#sanctuaryverse

Cogs and hexes swapped hands. Papers folded and pocketed. Promises made that might as well have been bound in blood. That was what she would draw if they were broken. She didn't waste time on threats. Her intentions were and abilities were known. She let the last sailor she spoke to bum a cigarillo off her. They lit for themself, and so did she.

She descended further into the shadows of her city before the concealed sun reached its peak in the sky. The Promenade layer had never been the place for her. She preferred walls of natural stone over the structures above them. Smoke and fissure gasses blended together around her head, in her nose, filling her lungs as she slid down ladders and ducked down forgotten staircases hewn out of the bottomless cliffsides. There were fewer disturbances on these routes. Fewer chances to be seen by her targets.

Three goons from the largest shimmer factory had been caught dealing. Skimming vials. Thinking the missing merchandise wouldn't be missed. That she wouldn't be pulled out of her way to the dingy little corner where they were peddling wares that didn't belong to them. Into deeper shadows, through puddles of sludge and underneath walls that had crumbled into steep slants that cut across the open air of the alley.

It was easy to startle them. They didn't have the mind not to abuse their product. Didn't leave it where it should have belonged, sealed in the original vials. No, they were shaking and jittery, irises gleaming violet and mouths filled with saliva. One of them wore a cowl that made it effortless to snatch him back when he bolted.

His skin had split, overtaken by a bulging lesion that had turned his skin a sickly purple like a permanent bruise. Unfit for the factory. To be in such constant, close proximity to the substance that had done this to him. A swift knee to the stomach dropped him. She left him there.

The others didn't last any longer than he had. She ran them clear into the cracked sections of wall that she had ducked under. One split open his own forehead on a jagged edge of rock. The other had been slammed into the wall beside it by her bulk. She recovered what she could from their limp bodies. Half of what they had left with. It was still something.

They would either never show their faces at that factory again or know better than to try their luck a second time. If they survived. She stepped over them, the pouch at her left hip heavier and her prosthetic fingers speckled with blood.

She still wasn't done. She never was, really. If there wasn't something routine demanding her effort, there was an emergency. As was the case that day. Too many days since Silco's daughter had become part of his enterprise. Sevika knew there would be carnage, theatrics, a spectacular mess for her to clean up before the next.

She wound her way across bridges and down more steps, hitching lift rides where she could until she was too deep in The Lanes for the sun to ever hope to reach her. There was light to guide her, however. Flames licking up the stone of another cliffside. One that was hollowed out enough for an entire assembly line to dwell inside.

She didn't know how much had been scorched to the point of uselessness, how many bodies there would be to recover, but she was expected to reel in the chaos of scrambling workers and the wreckage of several horseless carriages.

Her whistle cut through the air and snatched the attention of the goons nearest her. Her orders came swift and decisive. The injured needed to be cleared out of the way. Product already salvaged needed to be guarded. And whoever was able, willing or not, would follow her.

She was already pulling her cloak over her head. It would either shield her and serve to manipulate the flames or it would burn. She couldn't afford to spare a thought for the young woman with a pair of blue braids fleeing the scene. Not even when someone shouted that this was her fault. It didn't matter. Sevika had to deal with the consequences.

The acrid smell of a chemical fire, scorched gasoline, and drying blood clung to her as she stepped past the line in front of The Last Drop. No one protested. The twin bouncers made room for her well before she was within arms' reach. She shoved the door open with her right hand.

Relief washed over when she was greeted with warm lighting rather than the strobing colors of the club nights.

Every seat was occupied, with several people standing around the bar. The blend of music and voices formed an almost pleasant backdrop to the sight that snatched her attention.

On the lefthand side of the room was the pool table. It had always been there, and it was always occupied. The butch bent over it was dressed entirely in black and white, a mass of choppy fringe shifting in front of their handsome face as the red glow of the table caressed their pale skin. They glanced her way after striking the ball and their full, darkly painted lips curled.

