SEVIKA

indie. private. selective. sevika from riot games/fortiche's arcane. this blog is 21+

rules under cut.

there is a slug of whiskey festering in the bottom of her cup and two fingers tapping at the metal rim. the light is dim, while jin.x sprawls out across the couch with two braids flickering over its arms, and sevik/a chews over their next move. (she wants the undercity to see her — they brand her a hero, herald her like some goddamn mage attempting to split the seas in the fissures, but sometimes when she glances over, she sees a bomb drooling into the crook of her arm while she snores.)

she feels the tap before she can pull herself out of thought, and turns with the whole of her body to face her.

"you hungry, huh, kid?" it's something that never occurred to her when she took up this station, but one that she swallows a grunt for and turns back to the kitchen.

"i'm not exactly a chef." a fair admission — most of her food is hot soups bartered for and questionable stews, but she'll make do.

the city is like an exposed cable above a puddle, and she's waiting for the sparks. they are a kingpin down, and there are quacks with knuckledusters trying to steal his throne. (it's there, empty, and while zaun flails like its head has been severed from the base of the spine, the people need something to cling to — a promise of better, of something fresh and rallying against the chokehold enforcers slam into them with.)

they don't see eye to eye. sevika guesses that they never will, not really, because when she sees that spark hidden in the depths of jinx's eyes, she sees nothing more than a liability, a white-hot fuse that's about to blow and take anyone and everyone out with it. she sees a hurricane wrapped in blue hair with each jerky motion and creaking swivel of siIco's throne.

so perhaps she's spent a little more time than usual taking note of her comings and goings. perhaps.

"you won't get anywhere by hiding."

the people need a symbol. they need the face that's plastered all throughout the undercity, from alleyway to sidewalk, to rundown warehouses to trinket stalls — caitIyn kiramman has turned the world's target into a symbol of resistance. it's the least jinx can do to accept it.

"i hear you're famous now." out of her pocket, she pulls a screwed up wanted poster, and presses it into the table with one heavy fist.

there's something cruel about these gatherings being held in a bar. now that word got around, everyone knows better than to come to her and offer anything alcoholic - felicia's lips touch the rim of her orange juice filled cup for the umpteenth time and she swears she can already feel bile rise up her throat. "indeed," she agrees, an annoyed edge in her tone. crystal glass almost filled to the brim, she can smell it even if placed far enough to not make it too obvious it's hers. "i'm not drinking it, i promise." felicia's not even sure sevika cares enough to reprimand her about it, but still. "i just like the smell," it's familiar, reminiscing of good old days - violet's health comes first though, common sense not entirely leaving felicia's head altogether yet. she mulls over it for a moment, saving the drink for connol wouldn't even be worth considering his shift timeline. "here, you can have it." glass slides over the counter, playful wink offered along. "it's on the house."

the bar is full, lively, with a hum of chatter that rattles through its bones with scraping chairs that threaten to split the space at its sides. when sevika charges toward the bar, shouldering grown men out of the way like children, and throws herself down into one of the stools, her interest is piqued by the admission. (it's none of her business if she drinks it or not — and frankly, aside from the dwindling measures inside the bottle, she couldn't care less who whets their teeth on mid-shelf brandy, but she takes the cup between two thick fingers and offers an amused nod.)

"that's no way of doing business, but i'll take it." she twists it lightly in her hand, guaranteed not to waste a single drop with that half-smirk poking at the edges of her lips.

"thanks." she is not a savourer of anything. there's an impulse under her skin that demands gratification. the glass is knocked back swiftly and sharply, but the warmth spreads down her throat and she breathes out a soft, brandy-scented exhale.

oh, if siIco could see her now.

the thought almost makes her laugh, and curls the right hand corner of her lip up into a half-smirk, before one hand closes over the smaller one tugging gently at the harness across her shoulder. she doesn't talk, but they've figured out a language to negate the need. isha yanks at the leather strap as though she's trying to thread her fingers through the buckles themselves, and sevika sighs, pulls away from the screwdriver sitting across the table from them, and turns her head slightly toward her.

