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[multidimensionalmusicalmess]

I’m so jealous of people who can write out of some sort of lasting investment in and love for their stories and maintain them over long periods, rather than relying on transient obsession

[multidimensionalmusicalmess]

Snippet - Crash & Burn - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Vi's memory plays tricks on her. Or Silco does.

tw: war, violence, aftermath of bloodshed, childhood trauma, PTSD

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

Powder loved bundt cake.

Every year, at the Equinox Bazaar, she'd beg Mom for a slice from the stalls, even though coins were scarce. At Janna's Temple, she would sneak off and steal a piece from the open kitchens, despite knowing Mom would tan her hide if she found out. Or, if they had flour and sugar and time she'd beg Mom to bake it from scratch, and it was always the sweetest.

Then Mom stopped baking.

In the lean months before the Day of Ash, sugar was sold for six cogs a thimble. In a week, it cost ten. In a month, thirty. The price of survival doubled and redoubled. Soon, the bakeries could barely keep up. Then, there were no more bakeries: just shuttered windows and empty stalls. And then, no more Equinox Bazaars. No more open kitchens.

No Temple of Janna.

Some nights, Vi would've given anything for the taste of sugar on her palate. Nights when she and Powder would lay huddled face-to-face in bed, and talk of anything—anything but hunger. Other nights, the hunger was all they could think about, and they'd trade whispers about all the things they'd eat if they could. Vi had her favorites: a hot bowl of sump-vole stew, or a whole roasted squab, or creamy butter biscuits. Powder had her favorite too: bundt cake, bundt cake and more bundt cake.

"The way Mommy makes it is the best," she'd say, back when they had a mommy who could make bundt cake. "It's all crispy at the bottom, and soft and warm at the top. And when you bite into it, it's like a cloud. A fluffy, sweet, melty cloud."

"Powder, stop." Groaning, Vi would drag a pillow over her face. "You're making me hungry!"

"But it's so yummy. It's better than yummy. It's the bundist bundt cake ever."

"It is. But we can't have it. Not now."

"Why not?"

The plaintive quaver in her little sister's voice was the only thing that could drag the pillow off Vi's face.

"Because—because it's hard to buy stuff. Mom told us: everything is getting too pricey. And most shops don't sell sugar or flour or eggs, anymore. So..."

"But once we have money, we can have it?"

"Sure," Vi would say, even though the lie hurt worse than the hunger. "We'd have all the cake we want."

Powder's little pink tongue would peep out between her teeth: the childish ardency in her expression was like someone wishing upon a shooting star.

"I'll make us money," she'd say. "Tons of it."

"How?"

"With my drawlings—" drawings "—and inventions and stuff. That's how."

Smiling, Vi would reach out to tweak her baby sister's nose. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. And we'll have bundt cake every day. For breakfast and lunch and dinner. We'll have a huge stack of cakes, as tall as a building."

"We will, Pow." Vi's smile hurt worse than the lie, because she knew how much Powder wanted it to be true. "One day, we'll have it all."

And, as days came and went, they got their wish.

At a price.

On the Day of Ash—the eve of the uprising—everyone gathered at the Last Drop. They'd attended as family: merchants, miscreants, mendicants, shoulder-to-shoulder. That was the dream: a city of equals. A nation unto itself. They'd sat at Vander's scarred wooden table, elbows polishing the edges. There were bowls of mushroom stew thickened with cream, and platters of boiled greens, and crusty brown rolls still steaming from the oven.

And there was bundt cake. A golden wheel as big as a wagon's, crowned with sugar icing.

In retrospect, the repast must've cost a fortune. The Lanes were in a stranglehold of rations. Vander must've pulled strings to get the supplies shipped in from the black markets. But that was Vander for you. When times got tough, he'd put the screws on. He'd bend the world to his will.

Anything to keep the Fissurefolk happy.

"This is our year," he'd said, holding the carving knife aloft. "Tonight, we'll fight. We'll win. And when the sun rises, this city will be ours."

The room erupted into cheers, and the beating of fists on wood. Vander had carved the first slice. It was so soft the knife sunk in like butter. He'd passed it to Mom, who'd broken it in half, and then passed it on to Vi, who'd split her half into quarters, to share with Powder. The cake was just as it should be: soft and fragrant and sweet.

Vi let it melt in slow-motion on her mouth, and thought, This is what life'll be like.

When the Lanes are free.

When the city's ours.

She and Powder had stuffed themselves until their cheeks bulged. Mom hadn't paid them mind. She and Dad were neck-deep in conversation. Vi remembered little beyond the low cadences of their voices, and the furtive glances they kept trading. The rest of the Drop was oddly quiet too. Ordinarily, such large gatherings presaged festive tavern ditties, foot-stomping reels and overflowing laughter.

Not that night.

That night, there was silence, and the occasional scrape of knives on plates. When they did talk, the pitch was barely above whispers, as if the walls might have ears.

As if death was on the prowl, beyond the bright ambit of their table.

Afterward, the plates were cleared, the tankards drained. Dad, humid-eyed and gravel-voiced, swept both Vi and Powder into his lap. A surprise. He was a deeply giving man: the type to turn his pockets inside-out if you were in a pinch. But he wasn't demonstrative. That was mom's purview.

That night, though, he'd been uncharacteristically touchy. He'd also smelled, for some reason, like metal polish. As if he'd spent the evening cleaning a gun.

He'd kissed them both, and ruffled their hair. Vi had noticed the tremor in his hand.

"Look out for your sister, eh?" he'd told Vi. "Keep her out of trouble."

By late evening, Mom had folded two slices of bundt cake into a napkin, and stowed it away in Vi's rucksack. Taking both Vi and Powder by the hand, she'd guided them down to the Drop's cellar. Inside, there were a gaggle of other children, and a few old-timers. Vi remembers glimpsing a knobbly-kneed boy her own age, with a bristling dark mane of hair and teeth too big for his mouth. Mylo. And next to him, the same age, a stout, square-faced boy with solemn eyes. Claggor.

Two strangers who would, in time, become the brothers of her heart.

But not yet. Not then.

That night, they were no more than strangers. The cellar was stuffy with them: thick with the staleness of tight-packed bodies and too many fogged breaths.

"This is a hiding place," Mom explained. "You'll be safe here."

"Safe from what?" Vi asked.

Mom hadn't answered. Perching on the staircase, she'd gathered her daughters close. Her features were composed. But her smile seemed screwed on too tight. Vi remembers how hard she'd squeezed her and Powder. Remembers the skid of her heartbeat, and the acrid sting of metal polish that clung to her clothes beneath her usual fruit-punch fragrance.

Just like Dad.

Above, Vi heard the rhythmic click-click-click like keys sliding home in locks. Only afterward had she understood it was rifle-bolts.

Mom had kissed her and Powder, three times each. Then, as the moon rose at the casement window, she'd bid them goodnight. Rising, she'd mounted the stairs to where a man waited, hands in pockets, his features shadowed with a hangdog grimness.

Vi had thought it was Dad: they had a similar build. But the man was smoking a brightleaf cigarillo, and Vi couldn't recall Dad ever touching the stuff.

Through the halo of smoke, his eyes met Vi's. Lips quirking, he flicked his cigarillo, and the glowing ember spun, spiraling down. Vi remembers how it hit the floorboards, and sparked like a tiny orange star, before winking out of existence.

And something strange, an epiphany in reverse, crept through her.

She knew then.

Knew, with the certainty only a child can possess, that something bad was coming.

"Look out for yourself, Pet," the man called out.

The timbre of his voice was weirdly familiar. Like a dream spun with motes of half-dissolved memory.

Then the cellar door swung shut.

The lantern were dimmed, one by one. The cellar plunged into gloom. There was a chorus of frightened whimpers from the children, and hushed murmurs from the old folks. Powder, reflexively, snuggled closer. Vi's arms passed around her. Together, they'd nestled in the corner, and finished the last slices of bundt cake.

"I'm scared," Powder mumbled, when the last crumbs were licked clean.

"It'll be okay."

"When's Mommy coming back?"

"Soon," Vi said. "She's just busy upstairs."

"With Daddy?"

"Yeah. They'll be back soon." Vi hoped the promise wouldn't choke her. "Everything's gonna be okay. Let's go to sleep."

Powder's voice was a wavery flute-note. "Will you sing me a song?"

"Which one?"

"Our favorite."

"Okay." Vi took a breath. She pushed the thoughts of Mom and Dad away. Right now, her sister was all that mattered. "But you gotta promise you'll go to sleep."

"Promise."

Vi closed her eyes. She could hear the ebbing soundtrack in the bar above: muffled voices, footsteps receding. Vi imagined her parents exiting the bar, arm-in-arm, the scent of bundt cake wrapping them in its own cozy embrace.

The Drop's door thudded shut, and all fell silent.

"Ready?" Vi managed.

Powder nodded. Vi began to sing.

Dear friend across the River…

She wasn't sure how long she kept up. Powder had fallen asleep midway. Vi had continued, a little voice inside warning that if she lapsed to silence, the world would end.

And so she'd sung until her throat was raw, and the lyrics a hoarse whisper. By the end, she must've succumbed to sleep. Because the next thing she knew, a blast split the night. Outside, the awful echoes rolled. A moment later, she smelled smoke. The stench, a blur of charred metal and burning timber, seeped into the cellar.

Cries of alarm and confusion spread. Powder jolted awake in her arms.

"What's happening?" she whimpered.

"Don't worry." Vi gathered her in. "Everything's fi—"

The gunfire began.

It came from far-off. At first, Vi mistook it for firecrackers. Then, with a chill certainty, she knew it was bullets. The shot-spaced reports multiplied. The smell of smoke thickened. From the cellar window, there was the unmistakable glow of flames crawling their way through the sky. The children, woken from their fitful dozing, began crying. The old-timers tried to calm them. But their own terror was a contagion.

