syringe from her coat, Silco was reminded of hearing about something called a ‘circus.’

When he was little, there had been flyers stuck to the lamp posts on the Promenade advertising for the event. It would take place in the heart of the Golden City, so of course he and his mother could not go; but the images of exotic animals, colorful tents, and people with painted faces had intrigued him. He battered anyone he could with questions about it. What was a circus? What happened there? What did the animals do? Who were the painted people?

He had finally found some answers in a wizened miner who was working the same tunnel as him and his mother. He claimed that he snuck into a circus in his youth, and regaled Silco with descriptions of acrobats and giant wild cats leaping through rings of fire. There had also been people called magicians – not mages – who performed sleight of hand and magic tricks that enthralled the audience; pulling a whump out of a hat and strings of handkerchiefs out of their mouths. The people with the painted faces were called clowns, and they performed silly skits. Apparently, one skit involved over ten clowns emerging from a comically small carriage. The old Trencher recalled that after the fourth clown appeared from the tiny vehicle, the audience began to gasp and laugh in increasing disbelief and joy as more and more performers tumbled out onto the dirt arena.

Watching Katya pull several medical supplies from her unassuming coat, he thought her a little bit magical and mischievous. He’d never been to a circus, nor seen magicians nor clowns, but he thought the delight and wonder with which he watched her had to be similar to that of the old miner.

“What?” she asked, wedging rolls of bandages between bottles of ale. She felt her cheeks pinch pink and her lips pulled into a self-conscious smile.

“I’m just,” Silco began, his mind racing to explain why he had been staring at her, “glad that you decided to help us. We’ll be much better off with your access and expertise.”

Katya was grateful that the blush she felt creeping under her skin stayed mostly to her neck, which was hidden by the collar of her coat. Once the last of the stolen goods was hidden away, they made to stand and she unslung the bag from her shoulders.

“I need to give this back to your mother.”

While putting the supplies in there hiding spot, the stockroom had filled more. Katya craned her neck over the incoming crowd and spied the woman on the stack of crates with her needlepoint. Her lips were in a tight, amused line and her blue eyes flicked up as she felt the other’s on her. Gently weaving through the meandering bodies, she and Silco made their way to her.

“Hello, Katya,” Enyd greeted, setting her sewing in her lap.

“I wanted to return your bag,” she said quietly, clumsily folding the canvas sack and handing it to her.

“Oh, thank you, dear. Where you able to find a use for those trinkets?” Enyd asked, taking the bag, and stowing it under her sewing.

Silco’s eyebrow cocked at the question. Before he could inquire, Katya answered.

“Yes, I took them to Benzo’s, and Cairn was able to give me coin for them – “

“Wonderful!”

“H-he gave me quite a lot,” Katya said in a hurried and hushed voice. “I don’t feel right not giving you any in return.”

Enyd’s jaw set and she took the young woman by her upper arm.

“Katya,” she said firmly. “It was not strictly a favor. I am paying for your services. Yes? How much would that medicine cost otherwise?”

Katya’s voice caught in her throat; her mouth opening and closing mutely until words came.

“I – I am not sure. The mine gets the product at cost because of buying in bulk – “

Enyd chuckled and gently shook her arm, “It’s alright, Katya. You are helping us,” she glanced up at her son, “let us be there for you.”

Just as when the older woman had presented her with the bag of treasures, Katya’s throat squeezed and her heart clenched.

“I’m sorry,” Silco broke in, “what are you referring to?”

“Alrigh’ let’s get this gatherin’ goin’!” Vander yelled over the crowd, clapping his hands, and walking over to the designated front of the room. The chatter of the crowd died down and heads swiveled towards the barkeep.

Vander’s eyes found Silco in the crowd and he jerked his chin, beckoning his friend to join him. Giving his mother and Katya one last look, he left their sides and strode to the front of the room.

“Now, all o’ yas probably know that we did not get th’shipment last weekend,” Vander began, his tone apologetic but firm enough to insinuate that commentary was not wanted. Regardless, a discontented murmur slithered through the crowd.

Vander’s jaw ground side to side, his eyes skirting over scared and agitated faces. At the back of the room, he spied Katya standing next to Enyd. He peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth and stood taller.

“The plan fallin’ apart is on me, Sil, n’ ‘Zo,” he added. Beside him, Silco’s face briefly twisted before dropping back into something aloof. He folded his arms across his chest as Vander continued.

“We shoulda planned better n’ made our instructions clearer ‘fore headin’ out on th’job,” he said, settling large, bruised hands on his hips. “We’ll do better next time – “

“When will next time be?” a voice called out.

Heads swiveled in the direction of the question, and Katya’s nose wrinkled to see that it was the same Brother that had whispered the secret word too close and too wet into her ear earlier in the week.

Annoyingly, but not entirely unfairly, questioning murmurs ghosted through the crowd as the Brothers and Sisters looked back to Vander, Silco, and Benzo.

“There haven’ been no other reports of artillery shipments comin’ in,” Vander answered. “An’ even when they do start deliverin’ again, security may be beefed up.”

“What we need are more numbers,” Silco broke in. “We can use this blunder to our advantage.”

Vander looked over to his Brother. The crowd leaned in, interested as to what he meant.

“LeDaird has ordered more Enforcer presence in the Lanes since Saturday. The brutes are questioning and intimidating anyone and everyone in their path. We can use this injustice to persuade more Fissure Folk into our fold. This setback can be a means to bolster the Children of Zaun’s numbers.”

The bodies in the room shifted in tentative excitement, wondering hums and looks exchanged between neighbors. Next to her, Katya felt Enyd tense, her breath hitching. It caught in a wheeze at the back of her throat, and the older woman brought up the back of her forearm to muffle the sound of the cough. Katya reached for the glass of water at her side and Enyd met her hand halfway, gratefully taking it. Her blue eyes crinkled in silent thanks as she lifted the drink to her mouth.

“That’ll be th’focus fer now,” Vander agreed. “Get more people t’join the cause. Topside may have means, but we have the numbers.”

Stronger sounds of affirmation jostled through the room and Vander looked pleased. He grinned and looked to Silco. The other’s lips hooked up briefly, but despite it having been his idea disappointment rippled under his skin.

“Now,” Vander called again, cueing the crowd to quiet, “not gettin’ th’weapons wasn’ the only thing that went wrong last Saturday.” He gestured over to where Benzo sat propped up, “’Zo got shot.”

Benzo jokingly waved and flourished toward his bandaged leg.

“Luckily, one o’ our newest Sisters was able to patch him up,” Vander continued, bright silver eyes honing in on Katya. “An’ she n’ Sev have agreed t’take us through some patchin’ n’ healin’ basics. Katya?”

Katya felt her cheeks heat up as heads swiveled in her direction.

“Give me your coat, dear,” Enyd murmured, already gently peeling it from her shoulders.

Katya allowed her and made her way toward Benzo. A low, wheezy whistle blew through the bodies, followed by stifled giggles and groans. Unsurprisingly, it was the troublesome young miner. His friends sniggered around him, while Katya frowned and rolled her eyes. She made a point to stand taller and drew her shoulders back.

Vander and Silco stepped into the audience, allowing the room’s attention to fall on Benzo and the two women flanking his chair. While the barkeep stepped only a few people deep into the crowd, Silco slithered a little farther in, skirting the edges.

“You’re alright to do this?” Katya asked Benzo in a hushed voice.

He smiled, nodding, and gave her a thumbs-up. An appreciative look came over her face and she tenderly placed a hand on his lifted shin. She looked to Sevika. The teen was vibrating, excited to help lead something; to be looked at for guidance and information. She grinned broadly, her round cheeks colored coral.

Finally, Katya faced the gathering fully and took a deep breath.

“Hello Nurse!” the cat-caller cried, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify what he clearly thought was a clever jape.

The group around him cackled loudly, and Katya sorely wished she still had her coat. She would’ve whipped out her father’s revolver and shot the ground at the asshole’s feet. Her teeth squeaked between the squeezing of her upper and lower jaw, willing some sort of snappy retort to arrive on her tongue.

Suddenly, there was a loud, splintering THWACK! The miner’s laugh was cut short and he jumped as a knife blade appeared between his fingers, expertly threading the gap between them, and puncturing the wooden crate beneath. The hilt was in Silco’s white knuckle grip and he stared down at the instigator.

Daggers in his icy eyes, as well as his hand.

The group that had been laughing with their friend began to rustle agitatedly; clearly wanting to stick up for their peer, but uncertain if they should mess with one of the revolution’s founding members. The air was sucked out of the room as the rest of the crowd tensed. Enyd had bolted out of her seat, clutching Katya’s coat against her chest. Her eyes were wide with fear and disbelief. Once again – for a split second – she didn’t recognize her boy. The flash in his eyes; the twisted scowl on his face. But she restrained herself from interfering. If she wanted access to his world, she needed to adapt and let him be the leader. Her jaw cramped and her heart thundered. A gross tickle built in the back of her throat, and she choked back the phlegm climbing her trachea.

Finally, the cat-caller scoffed, “It’s just a joke, mate.”

“Your commentary is unimaginative, unnecessary, and unwelcome,” Silco snapped back.

“Shut the fuck up, Kells,” Sevika added, puffing her shoulders, and glowering at the man beneath Silco’s blade.

Kells huffed and slumped back into his seat. Silco unstuck the blade’s tip before tucking it back in his shirtsleeve. Katya watched, her cheeks sucked against her teeth in overwhelm. She looked at Kells, who sat like a toddler – arms crossed and avoiding her gaze – and then to Silco. He gave the smallest of nods to encourage her to continue. She swallowed her crossness down, along with a sweet swell of gratitude and began the lesson.

“Tonight, Sevika and I will show you how to treat and dress an open wound that does not need sutures – “

“What’s sutures?” came a loud, young voice from within the group.