A wave of their mechanical fingers caught the attention of those watching them, piled onto a couch and into chairs that filled the corner of the room by the pool table. An outward ripple of joy began with a grin breaking out across the round face of a younger woman, dark eyes framed by coils such a deep purple they appeared almost black in the dim lights around them. A long, thick beard in the same shade sprouted along their cheeks, bloomed down their jaw. Broad shoulders filled out a purple shirt criss-crossed with straps in different shades of leather, bandoliers of pens and ink and small rolls of paper shifting as they poured a drink.

A set of claws dense and sharp enough to slice stone curled around the glass they held up, the amber liquid inside vanishing into a mouth filled with fangs in a flash of motion. Whatever comment she made got her glass snatched back even as a wave of laughter passed through the group as a whole. The tall, well-built chirean grabbed her cue off the wall between seats and circled the table to face off against her opponents alongside the butch who had just taken their shot. Plump lips stretched in a toothy smile, twin sets of silvery rings catching the bloody lights underneath her.

A far shorter young woman with a line of dark curls cutting across her forehead pointed at the fighter across from her and gestured with her thumb jutting toward herself. A slow slicing motion as if her throat was being slit. The blades strapped to her back and thighs would have been more intimidating if she didn't have such a soft face. Her features didn't make her aim any less deadly, however, as anyone who had seen her wield the pistols holstered at her hips knew.

The butch lining up his shot beside her nodded as if in agreement with the threat, though he didn't look up from his cue. Tight green coils were piled atop his head and shaved short on the sides in a way that reminded her of her oldest friend's style at times. The glowing red of the table made the tattoos on his face more visible as it drew into a concentrated expression. He struck a ball that sank into a hole across the table and slapped it with a grin. He and the taller butch mirrored each other, tapping their cues against the floor before their attention was stolen by an approaching figure.

A young, slender vastaya with antlers branching out on top of their head brought a tray to the group. The taller butch sporting black fringe reached out to ruffle their head full of orange and violet waves, making them smile wide enough to stretch the dappling of the colored fur across their cheeks. They dodged the swiping arm of the chirean, nearly sloshing the contents of some containers out over the rims. As the group at large admonished her for the stunt, the bar attendant handed out drinks.

A short, wide glass of amber liquid with a piece of skewered fruit was offered to a woman with a cascade of black waves gathered out of her face. Tapered fingers covered in rings accepted the glass and raised it to the vastaya in gratitude. She turned to tap it against the scribe's as the tray was cleared.

The scribe's melodious laugh soared over the music and din of voices as a young woman in stained overalls and a lavender braid crawled over their lap to grab a her glass. The liquid inside was clear and swished nearly over the rim as she was wrapped up in a pair of thick arms and settled in place. She swung her feet as she threw an arm around the back of the scribe's neck.

Her braid flapped in the face of a person who batted the rope of pale purple away with a gloved hand to accept its glass. Two pieces of loosely curling brown hair framed its face, the length covering the wide straps of a plain white tank top. They reached down and produced a small tin they set down on the edge of the pool table. The scribe produced a lighter while the stocky butch nearest them opened up the tin to start a rotation.

The first person he handed the lit cigarillo to was a petite woman who would have been swallowed up in the chaos to the point of invisibility without her bright clothes. Strawberry blonde hair styled in finger waves curled in contrast to deep, dark brown skin that made pale pink lace and ruffles almost glow in the corner she was perched in. Thin fingers with shimmering nails brought the cigarillo up to glossy lips that were billowing with smoke within moments. She passed the cigarillo on as more were offered.

When it reached the scribe, they met her eyes again as they drew on it. They waved to her with a luminous smile as they handed it to the butch who had been shooting when she arrived. Their fingers brushed together. Lingered before they separated again. She felt a blooming warmth at the gesture.

She continued her way further into the bar as the chirean threw her arm around the butch playing with her. She allowed them a couple of puffs before her claws plucked it from their mouth. Sevika would join them soon.

She squared her shoulders again as she climbed the stairs to Silco's office. Whatever faced her behind his door could be endured. She had her people waiting for her.