Outside, screams spread.

Screams that went on and on—and ended with a sudden bone-juddering boom.

"Mommy," Powder sobbed. "Daddy!"

Vi circled her close. "Sssh. It'll be okay. Everything will be—"

Above, the Drop's door slammed open. Boots thundered overhead, cutting through the children's sobs. Vi saw the old-timers tense. An elderly Yordle with a cane mounted the cellar stairs. The delineations of an antique pistol were visible under the band of his trousers.

He put a finger to his lips. Then, slowly, he withdrew the weapon.

Below, the remaining adults corralled the children into a flock. The old-timer reached the topmost step. His free hand was on the doorknob, ready to pull it open. His jaw was set. There was a resoluteness about him that Vi would later understand as the knowledge of imminent death.

The cellar door burst open.

On the other side were no Enforcers. Just a girl. Or, as Vi would later think of her: The Girl.

Nao.

She'd been only twelve years old then, and scrawny as a rake. Her cat-eyes held the adrenalized wildness of a hunted animal. The terror leaping off her was palpable. For a moment, she just stood there, panting.

"Dead," she choked out in Va-Nox. "All dead."

The old-timer's shoulders squared. "Steady, girl. What's happened?"

"We're dead. We're—" Nao's eyes skated across the cellar. She spotted the other children, and her voice hitched. "They ambushed them. The Enforcers. They were ready. Gunfire. Everywhere. All over. Then—then a grenade blast." Her breathing was ragged. "Everyone's dead."

"Where're the backup units?" the old-timer rapped. "Where's the Hound?"

"I—I don't know. I couldn't see anything. Too much smoke. I ran." A convulsion shook her. "I just ran."

"Easy." The old-timer squeezed Nao's shoulder. "Are the Enforcers still belowground?"

A headshake. "They're on their way back up. They've killed everyone. Cut us all down." Tears streaked Nao's face. "All of us. Dead in the streets. On the Bridge. Everywhere." She started to sob. "We never had a chance."

And Vi, cradling Powder, had felt her childhood crash.

And burn.

And yet, worse was to follow. Hers and Powder's feet, traversing the alleys of a city in flames. A city that, in a night, had mutated into a nightmare. The streets were strewn with bodies. Flames crackling; smoke rising. In the aftermath, they'd all spread out. Strays and stragglers crawling from the corners, in search of their loved ones.

Vi held Powder's hand, and made her cover her eyes with the other.

Then she'd led her sister, through the red-tinged haze, from body to body. She saw faces she'd known. Faces she'd barely recognized. Friends. Playmates. Neighbors. And, in the distance, the echoes of Enforcer boots. The crack of their rifles. And their silhouettes, receding into the gloom.

Back to Piltover.

There were bodies on the Bridge. So many, they formed a carpet. A macabre red road straight to Hell. Some corpses, charred and broken, were strewn along the embankments. Others bobbed in the murk of the river. The wind carried a strange stench, a smell that reminded Vi, irrationally, of bundt cake. Smoky, soggy, warm.

Beneath ran the undercurrent of iron.

Blood.

At the Bridge's epicenter, where the bodies were thickest, Vi saw a silhouette loom. A broad-shouldered goliath with mallets for fists. He was swinging lefts and rights, clearing a path through the carnage. A man, bleeding, struggled beneath him.

Crack went the fists, encased in gauntlets. Crack went his feet, clad in spiked-steel greaves.

Crack, crack, crack—and the man was no more.

Terror spewed stickily inside Vi's chest. Her grip tightened on Powder's hand.

Then the goliath turned, and Vi recognized Vander. The flames, playing off his hard-hewn jowls and bristling brows, gave him a ferocious aspect. He resembled hound forged in flames: heated, hammered and honed for a single brute utility.

Then his eyes met Vi's.

All at once, the violence leeched out of him. In the span of heartbeats, he somehow shrunk from a looming giant to a dejected man.

Slowly, he lumbered forward. His eyes held Vi's. A miserable query passed between them.

Vander jerked his chin.

That was when Vi saw her.

Mom.

She was lying on the Bridge's flagstones, arms outflung. Her face, uptilted, staring sightlessly into the sky. Blood spooled in a thin line from the corner of her mouth.

Vi's breath congealed. Her legs locked. She wanted to run. To scream. To turn back the clock, and undo everything from that awful night. Except, her body was rooted, and her brain, a blank. She could only stand there, caught in a paralytic loop, as the seconds stretched into infinity.

She hadn't cried in the cellar. Hadn't cried during the blast. Hadn't cried all the way through the city's death throes.

But here, now, it was different.

This was Mom.

Vi gasped, and there was no more air. Her knees gave out. Then Powder's little arms were around her, and the sobs began.

She remembers Vander's gauntlets falling, and his arms gathering her close. Remembers the rough, reassuring span of his body, and the strength with which he hefted her and Powder away. Remembers how safe she'd felt, despite the inferno smoking at her heels.

Now, Vi remembers something else. A moment, before the smoke engulfed the bridge, when her eyes locked on the sprawl of Mom's body. How her arm lay outstretched, fingers reaching. A final, involuntary gesture, as if straining to touch the hand of a loved one. As if, in her last breath, she'd sought a rescue that was too far.

Vi remembers, too, the man.

The man from the Drop. The one with the hangdog grimness and the brightleaf cigarillo. The one whose lips had quirked when he'd looked at Vi. Whose eyes, blue, had met hers, and softened with something that wasn't quite farewell, but wasn't quite anything else either.

The man was splayed on his belly. His blood had pooled and merged with Mom's. His arm, flung outward, was a mirror of hers. Their hands, in perfect alignment, nearly touching like the clasp of a broken necklace. Or like two ends of the same fuse.

And between them, a star-shaped blot of blackness where the explosion had gone off.

A grenade blast.

[multidimensionalmusicalmess]

S2 trailer made me remember

I love THEM

And they're absolutely gorgeous together

[multidimensionalmusicalmess]

Meta-Analysis-Rambles - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

My beta was going over the phone conversation snippet between Mel and Silco, and pointed out the different levels of manipulation, mind games and mendacity at play here. To quote: "He's taking every page from her mother's playbook, and she knows it, but she's still succumbing, and her failure is a strategic move on his part. But she can't stop it and the end of this is going to suck so much."

Which: yeah.

(I'm sorry?)

This is my way of breaking down the thought process behind this scene. As always, debate, critiques and comments are welcome<3

Tw: Narcissistic abuse, unhealthy power dynamics, dysfunctional relationships

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Confidential: State Files – Piltover & Zaun.

Memorandum of Encrypted Telephone Conversation

Subjects: Councilor Mel Medarda & First Chancellor Silco

Declassified and De-encrypted Under Authority of the Intra-agency Security Panel

E.O. 12596 Section 5. B(y) 

Councilor Medarda: Chancellor?

Chancellor Silco: Councilor. To what do I owe this pleasure?

Councilor Medarda: I am told Viktor has returned to Zaun.

Chancellor Silco: Yes. Two days ago. 

Councilor Medarda: I am also told he has taken up residence at Emberflit Alley. With a secondary base of operations at your headquarters. Is that correct?

Chancellor Silco: I suppose. Then again, my intelligence network is not quite as nosy as yours.

(She's already upset and he knows that full well. He's banking on it. And the first layer of mindfuckery begins. It's a subtle threat: We both know each other's secrets, so let's play nice.)

Councilor Medarda: Don't be disingenuous.

Chancellor Silco: Disingenuous? What I am is monumentally busy. You know. With all the work that comes from having a city that isn't under someone's boot. 

(Now he's taking performative pot shots. Preemptively attacking to keep her off balance. But Mel's a savvy politician. She's used to this game. She's got this.)

Councilor Medarda: Yes, it must be tiring indeed. So tiring that you neglected to mention the Hexcore is now in your pocket?

(She dispenses with their usual dance. Straight to the point.)

Chancellor Silco: Is that what that Rubiks cube is called? 

Councilor Medarda: Do not try my patience! It's no accident you kept the Council out of the loop. What does Viktor plan to do with it?

Chancellor Silco: From what I can gather? Improve the lives of Zaunites.

Councilor Medarda: And you expect me to believe that?

Chancellor Silco: Forgive me? Are you questioning my integrity—or his?

 (It's a double-layered question: If you trust my integrity so little, why work with me? But if you trust Viktor as little, why the hell are you allying with him? She's fired off warning shots. Now he's putting a gun to her head.)

Councilor Medarda: Do not misunderstand. I hold great esteem for Viktor. But if the Hexcore is perceived to be under Zaun's control, it will rattle Piltover's investors. Already, they are expressing concern that Zaun's chem-tech will surpass theirs.

Chancellor Silco: The Hexcore is not patented by your city. Nor is Viktor's work tied to your jurisdiction. His liminal status as Fissure-native saw to that. He has always been at liberty to take his inventions anywhere. Why not home?

Councilor Medarda: Existential arguments will not matter once stockholders turn tail. We are a nation of ideas. Hex-tech is our lifeblood.  Now you've taken one of our pioneers. The question is, why? Is this the beginning of a hostile takeover? Or are you inviting economic sanctions?

Chancellor Silco: Neither. It is an overture of friendship.

Councilor Medarda: Friendship?

Chancellor Silco: If your investors are afraid that Zaun's profits will outperform theirs, perhaps they should consider giving our businesses a whack. Better yet, start a little friendly competition.

Councilor Medarda: Do not make a mockery of this!

Chancellor Silco: Mockery? I am deadly serious. As Chancellor of Zaun, I welcome all trade.

Councilor Medarda:  Then you admit it? You lured Viktor away for economic benefit?

Chancellor Silco:  Lure? Viktor is not a rabbit. He is a grown man. He has dedicated years of service to the Council, and to Piltover. Surely, he has the right to choose where he spends the rest of his time.