The interruption through her off, but the bright genuineness of the question caused her to grin.

“Sutures is another term for stitches.”

“What if the cut needs su-chus?” came another voice.

“Pipe down!” Vander cried over the heads of the revolutionaries.

“We will get to that a different time,” Katya said. “For now, let us keep things simple, yes?”

She stepped to the side and allowed Sevika to kneel behind Benzo’s extended leg, dictating the steps as her friend completed them. For the most part, the presentation was quiet, save for the intermittent murmurs and hums of understanding and awe.

“Now, obviously, we are just redressing Benzo’s wound here,” Katya explained. “If and when you need to assist another or yourself, chances are likely that it will be . . . messier. Once you and the injured person are in a safe space, you’ll remove any clothing that may be in the way.”

Sevika plucked at the fraying edge of Benzo’s cut pantleg pointedly.

“An’ be certain to bring any bloody clothes with ya,” Vander interjected, “or burn ‘em. We don’ want’a leave a trail fer Enforcers t’follow. Yeah?”

“Vander is correct,” Katya agreed, her stomach jolting. She hadn’t thought of that piece. Of Enforcers using bloody clothing and trails to sniff out the Children. She was grateful for his attention to that detail.

“But before you do away with any piece of cloth, make sure that there are no scraps or threads stuck in the wound. Leaving foreign objects in the body could lead to infection. Before I could stitch Benzo up or dress his wound, I needed to fish out a piece of his trousers that the bullet took in with it.”

“Hurt like a mother fucker, too,” Benzo added with a shudder.

“Yes, it is not pleasant. But developing sepsis is even worse – “

“What’s sepsis?”

Another rogue question from a small voice.

“Sepsis is the body’s extreme reaction to an infection,” Sevika answered. “It causes your organs to malfunction, and shut down if not treated.”

Katya’s chest swelled with pride as her young friend took a more active role in the demonstration. She was pleased that ‘Vika had retained so much from their time together.

“Speaking of,” the medic continued, “this is a particular challenge in the Undercity, but when you go to clean or dress a wound – fresh or no – do so with as clean of hands and tools as possible.”

Muted scoffs and muttered exasperations prickled in the air. Heads shook and eyes rolled.

“I know, I know. Just . . . do the best that you can under the circumstances. Now, once the injured party is in a safe location and you are certain there are no foreign bodies in the wound, you will want to gently clean the area with water and a clean cloth.”

Sevika made a show of dutifully and delicately wiping down Benzo’s leg around the healing wound.

“Didn’ know ya had such a soft touch, Sev,” Benzo joked.

“You should talk to your mother more then!” Sevika snapped back.

The group snorted and giggled. Vander and Silco went about trying shush them, and Katya closed her eyes, her hands finding a home on her hips.

Children indeed.

The laughter simmered quickly under her, Vander, and Silco’s unamused looks, and she was able to continue.

“Once the area is clean enough, take a piece of cloth or gauze, place it over the wound and apply direct pressure.”

Sevika took up a square swatch of gauze and draped it over the line of stitches, before lifting to her knees, placing a large hand on Benzo’s thigh and pressing down. He yelped and hissed, and a shit-eating grin curled her lips.

“It will hurt,” Katya confirmed. “As should a tourniquet, if it is necessary.” She paused. “We will discuss tourniquets next, perhaps.

“Once it seems like the blood is clotting, take a long strip of fabric or gauze, or whatever you have available, and wrap the body part.”

Sevika unrolled a length of gauze and wound it around Benzo’s meaty thigh, mindfully overlaying the strips as she went.

“Don’t make it too tight,” she said, tucking the end of the cloth into the pleats of the bandage.

Katya nodded and finished, “The wound will need to be cleaned every day. We will have anti-biotic ointment and burn cream in our stores. Not many, though, so we will have to administer them on a triage basis.”

Silence stretched through the store room and Katya nervously shifted from one foot to the other.

“Are . . . there any questions?”

There were murmurs at first, and then like a wave coming to shore, a swell of questioning voices crashed over Katya and Sevika.

“What if a limb needs to be amputated?”

“What’s triage?”

“Is it true that if you soak in mineral water, it’s good for a cut?”

“I have a cut. Can you take a look at it?”

“How long does it take something like that to heal?”

“What are we supposed to do if someone’s guts get blown outta their body? What’s that called?”

Katya put her hands on her hips again and sighed.

“That is called evisceration,” she said heavily. “Hopefully it is something we will never have to deal with – “

“But have you seen it?” a young, wide-eyed teen asked.

“I have,” she answered. The youth in the crowd ‘oo-ed’ and ‘ah-ed’.

“Like I said, hopefully it is something we are spared.”

Katya’s heart pattered and her tongue felt fizzy as she added, “Hopefully we are free before something like that can happen.”

Her gaze found Vander and Silco’s in the crowd, and she smiled at their hopeful expressions of pride. The rest of the questions were shared between her and Sevika. Benzo even answered a few of his own. Namely “Did it hurt?” and “Did you cry?”

The meeting slowly petered out, the Children having instructions to lay low and scope out potential recruits.

Before leaving Benzo’s side, Katya rechecked his wound and its wrappings.

“How have you been feeling?”

“A little better each day. Fever’s gone down, I think.”

She held the back of her hand to his forehead, and then his cheeks.

“It seems so,” Katya agreed. “You’ve been eating and drinking, yes?”

“Yeah, Van’s keepin’ me well-fed and watered – “

“Actually water, right?” she sternly asked. “Not beer.”

“No beer – “

“Or hard liquor.”

Benzo rolled his eyes. “Aye. He’s been followin’ your pain-in-the-ass-no-fun instructions t’the letter.”

“Not fer a lack of tryin’ to misbehave,” Vander chuckled, appearing at Katya’s side. “Caught ‘im tryin’ to hobble his way to the bar one morning.”

“Walking on it may not be a bad idea at this point,” Katya mused. “To maintain strength in your leg before the muscles can atrophy any further.”

“Oi, Van.”

Mek had trundled up to their small group, the paper he had been scribbling on earlier clenched in his large hands.

“I should have your things ready by the end of this week. We got plenty o’ scraps in the back.” He looked the Katya and continued, “Your brother’s brace should be ready by Friday, by the way.”

She nodded, still not use to the various contexts of her life intermingling in one place. Her mind raced, trying to recall how much coin was left from her clients; then she remembered the surplus of money Cairn had given her and her worry eased.

Mek bid them good night and shuffled off.

“If the walking goes well,” Katya said, rising to her feet and brushing the dust from her knees, “you should be able to return to your shop soon.”

Benzo chuckled. “Yeah, don’ want Cairn over payin’ for anymore items.”

Despite his playful wink, Katya’s stomach dropped.

“He’s jus’ pullin’ yer leg,” Vander said kindly, knocking an elbow against her side. “Cairn came by t’give ‘em an update on shop happenings. Mentioned ya stopped by.”

Discomforting relief coated Katya’s bones. She forced a grin and said, “Right. I should be heading home.”

“I’ll walk with you!” Sevika offered.

“Yes, thank you, ‘Vika,” Katya said. Her fingers went to worry the thread in her coat pocket before realizing she wasn’t wearing it.

“I need to get my coat. Give me a moment.”

She weaved through the mingling bodies to the back of the room. She spied Kells as she went, skulking out of the basement with his group of friends. His dark brown eyes briefly flicked to her and his nostrils flared before he disappeared into the hallway. Unease crawled under her skin like cave lice skittering up rock. She shook it off and continued toward Enyd’s perch at the back.

Silco was at her side, the two quietly discussing something. The woman’s face seemed sterner than at the start of the meeting, and Silco’s own expression was tight. Katya was certain she was reprimanding him for nearly skewering Kells’ hand. She felt awkward about inserting herself, but she was not going to leave her father’s coat behind.

Silco noticed her first. He stood to his full height and his face softened. Enyd gawped for a moment until she also saw the young medic approach.

“Thank you for doing that,” Silco said. His eyes flicked around the room before adding, “I’m sorry some of our recruits are not as respectful as they should be.”

Katya’s mouth quirked and she shrugged.

“The Undercity needs as many supporters as possible. Beggars cannot be choosers. Not all the Brothers and Sisters will be couth – “

“The ability to respect someone is not exclusive to those of us with manners,” Silco countered. “He won’t interrupt you again.”

Warmth spread through the medic’s cheeks and she hoped the flush was minimal.

“Well,” she stammered, “thank you for your help with the presentation then.”

“Katya,” Enyd said, gently handing over her father’s coat. “I received a large bushel of produce as payment from one of my tailoring clients. Silco and I cannot possibly eat it all before it turns. Would you join us for supper tomorrow?”

Both Silco and Katya stilled at her offer. Blindly, not taking her eyes from the older woman’s face, the she reached for her coat and hugged it against her chest.

“I wouldn’t want to impose – “

“Nonsense,” Enyd scoffed, her hand flicking through the air as if to brush the concern away. “If it was an issue, I wouldn’t have offered.”

“I – I will not have been able to clean up after work. I do not want to come to your home filthy.”

“My dear. I live with my son, who is a manual laborer in the mines. I am unperturbed by most mess.”

“Mum – “

“I insist,” Enyd implored.

A grin Katya did not mean to let loose curled her lips. She looked gratefully to Enyd and then curiously to her son. Only for a moment was Silco lost for words.

“Yes, come for dinner,” he finally said.

A strange cheerfulness coated Katya’s insides and she agreed. As she slipped her arms through the sleeves of her coat, Enyd gave their address and the time she should stop by.

She bid them good night as Sevika appeared at her side. The pair left the stockroom, and mother and son watched them go; Silco’s eyes lingering after they had disappeared through the doorway.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled and he turned to see his mother regarding him. She looked smug for reasons he couldn’t understand.