Sevika has always been a chronically lonely character living a hellish existence. Between her aspirations for a liberated Zaun and the sordid means she'll go through to get there, she has mutilated herself morally, emotionally, and physically. But here, in the Sanctuaryverse, the left hand of Zaun does not weather such horrors alone. From a youth spent hounded by topside for her convictions, to an adulthood marked by her sacrifice for her community, this collection of tales follows the many lovers, friends, comrades, and sometimes all three who raise her up. Here, her vices, virtues, and faults are explored within a lesbian-centric and sex-worker celebratory context. The narratives that make up this collection celebrate her sexuality and identity as a butch, working-class, leather Dom of color, and are rooted in the community she's sworn to protect, and the lesbians of various experiences that find themselves pulled into her orbit.

(Credit to @dykeasaurwrites for the last paragraph of the introduction)

Ao3 Link to the prose section of the introduction

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: I have an Arcane OC! Can I toss them in here? A: Not without a personal relationship to the creators. We are always in active collaboration to create a narrative that is cohesive and connected. Anyone with interest in writing something based on the works here is encouraged! Whether they become part of the collection/this fan-canon will be an individual matter.

Q: Who is this character? I can't find them anywhere! A: The majority of the cast especially in the longfics are OCs created to populate the setting. All have their own purposes and roles within these narratives. The vast majority of the show's main cast will not feature in any of the fics with the exception of Mel.

Q: What spans of time are covered? A: There are three longfics within this collection that form the foundation of the Twin City Sanctuary fan-canon: Back to Back, Conflicts of Interest, and Block With Your Face. Back to Back extends almost 20 years before the show takes place, through the upbringing of both Ran and Sevika, and into the start of their time working with Silco following the events of Season One, Episode Three. Conflicts of Interest (and the affiliated Bonus Scenes fic) takes place entirely during the timeskip between Season One, Episode Three and Episode Four, covering the last five years of Silco's reign in The Undercity. There is a planned epilogue that takes place after the end of Season Two. Block With Your Face covers the last three years of the Season One timeskip until Vi returns in Season One, Episode Four.

Q: Where do I start reading? A: Wherever you want! There are OC X Canon as well as Canon X Canon fics within this collection. All of them are connected in some way and many reference each other in varying ways. For those concerned with chronology, the fics in this collection have been created out of order. The chronological reading order will be updated as the fics, series, and related collections are. See below and the pinned post on this blog for the full reading order and connections between works as they're posted.

Current INCOMPLETE Chronological Reading Order (By Fic and Chapter)

[KEY: BTB = Back to Back, CoI = Conflicts of Interest, CoIBS = Conflicts of Interest: The Bonus Scenes, BWYF = Block With Your Face]

THIS SECTION IS UNDER CONSTRUCTION DUE TO A MAJOR OVERHAUL OF THE FIC CONFLICTS OF INTEREST

Rules

All contributors must be above the age of 18. This is a very smut-heavy collection.

Sevika must be centered in or at the very least mentioned in every affiliated work. This collection is about exploring her character and giving her a community to fight for.

The setting must adhere to the show as presented. Homebrewing and heavy extrapolation is not only permitted, but encouraged. Feel free to build out the cities of Zaun and Piltover, the surrounding nations, the venues glimpsed in the show, the technology, and more! No modern AUs, no major canon deviation (Ex: Season Two, Episode Seven universe or original League Lore Compliant universe, etc)

Racism, lesbophobia, fatphobia, ableism, transphobia, misogyny, whorephobia, and other bigotries will not be tolerated.

No M/M or M/F shipping. This is a collection by lesbians, for lesbians, about a lesbian.

DISCLAIMERS/CONTENT WARNINGS If you are not comfortable with the following, this bean soup is not for you.

First and foremost, this collection is written with the understanding that Sevika is a villain. She remains a multifaceted and deeply fascinating complex character with noble intentions and a revolutionary ideology. That does not detract from the harm she perpetuates as the underboss of a criminal syndicate that distributes addictive substances. For many fans of hers, including all contributors to this collection, her villainy is integral to her appeal. For those who dislike this correct interpretation of her character based on how she appears in the canon narrative, read something else.

This collection includes thorough explorations of:

Sadomasochism

Heavy D/s dynamics

Edge play (choking, blood, knives, CNC, etc.)

Polyamory

Age gap (10+ years) relationships

Power imbalances within romantic and sexual relationships

Unhealthy romantic and sexual relationship dynamics (emotional neglect, instability, etc.)