Councilor Medarda: You mean the last of his days. His health is in decline. Such circumstances drive men to dire straits.

(Mel's got him dead to rights. She's calling out the true reason why he's enticed Viktor back to Zaun. And yet her disinterest in masking the language, as is her habit, is telling. She's rattled. Her personal life is intruding on her professionalism, due to how Viktor's departure has affected Jayce. She's also coming down off the high of hers and Silco's recent détente, and now has to reckon with the fact that she's put her trust in someone she shouldn't have.)

(She's angry and vulnerable. Which is exactly what Silco wants.)

Chancellor Silco: And that's where we must differ.

Councilor Medarda: What do you mean?

Chancellor Silco: Only that his mind is sharp. And the rest of him, still young. One may yet salvage the other.

Councilor Medarda: Do you realize the furor this has caused? Already, the Council are up in arms! The move will cut holes in our coffers. Coffers that, since Zaun's separation, are already hemorrhaging gold!

Chancellor Silco: I have made it no secret that Piltover must loosen its chokehold on the markets. What you decry as hemorrhage, I see as a balancing of scales.

Councilor Medarda: I have worked tirelessly to ensure that Piltover is a source of economic stability in Runeterra. A place where foreign traders can find new beginnings. You would risk decades of my effort with the stroke of your pen?

Chancellor Silco: If your stability came at our expense? Then: yes.

(And here's the crux of the conversation. And indeed, the crux of FnF. Revolution is about equity. About redistributing the wealth, the power, the resources. About dismantling the systems that maintain the status quo, and making the system itself more equitable. Silco, for all his villain-coded awfulness, has only ever wanted this. But his means are ruthless and leave bodies in their wake. And Mel, for all her hero-coded goodness, has always resisted it. Her means are to finesse deals and arrive at compromises where the big guys stay happy but the little guy drowns.  They both want the same thing, but the only way to make it happen is if someone's hand is forced. They keep pushing each other’s buttons, trying to make the other give.)

(Thus far, Mel has held the cards. She's cleverer at this game: blessed with an education and resources. Her connections have given her every advantage, and she's not above using them against Silco, who has grown up quick but hugely underprivileged. Now Silco has begun to understand the core of her neurosis: her self-worth. He's got a daughter who suffers similarly. So he weaponizes the knowledge, bypassing Mel's cleverness by striking at the heart of her vulnerabilities.)

(And it works.)

("Power, real power, doesn't come to those who are born strongest, or fastest, or smartest. No: it comes to those who will do anything to achieve it.")

Councilor Medarda: Our partnership is mutually beneficial. To throw it away for petty conceit—

Chancellor Silco: But who benefits more? A war-gutted backwater finding its feet? Or a nation that sits upon the pinnacle of progress?

Councilor Medarda: It was my belief that you wanted Zaun to succeed. That you were working toward the same ends as I.

Chancellor Silco: I am.

Councilor Medarda: And yet you have taken advantage of Viktor's deteriorating health! He would never have returned had you not swayed him!

Chancellor Silco: The way you talk, it's like you think I slithered up from the depths, and hypnotized him with a bag of candy in my hand.  With such paternalism, is it any wonder he left? Or did you pay him with head-pats and gold stars during his tenure as Hex-tech cofounder?

(The irony of this narcissistic asshattery is twofold. They both deploy charm offensives to turn people into instruments of gratification. But their methods are different. Silco uses a combination of fear and coercion, while Mel's is softer and sweeter. Both are selfish. Neither of them respects Viktor's agency as a human being. He is on the platter as a morsel, and they're both bickering over who has the right to eat him.)

(But now there's a difference.)

(Silco's consumption is rooted in nationalistic fervor and self-righteous indignation. Mel's is a result of her need to smooth troubled waters and keep her city financially afloat. In this case, she has no ulterior motives. Silco has nothing but.  And he's killing two birds with one stone: reminding her that she's not infallible, while also reminding her that her city's success is contingent on the Undercity's resources, and the resourcefulness of its people.)

(That's her Achilles heel, and he's going for the tendons.)

Councilor Medarda: If this snideness is a demonstration of your sincerity, then I will bid you goodnight.

Chancellor Silco: You may bid me whatever you wish. The fact remains that Viktor is free to move as he chooses. We spoke during the gala. I told him—plainly—that the doors of his hometown would remain open. And that, if he contributed to Zaun's development, he would have a seat at the table. He made his own choice. If his convictions are at odds with Piltover, it is because your agenda had no interest in including him.

(And comes the knife in the gut. He's turned the tables. Now he's reminding her that her city has its own blind spots, its own biases, and its own hubris. In point of fact, Piltover has not treated Viktor well. He's been the silent, self-effacing force behind their prosperity. A silent partner, and silently suffering as his health deteriorates.)

(Silco's using that for his own ends. He's also laying out the groundwork for his final salvo: his Four Horsemen. He wants Piltover close as close, with their finances inextricably linked, so he can watch them suffer once he tears it all down.)

Councilor Medarda:  I am at pains to point out that an open door proves the most successful enticement of all. You lay your choicest cards on the table, and wait for the opponent to make the gamble.

(He's the enemy. She's reminding herself of that. Her language has become that of warfare, rather than the language of diplomacy. And yet, in standing her ground, she's slipping. Her political intelligence is being clouded by her emotional wounds.)

(This is his doing. She's fighting his war now, not her own.)

Chancellor Silco: I am also, as you take pains to note, a zealot. I believe in Zaun. I believe in the Fissurefolk. Viktor is the greatest living example of our potential. He has contributed immeasurably to Piltover's success. Now, he has returned where he's needed. If Piltover is as great as you claim, it can bloody well manage without him.

Councilor Medarda: The Hexcore is integral to our projects! It was created in Piltover!

Chancellor Silco: Now Zaun will repurpose it.

Councilor Medarda: So you admit it? Your goal is to destabilize our markets?

(Mel's trying to wrest the gun away and point it at his head. But her aim's not good enough. It's too close. Too messy. It doesn't pin him down the way she wants it to.)

(Worse, he's laughing on the inside. This is a game he knows how to win.)

Chancellor Silco: There you go again. If my city gets one-fifth of the pie, do you starve for the lack of the other four-fifths? If we have one brilliant engineer, and you have one hundred, is our innovation an impediment to your success? For a woman of such wealth, you are fixated on a fistful of coins.

Councilor Medarda: Coin is how you build a foundation. Without it, you have nothing.

Chancellor Silco: You have your mind. You hands. You will. Coin is the means, not the end.

Councilor Medarda: And yet you risk the Treaty between our cities, in a bid for more!

Chancellor Silco: By what standard do you measure a Treaty? You've sanctioned fair trade between our cities. Our markets are now a two-way street. But yours has been the tight-fisted hoarder. Ours? The beggar with his hand out. Your Hex-Gates have kept our industries stagnant. Your decrees have kept us locked in. Your monopolies have kept our brightest from ever seeing the light of day.  Now we are crawling our way out. But first, we must recover from the old scars.

Councilor Medarda: I have done my utmost to keep your city afloat! Referrals, subsidies, contracts. I've coaxed the Council to look past their prejudices. Cajoled the chariest stakeholders into lending coin to your industries. My efforts have been beyond reproach. And what do you do? Swipe my silver like a thief in the night!

(In my headcanon, she very nearly fumbles as she uses this metaphor. Her first choice was 'rapist.' Also, broadly speaking, from dynamics of social class, we're now transitioning toward gender, and the intrinsic link between the two, as well as how it translates into power.)

(But Mel's not ready to go there yet, so she's keeping the conversation firmly on the financial. Socially, Silco remains her 'inferior' due to his identity as a working-class man. Politically, his nation's balance hinges on her goodwill. Or rather, her noblesse oblige. He's not a threat; just a fuck-up in need of a helping hand. But his audacity has thrown her for a loop, and the only way she knows how to regain control is to remind him of his debt to her. A stance he now rejects, because they've become intimate.)

(Which brings up the secondary layer of their mindfuckery. As we will soon see.)

Chancellor Silco: If Piltover sees the loss of one man as theft, then perhaps your faith in your city is unfounded. Zaunites are not thieves. We only take what we are owed. Now we will use it as we see fit.

Councilor Medarda: And how, pray tell, will you use the Hexcore? Sell its secrets to the highest bidder? Or hoard them, like a miser, to build an arsenal that reduces both our cities to rubble? If conquest was your aim—

Chancellor Silco: Conquest?

(A telling choice of words, and another laugh in her ear.)

(In her mind, he's become the monster under the bed. He's her greatest fear: an unruly hellpit beneath her golden city. A wild animal that wants to be free. And her mind's conjuring up images of the Siege, and her city a smoking ruin. More to the point, she's regressing. She's becoming the girl at the mercy of her warlord mother's harsh lessons. She's a child, helpless, and the adult has come to teach her the consequences of weakness.)

(And yet, she's also grown up, and she's the mistress of her own house.  She's been through the Siege, and survived, and come out stronger for it. She's a warrior in her own right, and she's going to act like one.)

Councilor Medarda: You speak in absolutes. Winners and losers. Beggars and choosers. March forward—and damn the consequences!

Chancellor Silco: You are the one speaking in absolutes. I see a simple solution to all of this. Let Zaun keep the Hexcore. Because that's the only way we can achieve parity. Our economy has finally freed itself from your city's shackles.  My Cabinet is undertaking reforms to stem excess liquidity. We're encouraging worker co-operatives by establishing a national credit union. We're offering incentives for independent start-ups. All of this is but a fraction of what's necessary to strengthen our markets. But we are trying. We are fighting every step. We are not asking for handouts. Only the right to succeed. On our own terms. With our own people.

Councilor Medarda: I have heard enough.