“What?” he demanded.

“It’s nothing.”

Notes: Thank you so much for reading! Again, if you are enjoying this story so far, please drop a comment and reblog!! Also, just message me if you're interested in being added to the tag list, so you don't miss out on future chapters or anything else CoZ related.

Coming Up Next: The Council convenes to address Rynweaver and other donor's concerns about the Academy's scholarship program. Katya has dinner with Silco and Enyd. Can it be called a date if your mother instigated it and she's there??

Next chapter

Taglist: @dreamyonahill @pinkrose1422 @altered-delta

#children of zaun #coz #arcane #arcane fanfiction #silco #sevika #vander #benzo #original characters #silco x oc #silco x katya #silkat

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zaunseye · 1 year ago

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npc ʟɪsᴛ

These characters are used for scenes in which their narrative presence is needed. They are not fully fledged muses, and are only available for short-form 1v1 threads or in scenes accompanying Silco. Detailed headcanons for some may be present.

sɪɴɢᴇᴅ

tag :: 𓁿 the doctor is in ;; singed ic 𓁿 available for asks/headcanons :: yes icons :: sometimes

Long time ally of Silco, Singed is also known as 'The Mad Chemist' for his radical techniques and lacking ethics. He works for Silco as both a chemist and a doctor, preforming medical procedures as well as concocting potent drugs like shimmer. Silco trusts him, but is suspicious of his side projects.

sᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ

tag :: 𓁿 the ogre lieutenant :: sevika ic 𓁿 available for asks/headcanons :: yes icons :: sometimes

The chem baron's most trusted workers, Sevika is the lieutenant of the underground movement. She does jobs for Silco that require muscle and command, usually leading smuggling operations and protection rackets. Silco greatly trusts her, viewing her as a worthy successor to Vander in her role by his side.

ᴅᴜsᴛɪɴ

tag :: 𓁿 sweet spit :: dustin ic 𓁿 available for asks/headcanons :: no icons :: no

One of Silco's inner circle, Dustin has been a member of Silco's gang since he was a child. He's mostly mute, speaking only in simple phrases and grunts, but he's excellent with a knife, and Silco gives him assassination and tracking work. Silco might not be a fan of his antics, but he still trusts Dustin with his life.

ᴍᴀʀᴄᴜs

tag :: 𓁿 sheriff of the eye :: marcus ic 𓁿 available for asks/headcanons :: no icons :: no

The sheriff in Silco's pocket, Marcus is tuck in too deep for his own good. He's been covering for Silco's crimes for nearly a decade, and despite his reservations, will do whatever it takes to keep their business on the down-low. Silco knows he has the sheriff by the short hairs, and has no qualms about using that to his advantage.

ᴛʜɪᴇʀᴀᴍ

tag :: 𓁿 chuck the barkeep ;; thieram ic 𓁿 available for asks/headcanons :: yes icons :: sometimes

Thieram has been with Silco's gang since his youth, originally working as an armed thug. However, due to an injury sustained in the cannery, he was taken off the front lines. When it was discovered that he could mix a mean cocktail, Silco put him behind the bar, instead. He worries and frets over his boss, always there to offer a drink.

ғɪɴɴ

tag :: 𓁿 fangs of zaun ;; finn ic 𓁿 available for asks/headcanons :: yes icons :: sometimes

The second most powerful Chem Baron under Silco, himself, Finn suffers no disrespect and ruthlessly pursues profits and power above loyalty. He is often described as "Zaun's Fangs", holding the majority of the guns as well as the poisons. He and Silco have a contentious relationship, with Silco seeing him as an insult to his father's legacy.

#zaunseye npcs #𓁿 the doctor is in ;; singed ic 𓁿 #𓁿 the ogre lieutenant :: sevika ic 𓁿 #𓁿 sweet spit :: dustin ic 𓁿 #𓁿 sheriff of the eye :: marcus ic 𓁿 #𓁿 chuck the barkeep ;; thieram ic 𓁿 #𓁿 fangs of zaun ;; finn ic 𓁿

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witchcraftandburialdirt · 1 year ago

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...so. are you a doctor or a "doctor"? i still quite didn't get that down. like, is that your hobby or did ya actually get a license to do all that?

═══ UNPROMPTED INTERACTIONS ═══ LEAGUE VERSE

The mage is loathe to admit the bolt of fury that passes through him at the suggestion that his work was all some silly hobby, as if he hadn't poured his entire life into it, as if he hadn't spent long nights in the academy straining his eyes and wondering if his siblings had fallen asleep yet. How all of his years of training could not save them or revive them back from their graves. Robin finds himself tense, thankful that his back is facing the executioner as he fears his eyes alone would curse the man with foul nightmares, demons, and the worst things the world could offer. To insinuate all he did was a hobby-- if he had the strength within his jaw surely his teeth would be broken with how tightly he's pressing them together.

Relax, boy. Your anger will not aid you in any way, you forget how you are now --- your time in this place has blindsided you, has it not?

Color slowly returns to his knuckles as he exhales the bitter air within his lungs, the air that wishes to be filled with anger and vitriol, but only sounds akin to a light hiss. He wants to scream. The mage allows his gaze to stay low towards the various medical tools infront of him, focusing on the thread which slid through one of the needles before him. What a horrific thing, to be so far removed from the past that now it was nearly impossible to imagine him actually being apart of it. It wasn't as though he could simply tell Draven who he was either, what if he did research into it and found out all of the terrors the mage had done for money, survival and out of sheer curiosity?

No...No.

"I..I am a doctor, I trained as one within Piltover Academy for 5 years before I continued my studies elsewhere within Zaun in order to..." Help? No. He did not help anyone, not how he had wanted....not when he was so gripped by grief and misery. But alas, that did not much matter now, did it, "I also was there for your country's invasion of Ionia... I healed many injured and sick, and buried countless bodies."

Ah yes, he was once again reminded about how viciously he hated Noxus, how if he could he would slide a knife across the Grand General's throat or deliver his head to the Order of Shadows. Just to make that man feel the same agony he'd inflicted onto so many others--

Temper, boy.

"But yes, I am a doctor and I intend to act as one while I am here. To insinuate otherwise would be quite an insult to me given how many of your own wounds I have stitched and healed. That would be the same as my asking you if your title of "executioner" is a fluffy gift or if you have actually earned it. If I was not a doctor I would not disrespect the craft by labeling myself as one."

#ic #rp #verse: league #axewhirl #blood mention tw #murder ment tw

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movedtoferinehuntress · 1 year ago

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☾ * ―― ᴄᴀɪᴛʟʏɴ & ʙʀɪᴀʀ 「 @hemomania 」 ≣ Continued Thread = ❝ Briar deals with a hurt friend ❞

"Briar, It's okay," Caitlyn whispered, trying to ease the younger woman's look of confusion. She shifted up against the side of the wall, as she hissed in pain. The zaunite who attacked her was already dead, the blood staining the ground and her gun the sole tool that finished him off. The bullet ripped through his chest, leaving a bloody hole against his chest where his heart had been. He bleed out, quickly and his sounds no longer echoed in the air. A flinch came from her side, as she reached over to press her hand up against the wound near Briar's hand to help apply harder pressure.

The sad tone caused Caitlyn to turn and give her attention to Briar. A sordid irate tone on the tip of Briar's tongue caused Cait to smile softly. "You did just fine. I don't blame you, it's not your fault," Zaun's violence bled from the streets, with every corner holding a dangerous threat of its own. Caitlyn knew what she signed up for by being down here, helping those who needed it, and investigating incidents she was asked to. There was a cost and the brand upon her neck did not help matters either. It's why her hood usually stayed up, and the black ink of the tattoo trying to hide the scarred flesh carved into her neck.

A part of the young detective worried this would be too much for Briar, the way her blood seeped from the wound would no doubt entice the vampire-like woman. "Hey, Hey, Briar, look at me," Caitlyn said, trying to get her to focus as she looked up toward her and then asked her a question. It wasn't funny, and yet Caitlyn still chuckled a little and nodded. "It hurts, yes," Caitlyn leaned forward as she pulled her bag off her back and put it down. "We have to clean it, stitch it up, and bandage it; then I need to find somewhere to rest," Caitlyn didn't know if Briar knew how to do any of that, but she could help her feel useful if she felt guilty. That's the last thing Cait wanted, the detective didn't blame Briar for any of this, the hemogolem was not at fault.

Dark red stained her purple vest as she let go of her wound and tried to open the pack to get the on-site medical aid kit that had everything she needed. "Stay on guard, anyone will take advantage of this situation right now," She also informed her, knowing that a harmed animal was an easy kill; and if someone wanted to try and steal her weapons or the bounty on her head this would be a perfect time to do so.

#hemomania #[muse] caitlyn — interactions.#[post canon verse] — its time for change.#[panda speaks] — tracker.#thread: of blood and teeth

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elisethetraveller · 1 year ago

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Continued from; misstantabismuses

See link for old post as Tumblr glitches when I try to add it

Fury was not something that came easy to the pale mage. Her anger was a mellow thing, bubbling like a slow tide until it grew into a drowning force. However, that did not mean it wasn't resting beneath the surface, ready to breach once provoked. And Elise's patience only extended so far. The market was not a place of peace; nowhere in Zaun was, however, it was, or should've been, a place of safety. One of the few of its kind in Zaun, and sacred because of it.

It didn't help that the market was, besides the medical den, one of the spaces where the mage spent most of her time. The trading folk brought in stories from the rest of the world, and most were more than willing to talk with the healer when they had the time. She'd even established a few trading agreements of her own, exchanging the coin that came her way for herbs and remedies for the medical den. Not that Silco didn't keep the place well-stocked, but after a particular round of sickly months, the healer realized that the traders didn't always know the value of their wares, making acquiring them challenging. And while she was slowly sharing her knowledge with the volunteer nurses, none of them could yet boast the experience needed to examine an unknown plant for its medical properties.

