Replace the Working Parts

// Closed with @fleshforsaken //

Katarina is on edge from the moment she first steps into the room.

There are people everywhere, but that isn’t it; crowds can be camouflage just as well as a forest can. They’re unfamiliar people, wearing unfamiliar clothing with far less (mostly) decorative weaponry than the average Noxian high-society event; much of the talking is in the old Zaunite tongue and not High Noxian, but she’s known the rhythm of these places since she was a little girl. She’s better off here than she would be in one of the old balls her surname insisted she attend, even; Viktor is the one who has to speak and mingle and impress, not her. She’s just here to make sure that the only backstabbing the Herald has to endure is verbal.

And yet…

It’s not the dress; it at least lets her move freely without having enough loose fabric to catch on anything. It’s a little bit the fact that she wasn’t allowed to come armed, but the entire room is filled with weapons if one just thinks about them the right way. Something else is wrong.

(After this long, Katarina has learned very well to trust her instincts. So she watches, very carefully.)

One person—middling height, black hair, maybe named R… something—has been looking at Viktor differently than the others. The Herald gets his share of stares no matter where he goes, but this man’s expression isn’t confusion or concern or muted mockery. He looks at Viktor like he’s a puzzle.

Kat knows that look.

An hour passes before he proves her right. There are tables of snacks lined in the center of the largest room; someone (probably very important) brushes past Katarina on the way to the food, and it’s one more step of separation between her and Viktor than has happened all night, and it’s all that R-something needs. He moves with sudden purpose, the way no one moves at these things, and he reaches into his jacket and her first thought is a jealous how did he get anything in?

And then there is the lurch of shunpo and she’s in front of him and his eyes widen but he continues his movement, draws his pistol.

She hears a pop and it’s almost deafening. Someone punches her, she assumes; it’s all force and no pain, but R-something is still there and she doesn’t have time to deal with that. She knows he didn’t shoot Viktor (because it’d have to go through her and hit one of the parts that was still flesh) and she knows he didn’t shoot her (because she would feel it if she had) and that’s all that matters for now.

There’s a butter knife in a little bowl of some kind of jam. Katarina grabs it, launching herself forward, knocking the attacker’s hand away. He hits the floor with both of her knees in his ribs, knocking the wind out of him; before he can recover she rams the blade into his eye socket and through it, twisting and moving it until she’s absolutely certain.

Kat sits back on her heels and pushes up to her feet. She’s out of breath already; she must be out of practice, she thinks. Somehow.

There is silence as she uses shunpo again, reappearing at Viktor’s side. A thought strikes her at the look on his face.

Which is why it's her diving for the man, her with blood blossoming out of her side, her jamming a butter knife of all things into his eye socket, and her jumping back to him as if nothing's happened. Adrenaline, he thinks, or else shock--nothing else would account for the fact that she doesn't seem to realize she's been shot. He tries to school his expression into something more rational, more professional, than what must surely be a lapse into dumbfounded disbelief.

He may not have had the reflexes to prevent the wound, but he has the instincts to treat it. Gently, wordlessly, he guides her to the floor, before making quick work of peeling the fabric of her dress away from the wound.

"I doubt I could have stopped you," Viktor tells her dryly, stripping out of his coat.

This is one of the many, many reasons he hates these gatherings. Dress codes and, in this instance, stringent bans on anything that could be used as a weapon have left him with few resources with which to treat her injury. A quick glance around the room reveals only a handful of useful tools scattered across the nearby tables--several knives like the one she just killed a man with, toothpicks, and a half-full bottle of what looks to be rather expensive vodka.

Viktor is grateful, at least, for the fact that the members of Zaun's upper class are predictable in their choice of alcohol. He stretches out and up, snatching the bottle away before the table's occupants can complain. He yanks the glove off of his human hand and, for want of any antibacterial soap, splashes some of the liquor on both hands before getting to work.

“They’ve let me back on duty,” she says. “Though I did run into Jinx on the way over.” …Why did she say that? She shouldn’t have mentioned it. Must have rattled her more than she thought if she’s going around worrying her friend like that. “Occupied with what?”

Not that that would help her. Leaving her alone has never helped her. He can help her by staying here and making sure she’s whole and happy. 

“Well, first and foremost, you may have noticed a new...” Viktor frowns, trying to think of the right wording. “Addition to the compound at the door. It’s Katarina’s,” he’s quick to add. “And it’s been somewhat challenging already, ensuring that a still-growing animal can live comfortably with a prosthesis.”

To say nothing of the slobber. Gods above, the slobber.