(She's doing what her mother would do. Shutting down the conversation, before her vulnerability and fear make her lose face. She's made her case. There's nothing left for him to say.)

(And so, he does the worst thing she can imagine. He ignores her.)

Chancellor Silco: Have you? Or are you afraid what I say makes sense? 

Councilor Medarda: I expected, after everything, that we'd share a modicum of trust.

Chancellor Silco: Trust—or intimacy?

Councilor Medarda: ...

Chancellor Silco: Apologies. Was our encounter in the obelisk to go unstated?

(He's dropped the mic.)

(He's also got her - as he literally did in the obelisk - by the short hairs. Their intimacy is now a liability, and his leverage. They've crossed a line they can't uncross, and it's now a tool for his own ends.)

(Thus begins the secondary mindfuckery: their affair. )

(Thus far, Mel's used her sex appeal to stir his passions, and keep him wanting more. Now he's weaponizing his experience, and his ease with sexuality, in a bid to undermine her confidence. In business, she's the coy seductress. In pleasure, she's honest, and honesty makes her vulnerable. Unlike her, Silco sees pleasure as nothing but an excuse to bare the ugliness beneath the veneer. Because, like most things in the Fissures, it's been deformed into a force of consumption rather than creation.)

(Pleasure - true pleasure - is deep on the inside. And it's a long, slow path to reach it. A man like Silco has little reason to bother. The simulacrum can be wielded with a much sharper edge. Which is precisely why he's chosen to use it.)

(Because he wants her to feel the way he did as a young man: exposed, and at the mercy of his desires.)

Councilor Medarda: My feelings on the matter are not the issue.

Chancellor Silco: I think, by your silence, they are.  What did you believe? A few kisses, and suddenly, I'd be yours for the taking?

Councilor Medarda: We did more than kiss!

Chancellor Silco: I didn't say we didn't. I asked what you believed? Did you imagine I would turn into a puddle, and fall at your feet? You, who have lacked for nothing and never been denied, thought a moment's affection would turn me into your lapdog?

(Make 'em cry, then make 'em come. Later chapters will boil this down as his ethos re: sex.)

(It's also rooted in his foundational trauma in FnF with Vander and Nandi. Each time, he'd made love with someone he was close to. Then Nandi was murdered. And Vander betrayed him. He'd been left with nothing but grief, and rage. By the end, he's learned that sex is a means to an end, and the end is power. He's using that knowledge now.)

(Mel's a proud woman, and a clever one. But she's also deeply wounded. This is not the first time she's been physically vulnerable with a man, only for him to withdraw. Her first lover manipulated her feelings for his own gain. The second, Jayce, abandoned her in the dead of the night to go be with Viktor. And her mother, of course, jettisoned her to save her own neck.)

(Now she's been used again. Worse, it's by a Trencher who is reminding her of his relative lack of need for her. He's telling her that, despite growing up with nothing, he has more self-respect than she does. And her ego's taken a serious hit. Now her mind is scrambling, trying to salvage the situation. Because she's just had a reminder of how badly her own instincts have failed her. Silco is not the threat. He's a symptom of a larger problem, and that problem is the blindspot in her own psyche: her inability to recognize that her needs and the needs of a strong ruler are incompatible.)

(Which is exactly what her mother spent a lifetime trying to train out of her, and which is what ultimately got her banished.)

Councilor Medarda: My affections were genuine! Unlike your reciprocation! You took advantage of my state of mind! My honesty, my trust—

Chancellor Silco: I did nothing of the sort. In fact, I gave you every opportunity to walk away. You chose to stay. I neither invited you, nor held expectations beyond the moment. You're the one who seems to think desire is a debt, and intimacy a contract.

Councilor Medarda: Intimacy? If the word were a dagger, you'd be holding it!

Chancellor Silco: It appears, then, that you've stabbed yourself.

(Flashbacks ahoy! Trauma-o-rama!)

(His words have just sliced her open, and she's bleeding all over the floor. She's not angry. She's terrified. She's realizing, belatedly, that her feelings for him have gone past the professional—and that he's not just her nemesis, but a threat to her nation. His city is a powder keg beneath her feet, and he's ready to light the fuse.)

(And yet, he's right. She's the one who stayed. And she's the one who kissed him first.)

(Because he's the one who grew up with nothing - but she's the needy one. Because her mother's voice is always ringing in her ears. Her mother, who loved her, but had a terrible way of showing it. Her mother, who's always judged her, and taught her that she must be perfect, because to be less than perfect is to warrant expulsion. She's grown up having everything, and yet been left wanting.)

(It's a paradoxical existence: rich, yet starved. And that's the core of Mel's character.)

(And Silco, her seeming antithesis, knows this. Because he's also suffered this contradiction. He's had nothing and has now gotten everything. But it's come at a cost: his daughter traumatized, his city burning, his relationships dust.)

(But unlike Mel, he's not afraid to look the byproduct of ugliness in the eye. Because his understanding is the key to unlocking her deepest, darkest fears.)

Councilor Medarda: Why are you doing this?

Chancellor Silco: Doing what?

Councilor Medarda: Turning on me.

Chancellor Silco: I've done no such thing. I warned you from the outset that my first priority was my city. The welfare of my child. I will compromise neither.

(In my headcanon, she says it in the same tone as when she'd confronted Ambessa. "Why? Why did you do it?" i.e. "What did I do wrong? How was it my fault? Why was I not worthy?")

(And Silco, having driven her here, now becomes her solacer. Worse, he unbalances her by showing his cards. By saying he's a father. By revealing, obliquely, that his daughter is also a victim, and has suffered. Because that's the other core of his character: his devotion to his child, and his drive to give her a better life. Which is a goal Mel herself understands, and sympathizes with. The fact that he's the seeming villain of the piece, and she's the ostensible heroine, has not stopped them from forming an understanding.)

(Fundamentally, they're both former wunderkinds whose childhood traumas have, in different ways, led them to the same conclusions: the world is unfair, and only the strong can change it.)

Councilor Medarda: But you'll make a bedfellow of Viktor.

Chancellor Silco: Bedfellow? Is that what this is about? You believe my attention is suspect.

Councilor Medarda: Do you deny it?

Chancellor Silco: My dear, the boy is in poor health. I'm not sure what peculiarities you shared with Talis—

Councilor Medarda: Leave Jayce out of this!

Chancellor Silco: —But the fact is, I am not interested in seducing a man in his last days. In fact, the prospect is downright ghoulish. Unless, in Noxus, this is the done thing?

Councilor Medarda: Watch how you speak to me.

Chancellor Silco: You've accused me of taking advantage of a sick man. Seducing him, no less. What is this, if not a bid at easing your own guilt?

Councilor Medarda: Guilt? You dare talk to me about guilt? Do you realize how distraught Jayce has been, since learning of Viktor's defection? He's refusing to work. He's refusing to speak. He's a wreck!

Chancellor Silco: Nothing cuts deeper than a brother's loss.

Councilor Medarda: We made a bargain for Jayce's safety!

Chancellor Silco: And I am honoring it. Unless you believe Viktor is the latest in a line of hidden threats? 

Councilor Medarda: I do not know what to believe.

Chancellor Silco: This is not about belief. It's about trust. You're fine sharing a bed with Talis. You've no qualms stringing a dozen men on a leash. But the moment you encounter a rival—a real one, not the puppets you call lovers—suddenly it's a conspiracy. That is not how fair trade is done, Councilor. You cannot play my equal one moment, and then clutch your virtue like a jilted little girl the next.

(Silco's not wrong. She's been playing a very dangerous game. She's been using the same tricks her mother uses, but her aim has not been conquest. At least, not entirely. There's a part of her that's genuinely fascinated by him. Who's drawn to his confidence, his ruthlessness, and his ability to get things done. She's not sure she can find anyone else like him. He's a threat to her city, and a threat to her ego. And yet he's the only person who can match her wit. So she took the risk, and chose to keep him close, in hopes that she'd eventually subdue him into compliance.)

(It was a terrible gamble. Now she's lost.)

(Worse, she's lost her footing, and he's on the high ground. But he's offering her a chance to come back from the brink. A chance to re-balance their relationship, and maintain the status quo. Which is, fundamentally, the only thing Mel truly wants. She doesn't want to destroy him, or even see him hurt. She just wants the world to continue turning as it always has.)

(In this case, the Treaty and her relationship with Silco are the two pillars that keep her city strong.)

(Her greatest fear isn't him. It is him being right.)

Councilor Medarda: Then return Viktor to Piltover! The Council will overlook the theft of the Hexcore. We will negotiate a fair compensation for its exchange. Two million. Three, if you like.

Chancellor Silco: You take away our own, then attempt to pay us up front like at a fishmonger's?

Councilor Medarda: Four million. Five-and-a half. Any price—within reason. Viktor is integral to our city. His and Jayce's Hexcore is a prime investment. If they split ways, our shareholders—

(And there it is: her innate flaw. Her need to fix, to smooth, to negotiate. Her desire for the world to remain a pleasant place, and her willingness to make deals with the devil to achieve it. She's begging him to accept the offer, and she's also begging him not to reject her, and to prove her wrong.)

(Except the devil's done playing ball. Now, having laid the groundwork, he's going in for the kill.)

Chancellor Silco: Listen to yourself. Price. Investment. Shareholder. This is the not the vocabulary of partnership. It is the language of acquisition. Viktor is not yours to buy back. Nor is he mine to sell. He is a Zaunite. He is free to work wherever he chooses. And if the Council is threatened by that, it's their business. They can clutch their pearls and wring their hands. Or—

Councilor Medarda: Or, what?

Chancellor Silco: They can have their cake and eat it too.

Councilor Medarda: Meaning?

Chancellor Silco: Meaning they are invited to dip their fingers in the Zaunite pie. The chem-tech. The sextech. The Shimmer. Our market is open.