Silver eyes glancing across the carnage, there was a bitter sense of relief to be found in the fact that this was at least the market and not the medical den. The sick and injured made for sorry targets, but if they were bold enough to attack Bridgewaltz Market… Gnawing at the inside of her cheek, there was a fleeting taste of iron before her magic healed the wound. Something old twisted and turned in her mind, considerations of war and fire and blood and screams and terror passing her mind's eye before she blinked, and they were gone. The market was symbolic. It was stability and trade but also an agreement managed under Silco's watching eye. Whoever these attackers were, they wanted to topple that. Or perhaps she was thinking about it too deeply, and they were just hooligans trying to make a statement and a name for themselves.

"They brought barrels." There was a cruel sense of luck to the fact she'd been here during the attack. "Though I didn't see what they did with them." No doubt it had been some kind of fuel. Something to stoke the fires so they burned quick and hot. The prickling smell of burnt canvas mixed with the scent of blood and guts.

Brow furrowing, Elise tried to remember what had happened. Epinephrine was a tricky bedfellow, and as crucial as it was in the moment, it clouded the memories afterwards. Picking at a loose thread in her sleeve, the white-haired woman sighed in frustration. They had rushed the square, though from where she hadn't seen. Above? Bellow? No… They had come from the alleys. They weren't firelights. The haphazardness of the attack alone spoke to that, but their masks had been different. A crude facsimile, perhaps. And their clothes more orange than green. The sore muscles in her abdomen flexed and twitched. A few shards of shrapnel had lodged themselves into the soft flesh, but they and the wound were long gone. All that was left were the hole and a patch of fabric dyed an eerie shade of crimson. She would mend it once she got home.

Attention returning to the matter at hand, Elise turned with Silco as Sevika approached. Moving closer as Silco was handed something, the mage looked on curiously as he examined the former explosive. Technology, chem-tech or otherwise, was not her forte, and it wasn't long before her attention slipped from the device to Silco himself, awaiting his conclusion.

"The liquid in the barrels was a different colour, more brown, so that's at least something. They're not carrying the chemical around in bulk." And if they were lucky, Jinx would be able to tell them more about the manufacturer. "I saved the shrapnel from everyone I have treated so far." Including what had been lodged in her own side. Holding out a leather pouch, she gestured for Silco to take it. "I imagine they filled the bombs with whatever was at hand, so maybe Jinx can discern something from that as well."

Looking back at the woman already limping away, it took a moment for the pale mage to match her recollections with her own experiences. "According to her, there were at least a dozen attackers, though I counted around eight." It was a natural response to assume that there were more attackers than present. "I suspect they were using the small explosives to mask their numbers on top of the general…" She gestured out to the corpses and limbs strewn about.

"After that, the details she could give were general at best; they were masked, had guns, and were loud. Mixed genders though they all sounded young." Though that was hardly a surprise. "She swore several of them had tattooed eyelids, however." It was the one helpful detail the woman had given, though the mage couldn't say how reliable it was. "Do you know any gangs with that as their identifying marker?"

( @misstantabismuses )

#ic #misstantabismuses #death #violence

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revivedxfighter · 5 years ago

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Birthday Blitz - Jack

@zauns-insane-secret

The WRO Captain does not know much about the boy. She found him during a search through the remains of Midgar, a city that once held the world in its steel fist. Now Midgar lays in its dusty crypt where suspicion of monsters and outcasts lurk there. This time, the reports led to something, but it is not a monster or a criminal. He is a child, lost and scared. Harmony carries a small surprise that she bought on her way to WRO Headquarters where the boy is receiving treatment.

A brisk walk through corridors and a lift in the elevators brought Harmony to the medcal wing. The staff did not give the Captain trouble in finding Jack’s room. They’re not used to handling pediatric patients, but the staff did what they could to make it as child-friendly as possible, just to help the scared boy be more comfortable. A couple pictures of baby animals hang on the white walls. The blanket once a plain shade of teal replaced by a blue blanket adorned with patches of stars in various shades of blues. A gift provided by the charge nurse who has grandchildren of her own and had a soft spot for Jack. Two balloons in the shape of gold stars float over the bedside table, weighted by a basket of small toys and a note to wish him well from the nursing team.

Harmony smiles as she enters the room. “Hello. Did you sleep okay?” She approaches the bed, being careful not to scare the boy. She holds the gift behind her back. “I wanted to stop by and see how you are...And I want to give you something.” The Captain reveals the gift, which is something that she hopes will give Jack comfort.

#zauns-insane-secret #birthday blitz #sometimes nurses and medical staff order flowers and little things for pediatric patients #just to give them nice surprises to brighten their day which is what they really need #I think Jack needed that #had this set at some point where he was taken to WRO HQ #didn't forget that thread btw

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alisha-on-arcane · 3 years ago

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My completed Arcane fanfic, organised

You, who have nothing at all to believe in - Young Vander/ Silco from meeting to betrayal. Apparently pretty funny in places. This Young!Silco is sweet, feral and only approximately sane. 40k words, M rated, very shippy. Jinx Is Missing - six months after Silco’s takeover, Ekko and the Firelights capture Jinx. Silco is as reasonable about it as you’d expect. Sevika makes some medical decisions. 8k words, T rated, gen with slight timebomb. Right Hand Woman - Sevika’s point of view on the first month or so of Jinx. 3.8k words, T rated, gen. No, I Have Not Had Enough - immediate post-canon in Zaun, with Sevika and Jinx. 4.4k words, T rated, gen. Being A Short Correspondence Between Two Distinguished Scientists In The Year 974 AN - Heimerdinger & Singed exchange letters about Viktor. 480 words, general audiences, gen. You Will Report To Me In Detail - sinister/funny/sad Vander / Silco sexy letters set in the episode 1 timeskip. 2.8k, M-rated. Needs and Wants Young Vander / Silco smut. 3.3k words, E. NTA Shortly after episode 3 and stung by criticism from Sevika, Silco posts on the reddit thread Am I The Asshole (AITA) to get an outside perspective. Lots of characters (mostly not tagged) chip in. Some of their responses say more about them than about the original poster. 1.1k, T-rated. I never thought you could love me like you used to Missing scene in episode 3, because we never thought Silco would give up trying to persuade Vander after one chat, did we? Or: when you meet your ex after a long time, and find old habits are hard to shake off. 1.8k, M rated. Stillwater Marriage series My favourite. Reconciliation AU in which Vander hands the reins to Silco on the way to prison, figuring it couldn’t go much worse. Silco deals with a slightly different set of challenges and they successfully navigate a reconciliation over the years. 70k words, separate chapters somewhat self-standing but as parts of a whole, written for Zaundads Bingo fan event but spread out after that, M and E rated. Perhaps We Were Friends, Before, In Zaun - Short fic thinking about Warwick being Vander and Silco in one body. 981 words, Gen, T rated.

#arcane fanfic #silco fanfic

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thescrybe · 6 years ago

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Soraka, The Starchild

An age ago, when time itself was young, the inhabitants of the celestial realm regarded the fledgling races of Runeterra with growing concern.

These creatures deviated wildly, unpredictably, and dangerously from the great designs intended for them by those above. The guidance and fates that had been woven into the night sky often went unseen—or worse, were misinterpreted by their simple mortal minds, leading to chaos, uncertainty, and suffering.

No longer able to merely watch, one celestial being chose to descend to the mortal realm, determined to untangle the knots in the tapestry of the world. This child of the stars took on a form of flesh and blood, and though the powerful magic coursing through her veins burned this new body from the inside out, she knew her suffering meant little if she could help to heal all that was broken and incomplete.

And so Soraka came to be, and set upon her journey to soothe the mortals she encountered.

Even so, she quickly learned the capacity for cruelty that the peoples of Runeterra possessed. Whether on the battlefields of inescapable conflicts, in the seedy underbellies of sprawling cities, or on the frontiers of the untamed wilderness beyond them, there seemed to be no end to the fighting, betrayal, and suffering Soraka witnessed. She watched, helpless, as mortals ignorantly broke the threads of destiny they could have woven together. Their lives were too short, she reasoned. They were simply unable to see the greater patterns, now lost.

But as Soraka lived among them, as one of them, trying to repair what little of the damage she could… something incredible and wholly unforeseen happened.

From the snarls and tangles and knots, the messy breaks in the great patterns, Soraka noticed a new, unintended design emerging—intertwined, and of a staggering complexity.

Unintended and wild, the mortals were forging new and unknown futures for themselves. From the celestial realm above, it had seemed like pure chaos; but with her new perspective, and blessed by the stars to stand against the erosion of time, Soraka now beheld an almost perfect beauty. Just as mortals had the deepest capacity for cruelty, so too did they possess infinite potential for kindness, and inspiration to rival anything among the stars.

Soraka realized her place was not to repair or replicate the celestial pattern. While a part of her craved the fixed, comforting destinies of the stars, she knew in her heart that static fates could not contain the unbridled, dynamic potential of mortality.

And so her work took on renewed vigor, driven to unlock the untapped possibilities of all she met. Soraka sought now to inspire and guide rather than shepherd, to see what unblazed trails each mortal would discover for themselves in their brief, radiant moment.

Over the millennia, legends of the Starchild have filtered through all the lands of Runeterra. Some tribes of the Freljord still speak of a far wanderer, a horned healer who soothed the icy bite of the most brutal winters. In the depths beneath Zaun, rumors float of a lilac skinned medic who would purify weary lungs from the ravages of the alchemical Gray. In troubled Ionia, the oldest myths of the Vastayashai’rei recall a seer who communed with the stars themselves, and called upon their light both to heal the wounded and scorch those who would do further harm to the First Lands.