Butchfemme subculture

Transgender lesbians

Gender non-conforming lesbians (yes, this includes: lesbians with top surgery, he/him pronouns, masculine epithets, transfeminine butches, etc.)

Shoutouts

This is a closed collaborative collection I am working on with several of my friends:

@melmunchmedarda / @butchmiles

@dykeasaurwrites

@sevikaslatinawife

@glossyduckie

@loreensdarling

@valentimes

@nocturnalfemme

Credit to @morbidxlove for the animated purple drip divider

Credit to @thanathecreator for the Arcane shimmer-themed dividers

Credit to @sisterlucifergraphics for the eye and quill dividers

The stadium was loud.

Too loud.

Sevika didn't mind a good party or two; the Last Drop was practically jumping 24/7 despite serving as the Eyes' base of operations. But this was a different kind of loud, the kind that settled deep in one's bones and made one's ears ring for weeks afterwards. The loudness of a title fight. The Pits weren't Sevika's typical haunt or scene, but they were now a personal concern of Silco's.

So Sevika needed to be deployed to observe the 340th title fight of the Pits. The night's card had five, and she'd luckily skipped the first one, arriving at the tail end of the fourth. She managed a seat with a perfect vantage point, up close enough to see the fighters clearly but bathed in just enough shadow she wouldn't be disturbed. Silco just needed a fighter who won more often than lost, but the underboss had her own criteria.

The sound system boomed with the obnoxious announcer's voice as the floodlights bathed the cement pit in the center in white. There were already two figures down there. A wiry-looking bird vastaya and a stocky human. Sizing the two up was easy enough. The human looked slow, but they had enough calf muscle to rival a good runner. The lanky motherfucker had a timid posture, but a good enough guard. Likely a grappler.

The bell sounded off, and Sevika got the chance to put her snap judgments to the test. The assumed grappler managed to keep their opponent at a distance, with blink-and-you'll-miss-it jabs that had them on their toes. But the other, whom Sevika had assumed was a strike-heavy fighter, ate a few decisive strikes and bulldozed the guard, getting them into a submission within seconds.

It was rather boring, not enough showmanship. Too technical. All things that would make sure a fighter would fly under the radar. What good was a champion if they couldn't make a name for the Eyes?

Sevika sighed and waited for the grappler's buddies to peel them off the dusty pit floor as the lights dimmed. This was the fourth fight she'd seen tonight and the twelfth in weeks. None of them were who she was here for, who she'd listened to over the radios with Ran or Quill. Her schedule and the other crucial moves she had to make never aligned as perfectly as today. And this wannabe colloseum was wasting her time. Casting her eyes back up to the leaderboard, she was relieved. The next and last fight would finally be promising. A basket went around, and Sevika produced her own ballot where she'd circled one of four insignias: a skull with a cleaver in black ink. She slipped it into the basket and settled in to watch.

"It'sssss TIMEEEEEEEEE!"

The lights snapped back on, and the underboss leaned forward in her seat for the first time all evening. In the center of the pit stood a new, bigger fighter. He was broad and strong, his costume a simple but eye-catching pair of blue fight trunks.

"In the left corner. At twenty-six years old. Coming in at 200 pounds, six-foot-one, and a record of twelve and oh. Tonight's title challenger and your Bronze League Beast: Royceeeeee Rageeeeeee!"

Half the arena cheered, jumping to their feet with a riotous roar. Sevika had kept an ear out for this fighter. A challenger for the current silver league medal, known for beautiful grappling finishes, submitting even the most audacious initiates within seconds of the bell. Now he would get his chance to snatch the medal and cement his growing legacy.

The only obstacle was across from him, a stalking chirean, circling Royce like a predator.

A halo of dark locs and coils caught the same floodlights that bathed her muscles. The wraps on her clawed feet and hands were still bloodstreaked from her last fight, which Quill had played on full volume while they set the table a month ago. Even from up here, Sevika could tell the fighter was damn near her size, large even amongst the catalogue of pugilists in the Pits. Claws, large and daunting, glinted even from the nosebleeds.

Her trousers were unbuttoned and had seen better days, and the black paint smeared her grey fur in a more slapdash manner than Sevika had expected. Admittedly, the posters outside the Pits had made her seem more… together than reality.