"hold on tight, kid."

she hauls herself to her feet, takes the helmet from the table and sits it back on isha's head with a quiet plonk, and traipses out toward the windowsill.

there's a sacrifice to living in zaun — not the grey, and not the relative poverty that drives people into the last drop or across over-built warehouses with barely enough room to move, but childhoods are cut before they have the chance to grow. there are voices in the undercity, those that travel most through the fissures, slipping in and out of different districts. there are people, downtrodden, loping into the next stage of their lives with a vicious brand of enforcer's boots on their necks like there's no end in sight.

this is not the zaun she fought for — enforcers on street corners, checkpoints in and out of topside. piIties governing like flies on shit — it's still nothing more than the husk of the vision. (the vision has been shattered, thrown through a window and allowed the broken shards to beat down the resistance, one slice by one slice.)

"then you'd be smart to do as i ask." she smooths one hand over the length of her new arm — jinxed, with settings and modes and buttons and levers she's still discovering with a screwdriver and a cigarette burning into the ashtray in front of her, and her eyes flicker back up to the kid.

she says it with a flourish, a boot pressed hard against the desk and swivelling with a loud creak in siIco's chair, and arms fanned out with a characteristic flair for the dramatic. watching jinx is often like staring into the eye of the storm — manic waves crashing over each other in the pits of her eyes that sing with a bright violet, that flicker of creative hell that could lead to it sown reign of terror through the streets of zaun, if sevika had her way, they would've cut her loose a long time ago. (they taunt each other. jinx runs one delicate finger over where her arm should be, and sevika grunts back a snarl like a dog on a too-short leash.)

"for now. — while you're still useful to him."

jinx is everywhere. she knows that. when jinx crawls under her skin from the nail beds up, she knows exactly what buttons to press to send her into a spiral. though it may not be true, and though sevika has been trying to open his eyes to the unemotional next best ploy, siIco brushes off her concerns and turns his attention back to the other sibling.

the sense of a phantom limb is one she's still not used to. she trains herself, slowly, in a way that sticks hard behind her teeth and ekes out a grimace to discard her left hand and tie her boots with her right. each door is barged through with the right hand scape of her shoulder, or thrust open with the heavy brunt of the ball of her foot. a heavy reminder of limitation creeps into the back of her brain, and she snuffs it out with an evenly placed bruise or spat out teeth from whichever rat shines a light on it.

"save it, kid."

but still, she makes no attempt to move aside from digging a rolled cigarette from the inside of her jacket, pursing it between her lips, and withdrawing her lighter in another swift act. ekko peels back the shroud lodged tightly against her shoulders, and while she offers a warning glare, the flicker of flame between her fingers and the low glow of a cigarette leaves them silent for a while longer.

he wants to help and it makes her feel like a kicked puppy. (she'll never be quite like that — not like these fools that see themselves in their dismay and only blame the very bones of zaun surrounding them. they've been trodden on one too many times, but shimmer, and vander, and silco themselves have tried to prove time and time again that there is nothing here in this life for the self-righteous. they have to act in their own self interest, because when topside lay their boots on their pulses, they don't ever let the fuck up.)

jinx has the habit of getting under her skin. that's the way she'd like to phrase it, and about as diplomatic as she can be recently. one big paw wraps itself around a mug of beer, and she swipes it from the table with one big gulp. (she ignores the way it sloshes into the grooves of the table, and allows her that one moment to sulk over the two girls in the corner. there's jinx, a hurricane in blue and pink, and clutching onto her leg, barely up to her knee is isha.)

she can barely get her head around either.

for too long, she's been someone else's jaws and jagged teeth. (she barks when asked to, sheds her skin in the moonlight and rebuilds with metal and clay at siIco's demand. there is a vision, buried deep beneath the scraps and shuttered warehouses which makes her rear her head and howl, but it's not enough. the more they sit here, a powder keg steeping in water and mould, the less chance they have. the less impact they hold — she doesn't want to be left holding the bomb when the fuse fizzles out.)

"you have to act — you've spent too long in the shadows. the people need jinx."

one look, one hard slap of mug against wood, and it's almost enough to soften her. (almost. she takes one last slug of too-warm beer, and hauls herself to her feet with an unceremonious skrrrrrrrek of the chair.)