Currently, Soraka calls the westernmost peaks of Targon her home. She watches over an isolated tribe of vastaya, teaching them her healing ways, and tending quietly to her own needs—though what brings her so close to the great mountain, or how long she will stay, only Soraka knows.

Many times, she has watched entire civilizations dance close to the brink of destruction, and she has learned that she cannot save those who do not wish it, nor force them to see what they will not.

All the same, Soraka is determined never to stop trying.

#leagueoflegends #league of legends #lore #league of legends lore #champions #champion #soraka #the starchild #mount targon #targonian

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stellavotum-blog · 6 years ago

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･ﾟ✧ѕσяαкα, тнє ѕтαяᴄнιℓ∂☽༓✩

An age ago, when time itself was young, the inhabitants of the celestial realm regarded the fledgling races of Runeterra with growing concern.

And so Soraka came to be, and set upon her journey to soothe the mortals she encountered.

But as Soraka lived among them, as one of them, trying to repair what little of the damage she could… something incredible and wholly unforeseen happened.

From the snarls and tangles and knots, the messy breaks in the great patterns, Soraka noticed a new, unintended design emerging—intertwined, and of a staggering complexity.

Many times, she has watched entire civilizations dance close to the brink of destruction, and she has learned that she cannot save those who do not wish it, nor force them to see what they will not.

All the same, Soraka is determined never to stop trying.

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snugglyporos · 7 years ago

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The world is a changing place. Runeterra is daily rocked by the reemergence of gods and avatars and other such beings. Void creatures cause incursions upon the land, which common people are powerless to stop. Men of science and magic seek to reinvent what it means to be human, turning to machine conversion and drugs to enhance themselves.

This has been a long process; man has always sought to be more than they are. They delve into powers they should not have, delve into methods that strip from them what they were. Yet there is always one thread that unites all of them; there was a moment where they chose not to turn from the path they walked.

His true name is erased from the records of Piltover’s academia, as is his research. What is known is only what people who have met him have gotten from his own lips, and the story never seems to stay the same. Yet there are threads there too, that can be understood.

He was a moderate physician and a brilliant surgeon, who gained favor with Piltover’s notoriously fickle clans by being able to perform procedures that would have been impossible for less capable hands. Though he took pride in this, his true passion was not in helping the sick or wounded, but improving the human condition.

Piltover, after all, is the center of The Church of the Glorious Evolved, a religious cult that believes the flesh to be weak, and that only through machines can mankind prosper. Viktor’s own Glorious Evolution advocates the complete replacement of flesh with steel and iron, for the flesh is inferior to it.

But this man disagreed. Flesh was not weak, for it possessed something the static forms of metal and iron did not; the ability to evolve. It could change, adapt, develop; all things metal could not. Machines could only do what they were built to do. They could not progress beyond what they were. Therefore, there was no glory there, no perfection, and the very idea of perfection ate at this man, for it seemed entirely counter to the notion of a man of science.

However, he was not in a position to do very much about it as a mere surgeon and medical researcher. That is, until one of his patrons sent him a captured void creature for dissection. Of course, voidborn creatures decay rapidly after death, so dissection would require a very capable hand. He’d need to keep it alive, so he could study its inner workings.

What he found was amazing to him. The voidborn are adaptive creatures; they possess no static form, not really. Their physiology changes depending on what they encounter. They exist in a state of rapid development, ensuring that no two were entirely alike, and that only the strongest or perhaps most effective would survive.

He also found another curious development. They were infused with magic. Indeed, flesh and magic were so intertwined, that it was hard to say that they were separate. There had been theories of this of course; but there was little practical application to back it up. Here, he had his opportunity.

He began leaning on his benefactors to bring him more captured void creatures, so that he might continue his research, all the while beginning to formulate a rather heretical belief in secret. The flesh was not weak, the will was weak. The flesh merely required a will that could shape it, and the power to do so. The Church of the Glorious Evolved was the ultimate expression of human weakness and fear, for it put trust in static, unchanging reality in an ever shifting world. The void were strong, not because of any dark magic or because of some divine blessing, but because they cast aside foolish notions of form, and focused entirely on function. Evolution was not a pathway with a beginning and an end. It was a constant process, one with no true end point, and to give in to fear and embrace static reality was to give into weakness.

Transforming oneself into a machine to avoid disease and weakness was no virtue, and embracing the flesh was no vice.

He began augmenting his own form with magic, infusing himself with magic on a more subtle level. Others used enchantments and spells and the like; this was pointless. He would not use magic, he would become magic, or at least, make his flesh the catalyst for his own work. Flesh and bone was as good a medium as any potion.

His work progressed, and during that time he began experimenting on others in the name of ‘fixing’ them. People would come to him for surgical help, and he would provide it, but in secret he would experiment on their internal organs, altering them, testing to see what effects might occur. This worked well, until one day one of his patients was in an completely unrelated accident, and the surgeon opened the man up to find his internal physiology to be utterly alien. Organs that had no human equivalent functioned in nearly alien ways, and it did not take long for people to investigate the other patients he had worked with.

His research discredited, his arrest called for, police raided his lab to bring him to trial, only to find him dead from a self inflicted gunshot wound to the head. It was, perhaps, fitting, and neither the police or academics wished to delve too deeply into whatever madness he was looking into. Corrupted by the void creatures he studied, they said.

But this was a ruse. He had taken someone, and he had fleshcrafted their body to look as his did. Face, dental records, finger and toe prints... this person was him, at least in appearance. The manipulation of the nerves to cause him to shoot himself was all that was needed to complete the illusion.

He took a name for himself: Tzimisce. And he named his new discipline Vicissitude, meaning “the quality or state of being changeable.” Simply put, his belief was not in static machines or magical incantations, or even in limits or the oppression of form itself. His virtue was adaptability, change, mutation.

Tzimisce’s craft was, and is, like no other. To him, to his touch, flesh and bone are like clay. He can craft and sculpt flesh with ease, with all the deftness that he once used to wield a scalpel. Only now, he puts his talents towards endless evolution of the self.

Skin that is tougher than steel. Bones harder than titanium. Fireproof. Internal poison generation that can be excreted through the skin. Rapid healing and acidic blood. His body is equal parts canvass and scientific experiment; his endless search is for something stronger than him so that he might overcome it.

Indeed, his journey has brought him from the pits of Zaun to the Freljord, from the jungles in the deep south to the gates of Noxus. He carries no political or ethical creed; such things are pointless and limiting. The virtue is in development, not in stagnation and stasis. To hold any ideal other than this virtue is to give in to human weakness; to be stuck rather than moving.

His greatest enemies, in his eyes, are those like Viktor and Camille, those who cling to machines and stasis as some sort of virtue when they are merely trapped in their own prisons. He considers Vladmir to be a rival, given his mastery of hemomancy, though he finds Vladmir’s foolish clinging to a static form to be bizarre. He lacks vision, clearly. He finds Swain to be interesting, if foolish, the same way he looks upon the magical sort in Noxus. Though they freely throw away morals, which is good, they stupidly look for power in dark pacts and other things. Being chained to some fell creature is hardly freedom or power, should one of them decide to reassert power over the leash.

Most find Tzimisce to be utterly bizarre, regardless of his appearance, which is hardly ever the same twice. He seems to take no real interest in anything other than conflict, though he professes to only be interested in developing himself. Challenges are to be found and overcome. He expresses disdain for most magical and technological projects; they are unneeded when one’s flesh is the tool. Though he has some admiration for creations like Sion or Urgot, he thinks them incomplete. And most tend to find him... dangerous at the very least. A being who has no attachment to anyone or anything for long is only useful so long as you can keep the beast occupied after all. Though many hope his often remarked desire to face down one of the darkin will kill him and rid them of him. This of course, is unlikely; anything hoping to kill him only has one shot before he seeks to counter it.

Perhaps the only reason anyone keeps him around is because he does great work. Tzimisce’s handiwork is legendary; he can cure just about any disease, replace any organ, transplant even the brain from one body to another. He can improve the human form to peak condition, create bodyguards or golems that are beyond the realm of any magical or machine creation. Limitations of the flesh do not exist, save fr the willingness of the creator. Granted, very few are entirely comfortable with a being that considers everyone he meets to be building materials.

Thoughts? @consider-the-tentacle @noxian-rose @nihil-remedium @infinite-xerath @hook-and-chains @ask-kalista @saurianbutcher

#ooc #muse idea

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kikiiswashere · 2 years ago

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Children of Zaun - Chapter 4

No Secrets

Pairing: Silco/Fem!OC (eventually. Slow burn, mates)

Rating: Explicit

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

Chapter Summary: Katya visits a client and then meets with Sevika and the Children of Zaun's founders. They ask something of her that leaves her feeling cagey and cornered. She attempts to flee, but is stopped thrice. First by a gross dude; then by Sevika; finally by Silco.

Chapter CW: Drug dealing and drug use, harrassment and non-consensual touching, mild violence (pushing and threat with a firearm)

Previous Chapter

Word Count: 5.9K

Finally, the physicals for the day had petered out. Katya’s neck ached from hunching over charts and her head thrummed from the constant influx of patient information. All too gladly, she slammed the filing cabinet door shut. She wouldn’t need to concern herself with those files again until tomorrow. She would be relieved when the miner’s physicals would be done. At this rate, it was looking like the end of this week, perhaps early next.

Katya’s mind was quick to shift gears in the wake of the medical supplies due to be delivered within the hour. Her heart thundered against her ribs as she reviewed the order sheet. She wished she hadn’t forgotten that it was set to arrive today, she would’ve packed and prepared her person better. She shook her head, plait swishing against her back, and ran her tongue over her teeth.

It didn’t matter.