Still, that mattered little. Sevika had to give it to the woman; her stalking the edges of the ring, claws flexed, and guard relaxed certainly had stage presence. Even her large pointed ears were pinned back, an accessory to the snarl she wore. The rest of the audience seemed captivated, a hush falling over the stadium as the announcer's voice kick-started like an engine.

"And for your title fight of Pits 340. At thirty-four years old. Coming in at 205 pounds, six-foot-four, and a record of twenty-six and five. The phantom of the Silver League: Bruiseeeeeeeee the Butcherrrrrrrrrrrr!"

The crowd erupted, but Sevika noticed she hadn't even acknowledged them. It seemed the Butcher's whole world was in that ten-foot deep pit, and the challenger across from her. Tonight might not have been the most pivotal, but it was crucial all the same. Many around the Pits had whispered about the aging fighter, her inability to keep the silver title much longer. Tonight was yet another test. Would the Butcher end up on the block herself tonight? Or would Royce receive his first reality check since entering the Pits? Either way, tonight was guaranteed to be a barn-burner of a show.

"Rrready? Fight!"

Sevika was not disappointed. The first clang of the bell saw the two square off properly, the Butcher's prowl ending in the center on time, like she'd rehearsed it, and her guard up. The form was impeccable, no doubt perfected by years in this hellhole.

Her stance was light as she tested Royce's guard, a quick jab and cross that returned to her chest, chin tucked, and hips set. Instantly, she applied pressure. There would be no waiting for Royce to find his footing, and the Butcher wouldn't drag this out in the name of caution. Good. The brawler had competency and showmanship. Sevika had seen too much and not enough of either in nearly every fighter that night.

The animal act hadn't dropped either; the Butcher's posture was hunched, and her glare was hungry. The Eyes could use this.

Meanwhile, Royce had managed to get his bearings, deflecting enough hits to keep his head on straight and start getting aggressive. He charged her, launching a hook at her head. The Butcher moved quickly, weaving in and out of each counter. Her answer was kicks, wearing down his shifting stance with each strike to the knees. Royce's stance buckled, and in two seconds the Butcher launched a spinning back kick to his skull. Incredibly, he staggered back, but shook it off before she advanced. Sevika watched the dance carefully, enthralled by how expertly the Butcher dodged each strike, leading the two of them to the pit's walls.

Despite herself, her breath caught, impressed by how the Butcher had bullied Royce into the wall and began to piece him up. Her kicks had turned into knees as she caught him in a clinch, her head wedged under his chin. Royce's arms flopped out to the sides as he lost control of his midsection, as he tried to get her out from under him to no avail. Each knee caught his side and ribs, doubling him over. He tried to manage hooks into The Butcher's head, hoping to dislodge her, but she practically ate each one. Powering through a knee that would've had any other person balled up on the floor, Royce swung his leg out to the side and managed to wrestle his way off the cage, and kept his guard up as he bounced on his toes away from her.

The Butcher's countenance finally broke for the first time all night, an almost maniacal grin on her face. Her guard changed too, Sevika noted with interest, no longer a pair of tight fists carefully bracketing her head. Her claws were open and flexed, her fangs bared. If Royce thought he could press or run from her in this state, he was dead wrong. Sevika and the crowd practically smelled the blood in the water.

Royce put his hands up and shot an overextended jab out that was instantly weaved and countered by an open fist to the face, claws rending flesh down his face in strips. Royce screamed, holding his cheek, and the crowd screamed with him in bloodthirsty glee. The Butcher had narrowly missed his eye. Between a mauled face and bruised ribs, the man could barely muster a defense while proper punches caught him in the nose, cheek, and chin, rocking his head back like a rag doll. This was a massacre, and when Royce swayed on his feet, the end seemed near. But, as Sevika had come to learn, being on the brink of defeat brought something different out in each fighter: a second wind, begging for mercy, desperate and sloppy Hail Jannas. In Royce, it brought out a jab that clipped The Butcher's cheek, a small cut on the surface as his uncut nail grazed her.