Councilor Medarda: You'll pardon me, if I have difficulty taking you at your word.

Chancellor Silco: Then permit me a gesture of good faith.

Councilor Medarda: What?

Chancellor Silco: You'll get to pop the cherry.

Councilor Medarda: ...

(From a politician, he's now transitioning into what he truly is: a thug. A kingpin who has brought a city to its knees with his wits, the fire in his belly, and a handful of Shimmer. And she, despite her best efforts, is no longer in a position of power. Which is why she's struggling to grasp his meaning. To her, it's not just a change of pace. It's the crude vocabulary of a brothel. The language of men who commoditize and consume innocence as if it were a resource. And he, having made his way up the ladder, has a foot in both worlds.)

(Now he's inviting her to partake, and he's telling her that she will like it. He's also reminding her, by invoking a sex metaphor, that she can place herself once again in the driver's seat. And that her desire is a power of its own. That she, and only she, has the power to choose a better way.)

(Mel is an expert at the game of seduction. But seduction is not sex. The former comes with an elaborate framework of rules. The latter is a raw, unbridled force. And Silco is fluent in both. In a way, he's doing what Ambessa did when she taught Mel how to be a fox and a wolf. He's teaching her the reality of the trenches, and he's inviting her to join him in it.)

(This invitation is her first step into his wolf's den, where he will, later, tear her throat out.)

Chancellor Silco: Apologies. Is that vulgarism not permitted Topside? Should I say, You get to cut the ribbon? They are tantamount to the same.

Councilor Medarda: Namely?

Chancellor Silco: House Medarda will be the first beneficiary of our new tax policy. You'll have leverage over controlling shares in Zaun's biggest chem-cultivation companies. Medicinal, agricultural, cosmetic. No tax audits for the first five years. Free access to our ports. Unlimited export.  Your name holds great clout with investors. Use it. Viktor's departure may well rattle the markets. But this way, Piltover will have a fallback. Your shareholders will rally. Your Council will be intrigued. You will have an unprecedented chance to share in Zaun's spoils.

Councilor Medarda: What of the Hexcore?

Chancellor Silco: Whatever Viktor does with his intellectual property is his choice, and his alone.

Councilor Medarda: If Zaun were to manufacture Hex-weaponry—

Chancellor Silco: We already possess an arsenal. The same we used to liberate our city. Since then, we've not fired a single shot against you. We've no interest in war.  Our priority is progress. Shared progress. That's what the Treaty was for, after all.

Councilor Medarda: The Treaty was meant to foster trust between our cities.

Chancellor Silco: As equals. Now's your chance to prove it. Show the world that the Council isn't afraid of Zaun's independence. Demonstrate that you believe in your own philosophy. Allow Viktor to pursue his goals in Zaun. He'll still benefit both our cities, in ways we have yet to quantify.

(The phrase "ways we have yet to quantify" is not a metaphor. It is literally a reference to the unforeseen consequences of magic. Silco's making the same arguments that Jayce did when he first presented his proposal for Hextech to the Council.)

(It's an echo of the past, and how Hex-tech catapulted Piltover to the top, as Mel had always aspired.)

(Thus far, Mel's been in survival mode - a holdover of the Siege. She's focused on keeping matters stable in the present. Silco, having grown up in the Fissures, has no such compunctions. His focus is on the future, and the possibilities inherent in their collaboration. In other words, the promise of progress.)

(Best of all, his offer is designed to appeal to Mel's desire for success.)

Councilor Medarda: The Council will require surety. You cannot expect me to win your points by fiat. I am not a miracle-worker.

Chancellor Silco: All the more reason to take the leap.

Councilor Medarda: What if Viktor proves unable?

Chancellor Silco: As in: dead? Or disinclined?

Councilor Medarda: The latter is a scenario. The former—a sad outcome.

Chancellor Silco: Then you'll have your Hexcore back. And a pile of coins to boot. I fail to see the downside.

Councilor Medarda: You have a diabolical habit of speaking in circles.

(And she's caught in its center. All her objections have gone from moral to practical. Because the morality has long since ceased to matter. What matters is the reality: two cities whose fates are inextricably bound. And, if their leaders must maintain peace, they will have to find a way to accommodate the other's needs.)

(Which is exactly the conclusion they'll arrive at by the end of this tale. But not before their respective hang-ups drive them to the edge.)

Chancellor Silco: Because the solution is obvious. Viktor will succeed. His work is the key to his longevity.  And the breakthroughs he makes will be integral to our shared success.

Councilor Medarda: I'll expect to be kept apprised of developments.

Chanellor Silco: Naturally.

Councilor Medarda: I'll also expect a private tour of your chem-cultivations once they've ripened.

Chancellor Silco: With luck, they'll taste as sweet as you.

Councilor Medarda: That's quite enough.

Chancellor Silco: Deal or no deal, Councilor?

Councilor Medarda: I still haven't forgiven you.

Chancellor Silco: For neglecting to mention Viktor?

Councilor Medarda: It wasn't neglect. It was payback. I checkmated you with the Peacekeeper Exchange Initiative, and Violet. You did the same with Viktor.

(Her defenses are finally down. She's coming clean. She's not angry. She's hurt. And her hurt has driven her to an honest confession, which she delivers as a counter-accusation. 'We're both political beasts. We both use people. We both want the same things, but so far, I've had the better hand. Now you've come back with an ace, and you're showing it to me. So I'm laying my cards on the table.')

(This is not a declaration of defeat, but rather one of truce.)

Chancellor Silco: That's the nature of politics. But—if you'll forgive the crudeness—vis a vis myself and Viktor...

Councilor Medarda: Yes?

Chancellor Silco: Fuck, no.

Councilor Medarda: ...

Chancellor Silco: Your jealousy is flattering. But unfounded. 

Councilor Medarda: It is not jealousy.

Chancellor Silco: What then?

Councilor Medarda: A woman in my position must defend it. And if she must do so with ferocity, so be it. It's the same way one defends a city. There is a saying in Noxus. 'A man who is not ready to die for his nation, is not ready to live in it.' 

Chancellor Silco: Is that why you left? Was Noxus not worth the price?

Councilor Medarda: I did not leave. I was cast out. There is a difference. Noxus is my homeland. But Piltover is my home. I will not let her fall. Even if a little jealousy is what it takes to defend her interests.

Chancellor Silco: And Talis too, I'd wager. 

Councilor Medarda: This is not about my relationship with Jayce.

Chancellor Silco: Isn't it? Everything you've said so far, can be traced back to it.  You were his lover for nearly a year. His closeness with Viktor was common knowledge. I imagine you were sometimes put in an awkward spot. The unwitting Delilah. You are an intelligent woman. I don't doubt your political acumen. But you're not unbreakable. Whereas the bond forged between two brothers in the crucible... 

Councilor Medarda: What are you implying?

Chancellor Silco: I'm implying nothing. I'm asking, plain. Do you fear the dynamic will replicate itself? That my interest in Viktor forebodes something deeper?

(Perceptive bastard is perceptive. He's been in a similar dynamic w/ the entire Vander/Lika/Silco mess. He knows all too well the pain of a triangulated love. He's been on the receiving end. And he's also, despite his best intentions, going to inflict the same pain again, with the Mel/Sevika/Silco mess. Which, in his mind, will be an entirely different thing, because he's spinning a circle dance in his head, and trying to justify his actions accordingly.)

(But right now, he's not thinking about his own culpability. Right now, he's got a target in his sights.)

Councilor Medarda: Don't jest.

Chancellor Silco: It is a bit gallows, isn't it? Livewire urges and dying men…

Councilor Medarda: Gods, you are intractable.

Chancellor Silco: Then allow me to be frank. Your suspicions stem from hurt pride. You've been exiled from your homeland. You've struggled to achieve every inch of prestige. But belonging? That is the true challenge. With Talis, you had it. But his closeness with Viktor...

Councilor Medarda: ...

Chancellor Silco: Shall I drop the subject?

Councilor Medarda: No. You—

Chancellor Silco: Speak freely.

Councilor Medarda: You aren't wrong. Jayce and Viktor—

Chancellor Silco: Had a connection.

Councilor Medarda: Yes. Sometimes, Jayce would stay late at his lab. I was accustomed to finding him and Viktor together.  I thought nothing of it. I had no reason to. They were as close as family. Like brothers. But sometimes...

Chancellor Silco: Hm?

Councilor Medarda: That closeness was extraordinary. They never touched. Not the way Jayce and I did. But their intimacy was more than skin deep. Deeper even than the heart.

Chancellor Silco: The soul?

Councilor Medarda: Perhaps.

Chancellor Silco: Did it trouble you?

Councilor Medarda: I envied it. It's easy, when one has prestige, to be desired. It's not so simple to be loved. Not that way. Between Jayce and Viktor, it was effortless. A fusion that went beyond flesh. And that... frightened me.

Chancellor Silco: Because your place with Talis was threatened?

Councilor Medarda: Because it felt like mine wasn't the love he needed.

(Echoes of Silco and Vander. And Silco and Jinx. ("Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.")

(It's a beautiful verse. In FnF, it's also a dangerous lie. Because anything can become corrupted: magic, family, faith. Even love.)

Chancellor Silco: And you fear history is repeating itself.

Councilor Medarda: I—

Chancellor Silco: For a woman with everything, your estimation of yourself is low indeed.

Councilor Medarda: It's not estimation. Merely—

Chancellor Silco: Past experience. You've mentioned.

Councilor Medarda: You must find this a very peculiar conversation.

Chancellor Silco: It's not every day you're accused of seducing a dying man. 

Councilor Medarda: I apologize.

Chancellor Silco: For what, precisely?