The small, secret pockets she had sewn into her father’s coat would suffice in getting a small portion of the supplies home and organized for orders.

It was a plot she and her father had schemed up shortly before his death. She couldn’t let Viktor's place at the preparatory school be compromised. Not after all the work it took to get him there, keep him there. Not when he would certainly die in the Sump, choked by pollution and ravaged by illness.

No. Viktor would stay Topside. As much as possible. Katya promised her father as she had held his cracked head in her hands, blood and brains spilling out from a wound she couldn’t fix. She had then taken his small pistol and shot the Enforcer her father had managed to hobble in their skirmish. It had been late and dark, and the Undercity’s soundscape was rife with the sound of violence so there had been no witnesses. No one cared. Just another dead Trencher and dead Enforcer.

Katya mindlessly organized the clinic until the small speaker on the front desk fizzled to life.

“Front gate to medical.”

The young medic threw herself over the edge of the desk and pressed the response button. “It’s me, Marzi,” Katya wheezed, the desk pressing into her diaphragm. “I’m here.”

“There’s a medical supplier here. Says there’s to be a delivery.”

“Yes. Yes. Send them down.”

The other end of the call hissed away as Marzi cut the line. Katya waited for the tell-tale rumble of delivery carts to approach the clinic door. When it did, she politely opened it for a lanky deliveryman. A prosthetic hand presented her with the delivery receipt and she signed it in a flourish, thanking him. He grunted an acknowledgment and slunk out of the clinic.

Katya carefully unstacked and opened the boxes. Her stomach fluttered at the contents inside. Packages upon packages of gauze, tape, needle and thread, plaster, syringes, antiseptic, burn gel, scalpels, ice packs . . .

Katya’s lips tightened as she opened the next, smaller boxes labelled ‘fragile’. Vials of medicine: various kinds of antibiotics, pain killers, morphine, high-strength decongestants . . . these were the big-ticket items. Such things never showed up in the Undercity’s marketplace. If someone wanted actual medicine like this, they would have to go Topside. And even if they managed that hurdle – and a tall hurdle it was – the cost of medication would be prohibitive.

That’s what made Katya such a necessary commodity in the Undercity. She was the only supplier. But she was meticulous about her clientele. Only engaging with people who were consistent, trustworthy and kept their damn mouths shut. She only needed enough to make sure she and Viktor survived. No more, no less.

Katya took out the original order list and began cross referencing it against the packing slip and the goods in the boxes. Once done, she restocked the examination room and supply closet. Sliding the final box of gauze pads in place, she peeked to her pocket watch. The mine would be entering its next shift shortly. Will would be coming back to relieve her. Haggard miners would slowly shuffle home, to a pub, or to a brothel. Others, mostly children and youths without homes, would return to the cramped barracks offered by the mine.

Katya slid the watch back into her vest and strode to the clinic’s door. She lowered the shade and locked it before grabbing her coat. She returned to the examination room and reached deep into the sleeve of the coat, pulling out a syringe.

‘Just the morphine,’ she thought, amber eyes gliding over the tantalizing vials in front of her. She had a client she could swing by to that night and collect a decent chunk of change for the drug. Enough to get another bag of oats for the cupboard.

Gently, she retrieved another treasure from deep in the coat: a small empty vial. She wrote in her work notes that she disposed of empty medicine containers.

She didn’t.

She kept them.

With great practice, Katya used her empty syringe to puncture the membrane of a morphine vial, drawing the medicine up into the vessel. Not enough to rouse suspicion. Not too much. Enough to give her client a high and rest bit from his chronic pain. Enough to make some coin.

She transferred the nip into the empty vial and safely tucked it into her coat.

The mine’s bell sounded, announcing the change in shifts, and Katya placed the morphine vial back in the cabinet. No one would be none the wiser.

By the time Silco and Sevika trudged into The Last Drop, the bar was already pleasantly packed and boisterous. Despite the sickly undertones that colored the Fissures, the interior of the establishment was warm, yellow light glowing through the various stained-glass lamps peppered across the ceiling. Mismatched wooden chairs and tables were scattered through the large main room, crackling vinyl booths lined most of the wall space. An old jukebox was in the corner, wheezing out a jangly tune over the heads of patrons. The far wall was the bar, and Vander was behind it.

Despite being so young, The Last Drop was his establishment. He had inherited it from the last proprietor the year before, a man that had took Vander under his wing when the boy decided (with much pressure from Silco) to leave the mines when it became clear the Topsiders were ready to work him to death. Seeing the value of his size and surprising people skills, the old Drop owner brought the lad on. Vander was given room and board and a small weekly paycheck. He had stayed ever since, responsibilities and pay steadily increasing until, finally, the old barman wrote Vander into his will, leaving his long-time employee the business.

Silco and Sevika made their way up to the bar, Silco’s eyes scanning the room as they wove in-between tables. The pub was mostly filled with older regulars, people they hadn’t yet tried to wrangle into their revolutionary plans. People their age were easier. Less stories. Less tired. Less hopeless.

“Oi! There you two are! We’ve been waiting!”

Benzo sat at the bar, his large body slightly canted as he swiveled in his seat to face the two miners, a frothy tankard in hand. He waved them over as Vander looked up from the cups he was washing. A smile lifted his gray-blue eyes.

Sevika hopped onto the stool next to Benzo, Silco took up the one next to her. Vander plunked a fresh tankard in front of Silco and a glass of water in front of Sevika.

“Come ooooon, Van,” Sevika whined, rolling her eyes and head back dramatically.

“No,” was the simple reply. When Vander turned back to the sink, the teen quickly dipped her mouth to the frothy head of Silco’s mug and took a quick slurp. She pulled away before Vander turned back, a satisfied smirk and a bubbly mustache on her full lips. Vander frowned at the teen, and flicked his eyes over to his lanky compatriot. Silco really didn’t care. He was busying himself with rolling a cigarette. A boney shoulder lifted and fell.

“It’s not like you’ll get in trouble for serving someone underage,” Silco droned, running his tongue down the seam of the paper. “Enforcers won’t come in here. Besides, we were drinking before Sev’s age. Do you have a light?”

Vander pouted and reached into his pocket, producing a book of matches. He slid them across the bar. Silco’s long fingers caught it.

“There’s a good barkeep.”

“Is it just us?” Sevika asked, glancing around.

Vander set his large hands on the bar top and shifted his hip. “Aye. Beckett and Annie are scouting the docks tonight – “

“Was that a good idea?” Silco asked incredulously, lighting the end of his cigarette. “Beckett’s head has spent more time between Annie’s thighs than in the game recently.”

Before Vander could answer, Benzo chuckled into his drink, “You’re just jealous, Sil. When was the last time that beak of yours pressed into anything that wasn’t a pile of mine soot?”

Silco’s eyes flashed, and as quick as a snake lurched past Sevika, pressing the cherry end of his cigarette against Benzo’s meaty forearm. The larger man yelped, sloshing his beer as he pulled away.

“Silco!” Vander hissed, batting Silco’s arm back to his side of the bar.

“Pissy little thing, aren’t’cha?” Benzo grit, clamping thick fingers over the burn. “Didn’ realize it was such a sore – “

“Enough, ‘Zo,” Vander spat. He wrapped some ice cubes in a rag and handed it to him, before bringing his attention back to Sevika.

“Beckett and Annie are at the docks,” he repeated. “I didn’t gather anyone else since . . . this isn’t a done deal yet. I figured it would be best to meet with her, just the five of us. So we wouldn’t spook or overwhelm her.”

Sevika’s eyes dropped to her glass and she swiveled it against the table nervously. “Probably the right idea.”

Katya rapped her knuckles against the flimsy, wet wood and waited. When nothing happened after a couple minutes, she knocked again.

“Pfeffer? It’s Katya.”

Finally, she heard movement beyond the door. It stopped after a moment and was replaced by a high, gruff, angry voice.

“Key. Top o’ the frame.”

Katya lifted up onto the toes of her boots, and ran her fingers along the top of the rotting wood. She felt the cool metal of the key and grasped it firmly between her fingers. The lock took a couple twists and tugs before its inner-workings scraped into place. Katya adjusted her scarf against her mouth and nose before opening the door.

The smell. Gods, the smell.

Rot. Stale urine. Ripe body odor. An unemptied chamber pot.

Pfeffer’s home (an entirely too generous term) was small and windowless. It was simply a bricked-up alleyway with a door. Katya kept it open ajar to filter some of the stink out, and to leave the unspoken message that she would not be staying. She gently shifted garbage and dirty clothes out of her path with the tips of her shoes, as she cut to the back of the hovel where the Vastaya lay on his couch.

Katya twisted the knob of a nearby lamp, and yellow light washed over the back of the room. Pfeffer’s eyes squinted against the light and slid up to Katya’s face. His cheeks slackened and he took a great, rattling breath. One that made his bones creak and his muscles spasm. He winced and groaned on his exhale. Carefully, Katya knelt down at his side.

“What took you so long?” he growled.

Katya ignored his rudeness as she took one of his too-thin arms and rolled up his dirty sleeve. She knew his agitation wasn’t about her. It was about his pain. Some disease that cramped and warped his muscles excruciatingly against his bones, leaving him relatively immobile and infirmed. She rotated his forearm in her hands, inspecting. He grit his sharp teeth and hissed under her feather-light touches. She sweetly shushed him in the same way she would Viktor when he was upset. She ran her fingers down his paper-thin skin, eying the threads of blue and purple veins peeking out between patches of brittle fur.

“I only have one dose right now,” she said. “Do you want the whole thing? Or just half, and you can give yourself the other half later?”

Pfeffer fixed her with a veiny eyed stare and chewed his dry lips. A long moment passed before he whispered, “Half.”

Katya nodded and let go of his arm, fishing out the small vial and syringe from deep within her coat. She prepared the needle and set the remaining half-dose on the table next to the couch.