The arena gasped, and Sevika's eyes widened when she saw him mirror the Butcher's earlier guardbreaker. The pitfighter dropped it slightly, and he got a hold of her knee. Sevika's eyebrow raised in concern. Was she letting him get the drop on her? Her preemptive disappointment dissipated as The Butcher sprawled instantly, her weight pressing on Royce's shoulder blades. Her control over his ribs was insane, punishing shot after crushing blow, turning deep brown skin a gnarly purple under the floodlights. Blood began to streak and smear Royce's skin as her claws began to rip into him with each blow, rivers of scratches marring his flesh. Her foot came free, and she moved like a blur, latching onto his back and securing her right arm underneath his armpit and her left against his neck. The triangulation was set, and she brought her forearm up, clasping her fist together as she squeezed.

If Sevika had somehow missed the chiseled form before her, she definitely noticed the obscene bulge of The Butcher's mere forearm against Royce's throat. Her own throat went dry, and she leaned in even closer. Royce tried to stand but couldn't; her own counterweight and the cling of her legs around his hips from behind kept him grounded in the dust. He began to thrash, trying to sink his chin under her arm. But it was no use. The meat of it crushed his windpipe as his movements grew frantic, then slowed, until his head lolled to the side.

His great body went lax in her grip, and the countdown began.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

By the time the announcer screamed out five, it was clear Royce wasn't getting back up. The bell clanged, and the Butcher stood to her feet, kicked the limp body away from her, and pumped both arms, summoning the entire audience above her to a riotous applause. For all her reserve, even Sevika cracked a broad grin mirroring the snarled smile on the chirean's face.

This was the one.

In a daze, Bruise stumbled back to the locker room, blood still rushing in her large ears. If a shell with a live round were a person, she would be that bullet. The gun of the crowd was gone, and only she remained unfired, shoving herself through a jammed door to an empty and drab locker room. Under the flicker of the faulty lights, the contours of her muscles undulated, shifting the shadows cast on them. Her hands trembled as she reached her corner and grabbed the towel hanging over her chair. She grabbed the small bucket on the peeling wooden bench next to it, which held the solution to dissolve the paint in her fur, and brought both over to the small cracked mirror overlooking the sink. Licking some of the blood from her split lip, Bruise spat into the stained porcelain. A viscous blotch of red in a cracked, yellowing bowl.

She took in her own eyes, uneven, brown, owlish, and alert though rimmed with bags. Sleep was a stranger to a body that braced for a fight long over. Her empty claws clutched the edges of the sink, needing to sink into something, anything. The resulting screech caused her ears to flatten against her head, her piercings clinking gently. Besides shallow pants, that was the only noise echoing off the wall's yellow tile. At the night's start, it had teemed with newcomers looking for quick coin, initiates ready to strive for greatness, and the odd mentor or two wrapping the fists of a plucky upstart.

Empty? It was a gouache masoleum that stank of mildew, blood, and sweat.

As Bruise glared at herself in the fractured glass, she couldn't help the bitter chuckle that shook her shoulders. There was a cruel humor in being loosed into that pit, drumming up the love of thousands, and coming back to dress one's own wounds in a rundown basement with a shitty sink. Stuck in the stupor of bloodlust, high off another match, and unable to keep herself from wanting more. More than this.

She had to put her limbs to use. So, Bruise plunged the towel in the bucket and began to scrub at her face and shoulders. The spare water ran down her body, streaking the grey fluff of her arms and the pink skin of her belly. She raked at her own flesh with more force than necessary, a small growl under her breath at the effort. The paint began to thin and smear, ruining the towel until it too stained gray. Cranking the rusty faucet once, twice, then finally for the third time, she cupped her hands, the lukewarm water easing the twitch of her claws. It hit her fevered flesh like a balm, loosening the remainder of the paint and bringing her back into her head little by little.

It wasn't enough to feel like a person again. But it would do for now.

Her ears caught the noise before she processed it, and she whipped around. A tall figure, around her height, with short dark hair pulled half back, took up the doorway. How had she been so quiet? With the steel-toed boots she sported, Bruise should've heard her from a mile away. Or smell her, what with the sudden waft of smoke, shimmer, and sandalwood suddenly flooding the space.