Councilor Medarda: My past entanglements have been—complicated. I'm afraid the wounds are rather fresh, and I—

Chancellor Silco: —Have the right to feel whatever you feel. You do not owe me explanations, Mel. But, if a listening ear helps to settle your thoughts, I am here.

(It begins.)

(He's verbally and emotionally thrashed her until she bled. Now he becomes the salve. It's a classic tactic: make them cry, then hold their hand. Abusers love the process of breaking, and the power it gives them. But they also enjoy the process of fixing, and the sense of control it offers. It's how they justify themselves: "I hurt you, but only I can put you back together.")

(Silco is no exception. But his motives are also dubious. He genuinely likes Mel. He finds her intriguing. He's attracted to her. And in a tiny way, she reminds him of Nandi's best qualities, same way Sevika embodies all of Nandi's sultriest physical attributes.)

(Fundamentally, he's looking for neither a surrogate nor a proxy: he's looking for a partner. Someone who can stand toe-to-toe with him. But his mind, being what it is, has warped that desire into the language of dominance and submission. He speaks it in varying ways with both Mel and Sevika, and with the rest of his inner circle, to varying degrees.)

(The only one who bypasses it is Jinx.)

(And by the end, she'll have her old man chugging that respect-the-woman juice until it's coming out of his nose.)

Councilor Medarda: That's the first time you've called me by my name. 

Chancellor Silco: Is it? I beg your pardon.

Councilor Medarda: Don't. I—I like it.

Chancellor Silco: So do I. Short for Melika, isn't it?

Councilor Medarda: Yes.

Chancellor Silco: Targonian for Honey.

Councilor Medarda: That's right. My father, in his wisdom, named me after his forefathers' bee farms. My mother, in her temper, would say: 'A Medarda needs no honey. Only an army of a thousand stingers.'

Chancellor Silco: And thus: Mel.

Councilor Medarda: Mmm.

Chancellor Silco: Honey hiding a thousand stings. How very apt. 

(Fun fact. Mel is the Latin root for Mellis, or sweetness. Literally, it means Honey. It's also used in words like Mellisonant and Mellifluous. Meanwhile, the Old English Melvin means 'Council Protector.' Our girl is all that, and a bag of chips.)

 (By invoking her first name, Silco is establishing a rapport grounded in past memory. Her response is to reciprocate, which she does by sharing the childhood anecdote. She's inviting him to continue their game of honesty, because she's enjoying it. Because the only people who've truly understood her have either betrayed her, or have left her.)

(Now, she has him.)

(And isn't it just a sad metaphor for vampirism: you cannot be harmed unless you invite them past the threshold.)

Councilor Medarda: And you? What's your name short for? It's not a line I've heard of before. 

Chancellor Silco: Zaun puts no stock in lineage. Our names are what we are born with. And, if we're lucky, what we die with. Mine is no different.  

Councilor Medarda: Your mother never gave you a moniker? A pet name?

Chancellor Silco: None worth repeating.

Councilor Medarda: Surely you exaggerate.

Chancellor Silco: Would you prefer: "Bastard", "Motherfucker", or "Dirty Little Thing"? Take your pick.

Councilor Medarda: ...

Chancellor Silco: That'll teach you to pry.

(He's not exaggerating in the slightest. If anything, he's owning the pain, and making a weapon of it. He has no shame or guilt over his past. What he does have is the scars. And he's showing her that they're as much a part of him as his monstrosity. He is his trauma, and his trauma has made him stronger.)

(And yet it's nearly a goad. "Feel bad for me. I'm so broken, and only you can fix me.")

(Mel, effortlessly empathetic, does not disappoint.)

Councilor Medarda: This isn't prying. This is conversation. Between equals. From a place of trust. Or is it easier to keep people at arm's length? To pretend you have no past at all? 

Chancellor Silco: I've never made a secret of my past. Some aspects are simply best forgotten. 

Councilor Medarda: Like a difficult mother. I can commiserate.

Chancellor Silco:  Better a madwoman's son than a warlord's daughter.

Councilor Medarda: A warlord's leavings. House Medarda does not take its bloodline lightly. We cast out the unfit, lest they tarnish the family name. So, in a way, I put no stock in lineage, either. We are what we make of ourselves. That is the choice Piltover offers. It's why I love this city. Why I would fight to protect it.

Chancellor Silco: Something we've in common.

Councilor Medarda: Did we not always? From the moment of our parley, we've locked horns. But our ends are the same. A bright future. For Zaun, and Piltover.

(She's finally coming around to his point of view, and admitting her own bias. She's not doing it to manipulate him; she's doing it because he's earned it. By speaking honestly, and openly, and sharing her own vulnerability, she's opened a new vein in their relationship.)

(A vein Silco will slowly infuse with his poison.)

Chancellor Silco: One where sons are not condemned to the fate of their fathers.

Councilor Medarda: Nor daughters, their mothers. 

Chancellor Silco: Then we are in accord. The Hexcore, and Viktor, remain in Zaun.

Councilor Medarda: On certain conditions. First, we will establish a formal framework for collaboration between our scientific institutions. Second, all Zaun-based import and export of Hex-tech will be subject to inspection by a joint oversight committee. Third, there will be no development of Hex-tech weaponry without the prior approval of the joint oversight committee.

Chancellor Silco: Is this meant as a slap on the wrist?

Councilor Medarda: It is a gesture of trust. Repay it in kind.

Chancellor Silco: You mean: Welcome the Peacekeeper Exchange Initiative.

Councilor Medarda: Accept the officers as they are. A declaration of togetherness. And Violet—

Chancellor Silco: Ward of your state. Fruit of mine.

Councilor Medarda: Let her become the bridge between us. Let her reconcile with her sister.

Chancellor Silco: Violet is not a child. She is a grown woman. If she wishes to see her sister, she is free to do so.

Councilor Medarda: Does that apply to Jinx, too?

Chancellor Silco: I've never barred Jinx from anything. Only the dangers at the door.

Councilor Medarda: Then let's make sure they're gone. For good.

Chancellor Silco: You have my word.

(By golly, does she ever. In his mind, the danger is Vi. As such, he's just promised to make Vi disappear.)

Councilor Medarda: When you say it in that tone, I'd almost believe you mean it.

Chancellor Silco: You make it hard not to.

Councilor Medarda: And is it so hard?

Chancellor Silco: As the night.

Councilor Medarda: You are shameless, Chancellor.

Chancellor Silco: Silco. Let's dispense with the titles. Makes it easier to keep things straightforward.

Councilor Medarda:  Or harder to forget.

Chancellor Silco: I'm from Zaun, Mel. Secrets born here have teeth.

Councilor Medarda: I am trying not to hold that against you.

Chancellor Silco: Try to understand. My city is still raw. So is my child. Both need a close eye. Until the dust settles, any distraction would be a disservice. To them. To myself. To the future.

Councilor Medarda: Distraction?

Chancellor Silco: I mean no insult. But you are that. A maddening, delightful, and altogether impossible distraction.

(More of the mean-sweet cycle. He's nearly threatened to tear her city apart. Now he's the smitten gentleman. He's the Creature from the Black Lagoon. He's the schoolboy tugging her pigtails. And the dichotomy is a big part of his appeal. Because trauma shapes our psychological landscape, and Mel's is, like Silco's, a house of contradictions. She yearns to feel in control. Yet she's spent her girlhood left off-balance by her mother, who made her walk a tightrope of expectations. And Silco, whose entire life has been defined by the conflict between powerlessness and agency, plays it like a pro.)

(Which is why, despite the warning bells, Mel keeps succumbing.)

(She's no fool in love. But, for the first time, she's found someone who can meet her on her level. Silco's not intimidated by her family. He's not dazzled by her looks. He's not blinded by her wealth. He sees her. And that is her weakness. The same weakness that draws Caitlyn to Vi. That draws Jinx to Ekko.)

(It's the allure of the unattainable.)

Councilor Medarda: You flatter me.

Chancellor Silco: The truth flatters itself.

Councilor Medarda: I can't decide any longer if it's devilry or sainthood that drives you.

Chancellor Silco: Sainthood? Please. If I were, you wouldn't be half as interested.

Councilor Medarda: I'd be intrigued. But not compelled. Not—

Chancellor Silco: Go on.

Councilor Medarda: I did not grow up shielded with goosedown pillows. I've had my share of admirers. Most have been eager. Some, desperate. All have been... less. 

Chancellor Silco: I'd wager that has more to do with the quality of the suitors, than any imperfections on your part.

Councilor Medarda: My point is that it's not easy for me to open myself. To give in to impulse. And yet, you inspire it. Effortlessly.

Chancellor Silco: I hope you know you're in safe hands.

Councilor Medarda: Skillful? Yes. Safe? Never.

(She knows. Subconsciously, she knows. But she's not ready to accept it. Her desires are guiding her. The same desires that led her to kiss him, now lead her to continue. She's Persephone, and he's Hades. She's Eve, and he's the Serpent. He's the darkness, and she the thrillseeker. She wants to feel alive, without having to pay the price.)

(And he is more than willing to oblige. But not without warning her:)

Chancellor Silco: Best take care then.

Councilor Medarda: Am I in danger?

Chancellor Silco: Of succumbing? Time will tell.

Councilor Medarda: And trust?

Chancellor Silco: That, you must give willingly.

Councilor Medarda: Willingly, but with my eyes open.

Chancellor Silco: Always.

Councilor Medarda: Mine are presently growing heavy. I must retire.

Chancellor Silco: Schlaf gut.

Councilor Medarda: Not sweet dreams?

Chancellor Silco: Depends on where your imagination takes you.

Councilor Medarda: I'm starting to suspect you're a monster after all.

Chancellor Silco: Zaun has a surplus.

Councilor Medarda: And do they banish the darkness, or walk with it?

Chancellor Silco: That's not a question to ask in the dark, Mel.

Councilor Medarda: Am I forewarned?