“Small pinch,” she said out of habit as she carefully pierced the needle just under the inside of his elbow. Pfeffer’s eyelids fluttered and a warbling sigh escaped his mouth as the morphine was pressed into his body. Katya felt him sag underneath her gentle hold.

Carefully, she pulled the tip of the needle out from his arm and set it next to the vial. “Try to give it at least six hours before you take the rest of it. I can be back day after next with more.”

Pfeffer’s head bobbled drunkenly up and down against the arm of his couch. A clawed hand lazily floated up and gestured toward a hutch across the room. Katya got up and went over to where he had pointed. A cracked jar was perched on one of the hutch’s shelves and she ducked her hand inside, pulling out a mis-matched handful of coins. She sifted through them, before pocketing their agreed upon price and tossing the left-overs back into the ceramic.

“I’ll be back with the rest of your order day after next,” Katya repeated as she made for the door. She spared one final glance at Pfeffer – whose breathing had shifted to something long and steady, glazed eyes stared up at the ceiling – before shutting the door and locking it.

Katya hopped up and placed the key back in its shitty hiding spot, before sauntering down the alley. Her steps made lighter by the slight weight of Hexes in her pocket.

Katya would much rather just go home after picking up the small sack of oats from the marketplace. But she had promised Sevika. And so, with a few less coins in her pocket and a few days’ worth of breakfast in her hand, she made her way through the Undercity’s business district.

The Lanes took their deepest breaths at night. Fanning flames of activity and life between the winding streets. Colorful neon lights pulsed above, washing the uneven streets in technicolor. The sounds of music, machines, and men thrummed through the air, jockeying for the top-notes of the soundscape they made together. Bodies jostled every which way. Occasionally, the imposing silhouette of an Enforcer creeped at the edges of the crowds. It was chaotic. Katya kept her head down as she wove through the packed streets.

The Last Drop came into view, the focal point of an open square, one of the few in the Lanes. Katya knew that the bar was a long-time establishment of the Undercity, though she had never been. She was pretty sure her father had been a few times. Before Viktor was born. Katya’s gaze lifted automatically to the open space above. It was rare to have such an unobstructed view towards the sky. The tangles of buildings and Conveyor tracks crisscrossed so thickly that it was almost impossible to see anything at the bottom of the Fissures.

Although, technically speaking, Katya couldn’t really see the sky. She could see the blanket of Grey with whisps of stars peeking through the occasional break in the smog. But it was still an open view, and that was novel.

She bumped into a large body as her eyes were lifted. Bashfully muttering an apology, she committed her eyes to her feet as she strode toward The Last Drop. She gripped the brass handle and pulled the heavy door open.

It was . . . cozy inside. Not quiet, but the sounds were warmer and the lights not so abrasive. The space smelled of tobacco, ale, and a little bit of sweat. It all felt very familiar. Katya squared her shoulders and reminded herself that she was not here to be lulled and comforted by some kind of by-proxy nostalgia. She was here to fulfill a foolish favor. And then get out.

She scanned the packed room for Sevika. After a couple cursory glances, a large brown arm flailing toward the back caught Katya’s eyes. Sevika smiled once their gazes locked onto each other and gestured her back. Katya took a deep breath and strode toward the bar.

As she wove through the other patrons, Katya’s eyes traveled between the three young men that surrounded the teen. The thin one to Sevika’s left she recognized from earlier that day. Silco the miner with the icy eyes, smart mouth, and Rynweaver’s nose. The other two men were large, and she tried to remember if their faces were familiar to her from the mines.

The one to Sevika’s right was a tad shorter than the man behind the bar. Wider, too, with a smaller head that sloped seamlessly onto his shoulders thanks to a thick neck. His sideburns bordered on muttonchops and his long light brown hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck in a ponytail.

The young man behind the bar was very tall, with broad shoulders and muscular arms. His large hands were spread confidently over the bar top as he rested his weight on his thick wrists. Blue-grey eyes shown beneath bushy brows and a shaggy head of dark brown hair. As Katya closed in, she saw patchy stubble smattered across his prominent jaw and chin.

“You came!” Sevika cried, as she leapt from her stool and pulled Katya tightly to her chest.

The girl was nervous, Katya could tell. Her eyes too wide, voice too high and tight.

‘Good,’ Katya thought. ‘She should be nervous.’

Sevika unwrapped her friend and turned to her three compatriots. “Kat, this is Benzo, Vander, and you already met Silco,” she presented gesturing to each man.

Careful to keep her expression neutral, Katya’s eyes flicked between the three in front of her as they were introduced. Benzo had nodded and lifted his mug of ale. Katya’s eyes quickly appraised what looked like a fresh, circular burn on his meaty forearm. Vander had smiled warmly and lifted a hand. Silco stared at her, cigarette smoldering between his lips. Her eyes glanced back at the burn on Benzo’s forearm, her upper lip briefly lifted.

“It’s nice to meet you Kat – “

“Katya,” came the terse correction.

“Er – of course. Katya,” Vander amended. “It’s good to finally meet you. Sev’s talked about you a lot.”

It was kind, meant to make her feel at ease and welcomed. But Katya continued to keep her face schooled and body militant. She was pleased to see Vander’s eyes quiver with doubt.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“You sure?” Benzo chimed in. “Vander’s got the best ale this side of Piltover.”

Katya shifted from one foot to the other, thinking on the few coins left in her pocket. She wasn’t going to give them up. A small tickle of nervousness scratched at the base of her spine and she unconsciously chewed the inside of her lip.

“On the house,” Vander added, smiling warmly at her.

“Perhaps she prefers something stronger,” Silco suddenly added, releasing a steady stream of smoke from his lips.

There was a pause before Vander asked, “Well, Lass, that true?”

“Ale is fine,” Katya heard herself say. Sevika’s hand gripped her shoulder firmly and grinned. “Thank you.”

“Coming right up,” Vander announced as he moved around the bar.

“Maybe we can move this talk to somewhere more private?” Sevika offered as a fresh pint was placed on the bar top.

Vander nodded, wiping his hands with the towel draped over his shoulder.

“Oi, Cairn!” he called over his shoulder. Somewhere, from a back room, a young darkly-complected teen appeared, a large bus tray in his shapely arms. Big hazel eyes looked to Vander before flitting between the crew behind the barman, and then once again landed on his summoner.

“I’m gonna step away for a bit. Watch the bar, wouldj’ya?”

Cairn nodded, his curly white hair bouncing with the movement. Vander tossed the towel under the bar and came around, gesturing for the others to follow him. Benzo was first, followed by Silco, who stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray. An icy glance glinted Katya’s way before the thin miner ambled behind the two larger men.

Sevika adjusted her stance to better look at her friend. Silver eyes big and pleading.

“Just . . . listen. Hear them – us – out.”

Kayta’s finger tightened around the handle of her mug and was led away from The Last Drop’s main room.

Katya was led back to what appeared to be living quarters. Vander’s, she supposed. She sat down at the round table where the three men had gathered, Sevika sitting next to her. The teen’s eyes kept flitting between Katya and the others nervously.

“How long have you worked at the mines?” Benzo asked, breaking the silence.

“Since I was six,” Katya answered, taking a small sip of her drink. She licked the foam off her lips as the bitterness of the hops settled against the back of her tongue. It wasn’t bad. For the Undercity. “You?”

Benzo shook his head, ponytail swishing against his back. “Work at my ol’ man’s pawn and scrap shop. Took it over a few years ago when he up n’ died.”

“I’m sorry.”

Benzo waved a fleshy hand, “Iss’fine. He was sorta a cunt anyhow.”

Katya stiltedly nodded and took another nip of her ale. Her attention was caught by Silco handing Sevika a freshly rolled cigarette and another to Vander. He caught her staring as he swiped his tongue down the seam of a third. There was the briefest of pauses before he pressed the edges together and gestured it towards her, dark eyebrow lifting.

Katya’s nose scrunched and she shook her head, letting her eyes drop back to her glass. Silco shrugged and placed the cigarette between his own lips.

“What? Not gonna offer me one?”

“Mmm,” Silco non-answered, striking a match. He passed the matchbook to Sevika and Vander.

Benzo mumbled into his mug, “You rat-faced, little – “

“I think we should just cut to the chase,” Vander broke in. He placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. His eyes traced back and forth between Silco and Benzo, a friendly warning glinting behind them, before settling on Katya. “How much has Sev told you?”

Katya shifted in her seat, the wood creaking under her. Her amber eyes drifted between the three of them – Vander watching her patiently, Benzo with a tomcat grin on his face, Silco was unreadable. Sevika was the last to fall under Katya’s gaze. She was trying to seem unbothered, but when Katya’s disproving eyes looked to the cigarette between her lips, the tips of Sevika’s ears blushed. Katya looked back to Vander.

“That you’re trying to rally the Underground to fight Piltover.”

“To fight for our independence,” Silco added. His low, convicted voice cut across the table in a smooth blade. It sent shivers over Katya’s skin, as did the hard look he fixed her with.

“We have a dream of a free nation,” Vander said, his eyes looking over to Silco. Something like adoration filled them before they switched back to Katya. “To throw Piltover’s bootheel off of the Undercity. To give our people a chance.”

Katya’s fingers tightened against her mug. “How do you plan to do such a thing?”

“We’ve already rallied a hundred or so people. People committed to this cause, to change. Right now, a decent chunk of them are miners – “

Katya looked to Sevika and Silco, eyes widening.

“ – so when we decide to make our move, not only will it rattle the Pilties, it’ll hurt their pocket books as well.”

“There’s Bone, too,” Benzo chipped in, looking excited.

“Bone is in on this?” Katya breathed, disbelieving.