Unhunching from the sink and rolling their damp shoulders back, the chirean glowered. A large red cloak covered her left side, if not most of her body. A faintly glowing blue scar spidered across her left cheek like cracked glass. She looked strong, and there was something familiar in her grin, that of someone who liked what they saw and wanted to secure it for themself. It made Bruise's hackles rise. If there was one good thing about rotting in Silver League, it was being overlooked by the stranger's kind.

"This ain't a public area," she grunted, drying off her neck and shoulders. She barely kept the growl out of her voice. "Fuck you doin' down here?"

Still, her unexpected guest said nothing, approaching the pitfighter slowly. Bruise's face set into a scowl. She didn't have time for this. She scoffed and tossed the towel onto the bench.

"Yo, you deaf? Get outta here. I ain't tellin' you twice."

The stranger paused and narrowed her eyes. Bruise recognized that look, and straightened up on reflex, the hand not in use curling into a fist. Fine. Maybe Bruise would get a chance to let her leftover adrenaline finally find an outlet. The woman's shoulders squared under the cloak, and the exposed curve of her waist, bulge of her bicep, and sharp V-line caught Bruise's eye. She wouldn't go down easily. Even better.

Then, the cigar on the stranger's lips dimmed before she took it between two fingers and exhaled slowly. Thick pluming clouds wafted into Bruise's face. The scent of whatever she'd wrapped in the brown paper stung Bruise's nose, only worsening her snarl. Finally, the stranger opened her mouth.

"Fought well out there," came the voice, deep. Calming. Her face gave away nothing. "And I ain't an easy woman to impress. Or kill. Let's be civil."

"Civil?" Bruise almost barked in disbelief. "Bitch, you broke into a locker room unannounced."

An amused chuckle cut through the tense silence. This bitch thought she was funny. Thought the way Bruise sized her up was a joke. Well, Bruise was about to become a fucking comedian. Her other hand flexed open while she clicked low, menacing, and rumbling in her throat. Still, the woman's gaze didn't change, aside from a slight smirk. "Force of habit. Got an offer for you."

"Not interested."

The stranger didn't seem upset by the answer, thick brows still relaxed as she held Bruise's gaze. She tilted her head and leaned in even closer. "Trust me. You're interested. The Eyes can offer much more than what you make now."

They had all said that. Volkage, Chross, Finn, even Grime, the bastard. She'd fended them off years ago. Was still paying for it years later. What would a new gang that sprouted up nearly four years ago try that the others hadn't? Bruise bit back a bitter laugh, tamping down on the urge to rake her claws across the woman's face or bite her.

"I make enough," Bruise ground out. This time, the words all but lost any human quality, warped and cracked around an oncoming growl. "Leave."

The other woman's eyes hardened, just a fraction. Bruise couldn't see her other arm, and a faint whirring and hiss of steam caught her ear. She hadn't accounted for a weapon. Then again, she hadn't accounted for being walked in on by a chembaron when they hadn't sniffed her way in years.

The stranger suddenly straightened up and pulled back. She flicked the ash from her cigar on the cement floor and slipped her right hand underneath that cloak. Bruise's eyes went wide, and she hissed, drawing an eyebrow raise from the stranger. Slowly, like Bruise was an animal she didn't wish to spook, her hand withdrew, cigar still in hand, joined by a slip of paper. She didn't hand it to Bruise, whose pink nose still curled in a snarl. Instead, the stranger had the nerve to press it to the short, thick fur on their chest. She leaned in, muttering into the pink of her ear.

"Open tab on me. The Last Drop. Stop by when you like. Or don't."

Bruise felt her face scrunch in confusion as the stranger finally turned on her heels to leave, the door not so much as slamming behind her. That was the least "convincing" she'd had to do for the mouthpiece of a chembaron. Usually, these conversations resulted in the messenger leaving with fewer teeth, a black eye, or a few new gashes. She took hold of the voucher, examining it in her claws with begrudged fascination. On the back was a scrawled message.