Chancellor Silco: I'll let the darkness answer.

Councilor Medarda: Träum schön, First Chancellor.

Chancellor Silco: Pass gut auf dich auf, Councilor Medarda.

("Take good care." - i.e. "Look out for yourself.")

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Question for other authors (of fics or original work)

Do you constantly and irrevocably feel like you'll never want to or be interested in writing again?

Almost every time I'm not actively writing, and some of the time that I am, I feel like I've used up all my motivation and won't be able to be interested enough to continue. And then sometimes I am, but not to the degree that I ever feel like I can rely upon it.

Is this a common thing? How do you trust that you'll be able to write more without constantly feeling guilty for not doing so?

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Reblog if you think fanfiction is a legitimate form of creative writing.

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the post-big fun music is called piñata of doom 😭😭😭

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Done with chapter three!

Featuring crimes, adrenaline highs, incest guilt, parkour, the first fight scene I've ever written, and the usual crying.

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"Kill them with kindness" WRONG. drop the opera house chandelier on them.

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Vi: I love you more Jinx: No, I love you more Vi: No, I love you more <3 Jinx: No, I love you more~ Vi, tearing up: I promise I love you just as much as you love me Jinx, already crying: Really? Sevika, slamming her face into Silco's desk: They haven't even fucked yet. Silco: You think this will stop after they do??

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“he would not fucking say that!” then put him in a situation that makes him say it, we wanna see him squirm

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Snippet - Who's That? Who's That? - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

A few shopgirls spy a pair of distinguished shoppers.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

Today, the Skylight Commercia is an upscale amphitheater, licensed by Zaun's Cabinet and protected by its own army of blackguards. It also boasts a full complement of unionized staff: porter boys, seamstress girls, spoonymen, bakers, bartenders, watchmen, even medicks who specialize in the tragic malady known as shopaholism.

Already, the atmosphere is a profusion of bedazzlement. Clutches of people dot the pathway: early risers and late-night revelers. A few stop and stare at the couple strolling past them. An entourage of Enforcers follow them at a distance, footsteps echoing across the cobblestones.

"Lookit," are the whispers. "Lookit."

They make an unusual pair. A man and a woman, shoulder-to-shoulder. He is a blade of a thing: sharp in every facet. Sharp-dressed, sharp-eyed, sharp-built. He gives the impression that if you come at him wrong, you are liable to get sliced in half.

Yet he has a smooth, silky manner about him. A Zaunite's strut.

His companion is a lithe, languid, lovely creature in a charmeuse gown the color of midnight. It is intricately pleated and geometrically cut: a Piltovan style. Indeed, the woman is all Piltover, from the top of her beautifully gold-coiffed head to the soles of her shapely gold-sandaled feet. Some greet the sight of her with scowls; others with stares.

The woman pays no mind to either. Her head is held high. She appears serenely at ease in her strange surroundings.

"Who're they?" the shoppers whisper among themselves.

Rumors swirl. The man is none other than the Eye of Zaun, master of it all. Hard to credit. Most only know him by his trademark voice in radio broadcasts. The rest are still convinced the Eye is a myth, or a monster risen from the depths of shadow. This man is too real to be either. The scars on his face are crosshatched as deeply as mining seams.

And the woman? A Councilor, it is whispered. Harder to credit. Why would a Councilor dirty the hem of her dress across the pathways at this hour? Indeed, why would she bother to get out of bed (a bed the shoppers can only imagine is as sumptuous as a chocolate gateau) before noon, when most Pilties ring for their maids to serve breakfast?

"Who d'you reckon they are?" one shopgirl whispers to another.

"They say it's a Topside toff," her companion whispers back, "with the Eye of Zaun."

"Pffft. The Eye already owns the whole city!"

"Well, maybe he's out bargain hunting?"

"That's bollocks! Bet it's a chem-baron, giving his mistress the tour."

"A Piltie mistress? You're dreaming!"

"Am I? These days, every Topsider and their dog wants a sniff below."

A third shopgirl stares awestruck at the woman's elegant silhouette. "She looks a right prize, I'll say that."

"We'd all look right prizes if we never worked a day in our lives!"

They laugh in ribald unison—laughter being the main thing that has survived in the Fissures despite decades of hardship.

And so, inevitably, has gossip. In a few minutes, off on their break, they are at their usual haunt near the Big Brass, chattering away. The city bubbles with scuttlebutt: fads, fights, fancies. What is passe and what is posh. Who has gone up in the world; who has tumbled down. Who’s up to no good, and who’s met a bad end. 

News is impossible to separate from natter. It is the lifeblood that pulses through the city's arteries. It suffuses the air with its own magic. And no one knows that fact better than the Eye, who has spent much of his tenure collecting it, distilling it, manipulating it.

Knowledge is currency—and the currency is the only thing that can be relied upon in a world of shifting sands.

Today's fare is the juiciest of the week. The shopgirls, on their third round of cavernfruit juice, are already aflame. The upcoming Expo is off to a promising start: the streets are cramming with tourists, and the shopkeepers are rubbing their hands with glee. Hotels are seeing a surge in bookings.  Clubs have mandated fire sprinklers and escape stairwells.  The air has been pleasantly pure despite the periodic Gnashers.  A new dance, the Targonian Twist, is sweeping the Lanes. In Oldtown, rehab centers are running out of beds. The treatment programs are making headway. The Shimmer addicts are being weaned off their fix. And the medicks say a cure for Grey Lung is on the horizon.

The prototypes are currently undergoing tests at private laboratories. By this time next year, there could be a vaccine available for sale. No word on the cost, yet. Or whether the Cabinet will approve its mass-production.

But the talk is rife with optimism—the offspring of early progress.

What truly interests the girls is gossip to do with the Council. They lean in closer, their voices dipping to a hush. 

"You heard what happened to Heimy, then?" one girl says.

"You mean the old Yordle?"

"Who else, daftie?"

"What about him?"

"Well, seems he's gone missing while on sabbatical."

"On what, now?"

"Sabbatical! Y'know. It's what the eggheads call it when you take a holiday."

"And he just vanished?"

"His secretary got a letter saying he was heading up to Demacia. He hasn't been seen since."

"How'd you know?"

"My second-cousin's wife, she's a maid at his house. Said Enforcers dropped by. They told her to keep her lips zipped."

"Zipped why?"

"Said the Council are keeping it hush-hush. Heimerdinger’s their former head and all. Don't want folks worrying."

"He was on the Council, wasn't he?"

"Well, there's something else..."

"What's that?"

"My aunt, she works at the Boundary Markets. She says that before the Siege, she could've sworn she saw him wandering about."

"You mean... here? In Zaun?"

"Yeah! And not alone. She said he was with some bloke."

"Who?"

"Janna knows. He had a mask on. Personally, I think she's exaggerating. She's a bit of a lush. The drink must've gone to her head."

"But what if it's true?" one girl says. "Maybe the fuzzball's hiding out in Zaun? And who's the man with the mask, I wonder? Could it be the Eye?"

"Why'd the Eye help a Councilor? He calls 'em A lineage of leeches."

"Maybe he's trying to make nice after the Treaty?"

"Or he's holding the old Yordle for ransom?"

"As what? Jinx's new pet?"

They share peals of laughter. Absurdity is also a staple of the Zaunite diet, and the notion that the Eye would keep a Yordle captive in his penthouse is enough to make anyone's sides split. They can picture it, clear as day. The Eye in a dark silk robe, the Yordle in a pink bow, the two of them dancing their own strange waltz around the lavish rooms. Maybe Jinx would serenade them, as her devotees do her:  Come on, dance faster, just a little bit of energy...

"I keep hearing," a girl says, "the Eye's a vampire, and his flat's a dungeon."

"That's just the chem-burn talking, love."

"Well, I'd wager there's a grain of truth. Vampires don't breathe, right? And they don't need sunshine. The Eye's no different. Where else would he live but underground?"

"He's commissioned a dozen cultivairs' hothouses full of sunshine. Why'd he do that if he's a vamp?"

"I'm not saying he's a full vamp, for Janna's sake. But everyone knows the Eye has his fingers in the blood trade."

"The Shimmer trade."

"Same thing. I hear Shimmer's made of poro blood. That's why it's so dangerous."

"It's a drug, love. Drugs're all dangerous."

"Not always. My boyfriend got a thimbleful last weekend from the back-alley chemist. Cleared up his cough, it did. And gave him a cockstand so big—"

"Oh, shut it, I don't wanna know!"

"What I'm saying is, there's more to Shimmer'n meets the eye."

"Got that right. My uncle OD'd on it, remember? Died screaming. So did his missus."

"Didn't their kid run away?"

"Yeah. Joined the Firelights. Who are a bunch of crazies, if you ask me."

"Oooh. I can't stand the lot of them! Making a ruckus wherever they go!"

"I heard they're dying off. No one's seen hide nor hair of them since the Siege."

"That's not what my brother-in-law said. He's a blackguard at southside. He heard scuttlebutt that the Firelights were holed up in a secret lair. Somewhere down in Oshra Va'Zaun’s tunnels. The Eye's trying to wall 'em in—or starve 'em out."

"How long've they been there?"

"Don't know. Maybe years."

"What a load of bollocks. Where are their goods coming from, then? You'd have thought the blackguards would've sniffed out the supply lines."

"My brother-in-law says they've a secret way into Zaun."

"What? Where?"

"Dunno. Supposedly only the Eye knows."

"He's a crafty sod. Bet he's already filled it up with Jinx's bombs."

"Why not ask him? He was browsing for jar cakes an hour ago."

"That's not the Eye, you dumb tart!"

And etcetera.

Under the watery sunrays of the glass dome, pigeons flutter. The girls buy paper cones of birdseed, for the fun of watching the birds flock around them. They are still playing guessing games over who the enigmatic chem-baron and his companion are. But in fact, it matters little. The security detail has alerted them to the presence of bigwigs. They need to know nothing else.