“Well, n-no,” Benzo conceded, bravado faltering. “But it can only help us to have a fellow Trencher on the Council, right? We can pull him in once we build up a head of steam – “

“Your heads are full of something,” Katya muttered, taking a swig of ale.

Vander’s eyebrows creased. “We are making decent headway. We have Brothers and Sisters stretching all throughout the Undercity. The mines, the docks, Entresol, Sump, Promenade. People are tired. The Undercity – Zaun – is ready to lead itself. We just need to show them.”

“You will get people killed.”

“Hopefully not as many if you join us,” Vander said, his tone reverent.

“Why would I matter?”

Vander shared a look with Sevika before returning to Katya. “Sevika has told us you’re a good medic. We need that. Because people will get hurt. They already are. Enforcers beat us without the threat of a revolution, it will only get worse when the Children of Zaun step out of the shadows.”

Katya snorted. Silco’s eyes narrowed. Vander continued.

“We need someone with medical training – “

“I’m not trained.”

“Know-how, then,” Vander countered without batting an eye. “The Children of Zaun need someone with medical know-how to keep as many of us alive as possible. You’re good at keeping people alive. Sev has told us about your brother. A lad like him in the Sump should’ve died ages ago, and yet you have kept him alive.”

Vander smiled warmly at Katya. She knew he was trying to praise her, connect with her, make her feel like she could trust him with bringing up Viktor. But all it did was make her feel cornered, invaded. She bristled and felt her shoulders hike up.

“My brother is alive because he spends most of his time in Piltover,” she shot back. “And this . . . foolishness you’re talking about would greatly endanger his ability to stay at the Academy.”

Katya felt warm. Anger rising beneath her collar. Her skin crawled as she sensed something unsaid that hung in the air.

“We’re not looking to war with Piltover,” Vander clarified. “We don’t want to decimate them. We just want Zaun’s independence, for our nations to be equals – “

“What aren’t you telling me?” Katya snapped. “Why me? Why do I matter to you?”

Vander clamped his jaw shut and let out a weary sigh through his nose, clearly displeased with being interrupted. He took a long final drag from his cigarette and tossed it in a tin can that sat in the middle of the table.

“Sev says you do the orderin’ at the mine’s clinic,” Benzo jumped in, giving Vander a chance to gather his thoughts.

Katya glared at him, nostrils flaring. “So what?”

Benzo’s eyes went wide with confusion. He looked to Sevika, then Vander, then back to Katya. “So, she said that you . . . cook the books sometimes. Over order and distribute wears in the Lanes.”

Katya went cold, mouth dropping in horror. Her stomach tumbled to her feet and her heart leapt into her throat. She looked at Sevika. The teen, realizing her mistake in Katya’s reaction, timorously looked away. She plucked her cigarette from her lips and tipped the ash into the tin can.

“I – I can’t believe you,” Katya hissed once her mouth and tongue began working again.

Sevika set her jaw, mustering the courage to face her friend. “Kat, they won’t – “

“We won’t say anything,” Vander finished. He fixed her with a steady, reassuring gaze. “We need your expertise and the supplies at your disposal. Katya – “

Katya was trembling as she pushed away from the table and got to her feet. She couldn’t believe this. She had told Sevika in strict confidence about embezzling the mine’s medical supplies; she had had the teen help her transport some of the larger orders out of the clinic, believing she could trust her. Who else had she blabbed to? Didn’t Sevika understand that spreading this information jeopardized both Katya and Viktor? If Katya was found out and sent to Stillwater (or killed), Viktor’s space at school would be forfeit. He’d die in the Sump. Alone. Abandoned. Forgotten.

Katya’s breathing became ragged, panicked, as she pawed at her coat. She had to get out of there. Finally, her fingers pinched around one of the Cogs she had gotten in change from the oats. She flung it onto the table where it bounced with a resounding PING!

“For the drink,” she spat. She didn’t want any of the bartender’s favors. “Fuck you,” she added to no one, thereby implicating the whole table.

On shaky legs, Katya spun around and hurried out of the apartment. She heard Sevika calling her name. Katya ignored it. She burst through the door that led to the pub, causing the busboy Cairn to jump and spill the drink he was pouring. Before he could ask what the matter was, Katya was cutting across the floor, bumping into a few patrons as she went.

She stumbled out of The Last Drop into the chilly, humid night and paused to take a great, shuttering breath. She hadn’t realized she was holding it. Her lungs burned from lack of oxygen and anxiety. She tripped to a stop, eyes wide and dry, breathing resuming in short pants. Her brain was short-circuiting.

Who else knew?

What did she need to do?

Was there anything to do?

Go home?

Run across the Bridge, get Viktor, and leave the Undercity before her crimes were found out?

How would she even do that? They didn’t have enough money to leave.

As Katya froze to her spot on the cobblestone square, she started getting several questioning looks from people milling around, going about their evening. She was jolted back to life when a hand fell onto her shoulder. She gasped and spun around, her legs tangling together.

“Whoa, whoa!” chuckled a gruff voice. The stranger grabbed Katya’s other shoulder to steady her. “Easy there, darlin’.”

He leered at her with his four yellowing teeth. The smell of expired chewing tobacco heavy on his breath. His grip went from being supportive to controlling. “Ye need some help? Ye look outta sorts. Lemme help ya.”

Before Katya could work up a wad a spit to shoot into the stranger’s face, he was ripped off of her and thrown to the ground. Sevika’s large boot stomped firmly into his chest, pinning him down.

“Don’t touch her,” the teen snarled. She pressed her foot down and the man beneath her sputtered and gasped, hands clawing at Sevika’s leg.

“Hey! What’s going on there?” a hollow, monotoned voice called through the crowd. Katya, Sevika, and the man’s eyes snapped up and over to the voice.

Enforcers.

Two of them. Making their way through the crowds toward the small scuffle.

Faculties coming back online, Katya swept away into the masses. Sevika released the man out of under her boot and kicked him in the ribs before running as well.

“Stop!” the other Enforcer called as he tried to shoulder his way through the throngs of Undercity denizens.

By the time they made it to the spot of the altercation, the near-toothless man was picking himself back up, grumbling, before skulking away. The two girls were gone.

Katya slipped into an alley once she was a few streets away from The Last Drop. She had lost the Enforcers. But not Sevika.

“Kat! Kat, wait!”

Sevika reached a hand out for Katya’s shoulder, wincing when she wrenched it away. Shocked when Katya turned around and pushed her into the brick wall.

“I can’t believe you told them!” she grated, amber eyes wide with disbelief and hurt. Betrayal. “I can’t believe you told them. Who else have you told?”

“No one – “

“Who have they told?”

“No one,” answered a third voice.

Both Katya and Sevika’s heads turned to the mouth of the alleyway to see Silco standing there. He watched the two women, eyes lingering on Katya’s flushed face.

“We haven’t told anyone else,” he repeated, taking a step forward.

Katya stared at him, assessing. His face gave nothing away, nor did his tone of voice; the mocking lilt he had to her in earlier that day gone. He held her gaze easily.

“Come with me,” Silco said. “I want to show you something.”

Anger flared under Katya’s skin again. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m going home.”

She made to turn, but Silco’s long arm shot out and grabbed her elbow. Adrenaline coursed through Katya’s veins as she hurled back, ripping her arm out of his grasp. She pushed him, as she had Sevika, and took a couple steps back, right hand fumbling inside her coat. Silco, who seemed unphased, was quick to close the distance between them. Until he was stopped in his tracks, the barrel of a small snub-nosed pistol aimed up at his face.

Katya bared her teeth and her hands trembled. She hadn’t used her father’s pistol since the night he died, but she always kept it tucked in his coat. Sloppily, her thumb drew back the pistol’s hammer. It clicked into place. Silco watched her with steady eyes.

“Katya,” Sevika whispered. “C’mon. Don’t do this.”

In the brief moment Katya’s attention was snagged by Sevika, Silco sprang forward. He moved so swiftly that Katya couldn’t even process what he did. All she knew was that she was suddenly on the ground, pistol gone. Her arm heatedly thrummed from being twisted. Bewildered, she looked up, the gun now being aimed at her. Silco’s expression remained neutral, but Katya caught the annoying glimmer of mirth in his teal eyes.

An actual grin cut his mouth as he lowered the weapon, resetting the hammer. He slid the cylinder out of the gun’s frame and let out an amused huff seeing that it was actually loaded. He seemed pleased that she hadn’t been bluffing. He took a moment more to inspect the small piece, before handing it back to her. Katya’s brow crumpled and she tentatively stretched her finger tips for the handle.

When her hand wrapped fully around the pistol, Silco let go and repeated, “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

He held out a large calloused hand. Katya stared at it before looking back up into his face. Silco seemed peeved, but something entreating and genuine sparkled in his intense blue eyes. Cautiously, Katya slipped her hand into his offered one. It was rough and warm. And strong as he lifted her onto her feet.

“Head back to The Drop, Sev,” Silco ordered over his shoulder. “Tell Vander I’ll be back later.”

Sevika pouted, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, fingers fidgeting at her sides. Making it clear she wanted to stay. Silco didn’t offer, and after a moment Sevika turned and trudged out of the alleyway. Silco turned back to Katya and let go of her hand.

“Come on,” he commanded, leaping up for the lowest wrung of a fire escape and pulling himself up.

Reluctantly, Katya followed.

“What do you want to show me?” she asked, as they climbed up the rickety iron steps.

Silco looked down at her from the landing above, eyes glittering.

“Zaun.”

Notes: Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please leave a comment and reblog. I'd really appreciate the feedback and love. MWAH!

Coming Up Next: Silco is Zaun's best hypeman. Katya better steel herself.

Next Chapter

#arcane fanfic #silco #young silco #arcane #sevika #young sevika #vander #young vander #benzo #young benzo #silco x oc #silco fanfic #children of zaun #coz

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