Where the Gray sits, as the saying goes.

At the escalators, they spot the couple again. They have stopped with their entourage. A little girl lingers by the railing.  Too scared to climb aboard the steps, she is blocking their path. The shopgirls tense as one of the lady's guards move to shove the girl aside. 

That's Enforcers for you. Always throwing their weight around.

The sharp-dressed man stops the guard. There are quietly severe words exchanged. Then the man himself kneels. He is talking to the girl, a gentle hand on her shoulder. His manner is almost reassuring. Whatever he says is lost in the hubbub of the marketplace. But the little girl seems soothed by his words.

Politely, he proffers a hand. She accepts with caution, then smiles a little as they perform a box-step together, leaping onto the escalator. Playfully, the man lifts her off the last step at the top. The girl giggles and kicks her feet before he deposits her on the ground.

Below, the elegant lady claps. She has been watching with an intrigued eye. Her entourage, more grudgingly, follow suit. The little girl, titillated, performs a curtsey. She and the man exchange parting words. With a forefinger, the man taps the skin under his eye: the universal Zaunite gesture:

Fuck the police.

He gives the girl a finger wave. Beaming, she rushes off to her family, who've watched her progress with bated breath.  A chem-baron and Enforcers cornering a lone child? In the Fissures, it's the beginning of a horror story.

With a dismally familiar ending.

"That was decent of him," says one shopgirl, licking her fingers.

"The best men are good with whelps," the second says. “It shows.”

"Pffft," scoffs the third. "One good turn and you're already fitting him for a ring, eh?"

"I'm only saying! He was patient. A lot of kids would've started blubbering."

"Maybe he's a chem-baron who moonlights as a nanny."

"Chem-barons have whelps, too!"

"And they pack 'em off to boarding school soon as the tit's empty."

"Maybe this one's special."

"You're daft," the first girl says, tossing a pigeon a last pinch of seed. "He's the Eye, for sure."

"What's got you so convinced?"

"Well, he's got a whelp too, doesn't he? Jinx?"

"Pssh. Jinx is his dollymop."

"Don't think so. I read somewhere he'd adopted her."

"I read he'd had a child by her."

"That's bollocks!"

"They say it's why she went into hiding after the war."

"Well, I heard she'd—"

"Ssh," the first shopgirl hisses. "They're coming this way."

Sure enough, the couple are crossing the plaza. Their entourages follow. Hurriedly, the shopgirls clean the clutter of cigarettes and paper-cones, straightening up. They give the couple wide berth, nodding respectfully as they sweep past. The aroma of hothouse hyacinths and bottled bergamot lingers in their wake.

The woman stares straight ahead, indifferent to the scenery. The man, on the other hand, appraises his surroundings with interest. They converse in soft voices: contralto and baritone. The latter has a graveled pitch that seems uncannily familiar.

A radio voice. The Eye's.

The shopgirls are too intimidated to eavesdrop. But suddenly, the rumor—that the Eye and a Councilor are on an extended excursion of the Skylight together—no longer seems so far-fetched.

A paper cone, caught in a shopgirl's fingers, slips free. It skitters toward the man's gleaming leather shoes. He stops mid-step, and the lady follows suit.

"I-I'm sorry, sir," the girl stammers.

The man stoops, picking up the cone. With an elegant precision, he hands it to her. For a moment, the three shopgirls are caught in his crosshairs. Up close, he's a fearsome-looking creature. The dapper clothes conceal a hard-edged physique like a miner's pickax. His right eye is the color of a lapis lazuli strung from the stalls. His left eye...

Roving across the girls, it gives off an acid-red glow.

The eye of a godling—or a devil.

The shopgirls’ skins break into gooseflesh. Their tongues go dry as Fissure-roots.

Idly, the man nods, and walks on.

"Shit," the first girl whispers, "what if that is the Eye?"

"If it is," the second whispers back, "then pray to Janna nobody gets their throat slit."

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Disclaimer: All of the actions in my fics should be taken as endorsements of all the behavior portrayed. Especially the hot behavior.

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dude read the room

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Vi: I love you more Jinx: No, I love you more Vi: No, I love you more <3 Jinx: No, I love you more~ Vi, tearing up: I promise I love you just as much as you love me Jinx, already crying: Really? Sevika, slamming her face into Silco's desk: They haven't even fucked yet. Silco: You think this will stop after they do??

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I'm seeing things that I - wonder don't make it into ANY adaptations, and it's odd seeing that there's a consensus of what does and does not make it. This scene where Scrooge demands to see proof that his death moved someone and it cuts to the family who get to keep their house because his death has delayed his filing of foreclosure papers until they can make the delinquent payments is one I think should be making more rounds.

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Snippet - Out of My Mind - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

He's gone kookoo, Your Honor.

Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

Vi wants to speak, but her mind has stalled. Her legs are two pistons pumping: her entire world, a blue corridor narrowing to the rising spire of the Aerie.

Silco skids to a sudden halt.

"Get the fuck out of my face!" he shouts, swiping a hand across his face.

Vi jerks back, prepared to defend herself against whatever it is she's presumably done or said to enrage him. But Silco isn’t addressing her. He isn’t even looking her way.

His seething stare is fixed on something—on nothing—in the middle distance.

The specters, Vi thinks.

He's still seeing Vander.

"I know," Silco hisses, hands clamped to his skull to keep the pressurized contents from spewing. "You're the one person I didn't want to disappoint. And I did. I knowIknowIKNOW."

"Silco—" Vi starts, then stops.

His decibels hold the echo of encroaching hysteria. His entire face, scored by decades of stress and strain and sleeplessness, is a deformed mask.

Carefully, she sets a hand on his shoulder. "Hey—get a grip—"

He shrugs her off, violently.  The fire spitting out of his eyes—good and bad—is infernal.

"Oh, of course, you'd have wanted better," he goes on, neck-deep in manic debate with his demons. "You've always stayed on your high-horse! Meanwhile, I fell, and fell, and kept on falling! No—not fell! You fucking pushed me. Then you had the nerve to go out in front of the city. Crown yourself its savior. You knew—you had to have known, the way it was going to blow back on me. Blow back on our home. You had the choice, and you never took it! Never had the balls! I had to get my hands dirty and work twice as hard to undo the damage you'd done!"

"Silco, there's nothing there," Vi pleads. "You know that."

Silco's teeth grind audibly. Vi doubts he's heard a word. He's too far gone, all his rage riveted to the empty air. His lips spit out a loop of invective

"Well, how's this for a send-off, Vander? Fuck you, and the morals you rode in on. Fuck you, and your cowardice, and your high-minded idealism. And most of all, fuck you for never believing in me. Believing in any of us. You thought we'd all go the way we came, didn't you? Back to the gutter we crawled from. Well, here I am! Still standing, in the shit I was born in. And guess what? I'm the only one left." His teeth, bared in a savage parody of triumph, are a chilling slash of bone. "And I'll die before I let the bastards hurt us again. Any of us. So keep your fucking pity! Keep your disappointment! Get away from me, and stay away—Vander?" His tone drops in pitch; forsaken. "Blut?"

Drunkenly, he lurches forward.  Then a shadow falls across his face. His entire demeanor shifts. The temper liquifies into quiet agitation.

"No," he croaks, and Vi's never heard his voice so small. "Why—why are you here? Nandi—no. Please…"

Nandi, Vi thinks, adrenaline foaming through her bloodstream. She knows this name: the one from earlier. The one that made Sevika's entire face fold up like a paper bag.

A dead comrade.

And, judging by Silco's expression, a lover.

"Shh, Nandi, shhh." He's moving, arms extended, reaching for nothing. "Don't cry, sweetheart. My face looks worse than it feels. See?" He gurns a lopsided smile. But his eyes are soaped with an unnerving sheen. "Nothing's changed. It's still your Sil. Just harder on the eyes, is all. No—no, Nan. That's not true. I've forgotten nothing. It's all here." A shaky fingertip touches his temple. "And here." He lays a palm against his heart. "But it's been hard, Nan. So, so hard. Don't look at me like that. I can't go back. You know I can't. We've come too far!"

Numbness seeps through the ventricles of Vi's heart. She knows—knows—there is nothing in the air, except for the blue aether. Knows that it's a byplay of bad psychic resonance. Knows that Silco's mind has been breached: the hatches of sanity blown to kingdom come.

She knows.

And yet, watching him, she can't help feel like a Peeping Tom. A voyeur, witnessing a private confession that was never meant for her ears.

"Silco—" she begins again, but is silenced by the sheer desolation of his countenance.

"No," he whispers, the syllable wrenchingly soft. "You don't understand. The things I've done. The things I still have to do. There's no stopping them. Once the blade's in motion, there's no pulling it out. It's just—it's blood. Blood all the way down." His gaze orients reproachfully on the nothingness. "How can you say that? I kept my word, didn't I? Kept your sister close. She was the last piece of you. Now she's the pride of Zaun. Loyalty? Do you hear yourself? Gone for years, and now you're back, and all you can do is tally the ways I've fallen short?" He shakes his head, mute with a guilt so ancient, it has calcified to the bone. "I hoped you would understand. I did what I must. And you—no. I'm not letting you take her." He's trembling all over. "I need her. Like I needed you. I can't lose you both. I can't! Nandi—no. Come back!"

Vi's seen enough. The creep-quotient has gone from voyeuristic to visceral. Her skin crawls like a net of worms. Her heart is a clenched fist.

Her real fist is already in motion.

"Silco!"

"Fuck!"

He staggers back, spine colliding with the greasy brick wall of the alleyway. A hand flies to his temple. Blood is a darkly glistening smear where her knuckles connected.

"What the hell, Vi?" he snarls. "Are you out of your bloody mind?"