"Ask for Sevika?…"

She folded it and set it on the bench, shaking her head. That had to be the oddest attempt at recruitment she'd experienced. No threats, no overt or grand promises, not even a dramatic "you'll regret this". Bruise scoffed to no one as she stalked over to her locker and wrenched the rusted cabinet open, grabbing a fresh set of sweats. She'd long learned not to trust the showers here, and after peeling herself out of the tattered fight breeches with a wince, she jogged home. Where the temperamental boiler didn't come with complementary black mold. Maybe it was the promise of free liquor, one of her more expensive vices, that earned that little slip of paper a ride home in her pocket.

The empty arena tunnels meant every thought in her head was almost as loud as the echo of her steps. She couldn't shake the strange woman from her mind. Had they met under better circumstances, had Bruise not been two seconds away from taking a chunk out of her throat with her teeth, the pitfighter might've considered making a pass at her. She was good-looking enough, with those gray eyes that haunted Bruise on her jog to the residential quarters of the Promenade.

Here, the greens of the undercity's many factories, lights, and fumes finally escaped into Piltover's night air. Above, the stars winked through the film of lights competing with them all. The streets were less crowded, though that would change as the nightlife began its nocturnal reign. The roads and alleys of every layer below morphed into broad, spidering bridges, framing the green-tinted world below like a windowpane. A glimpse into the gritty reality under Promenade's glittering artifice. Gas lamps lined every thoroughfare as horseless carriages and people alike traveled under their glow. A decent head and shoulders above most of the crowd, the sea of bodies gave Bruise a decent berth as she slowed to a brisk walk. A tall building, the length of two blocks, and made of frosted glass, spiraling ironwork, and brick, was her destination. It was swanky enough as far as the lower districts of the undercity were concerned, home sweet home.

She jerked her chin in greeting at two uniformed youths by the door, boots thudding up the narrow steps. Both ushers bowed at the waist as they pushed back the dark, oak double doors.

Once she made it to her floor, Bruise was on a countdown. Preferring to hoof it would make her more than a little late, but it was good form, keeping her sharp enough on nights when she couldn't train. She barely kicked off her worn shoes, wrenching the sweater over her head on her way to the bedroom and wriggling out of the soft woolen pants. She winced as every fiber caught against her fur, brushing this way and that. The boxers would be the worst part; the clingy and sweat-damp fabric sticking to her coat was unforgiving as she tugged at it. Punches, she could do. Kicks and knees, she could handle. But the way most fabrics, wet or dry, stuck to her short, thick fur like stubborn burrs made her want to claw her skin clean off.

With a miserable chitter under her breath, Bruise shoved at the pair, ignoring how her body screamed with discomfort, until it fell around her ankles. Annoyed, she picked it up and tossed it in the hamper, finally free as she hurried to the shower. Unlike the rusty locker room sink, the water flowed freely with just one turn of the knob. Nice and hot to boot. A small blessing, she thought as she stepped under the spray.

The steaming water rinsed the cling of sweat from her short fur, and she slid her eyes closed, resting her forehead against the tiled wall. She would scrub in just a second, when she'd been drenched head to toe and had rinsed away the lingering heat from the stranger's stare. It hadn't rinsed away the tension in her palms, the itch of her gums, or the red at the edge of her vision. Hadn't soothed the erratic twitch of her muscles. Royce hadn't been a bad fight, not really. The kid was talented. Once he healed up, he'd go far. But not while she ruled this division. Of course, that left her on pins and needles, caged in silver without the keys.

The price of principle, she supposed.

When the steam faded, and she'd scrubbed the skin under her fur raw, Bruise had felt a little better. A little. No longer all rage and instinct masquerading as the put-together person others would gravitate to.

Though a prayer held together her more recent costume for the Pits, the ratty breeches were no indication of her usual style. Her closet door opened to reveal rows of high-end apparel. Some were commissions from the modistes in the Promenades, others were already finished and bought from department stores. Only one designer ever helped her not feel like their clothes were stubbornly clinging to her body.

She found tonight's ensemble from them waiting for her on a hanger: a sequin mesh top that showed off the muscle she'd worked hard for. It didn't cling to her fur the way most textiles did, and could be paired with most anything. The shoulders of the same wire hanger were covered by a black, cropped denim jacket with white stitching and silver buttons. The only pop of color was a red rectangular patch above a front pocket reading "Bloodbath". Its sleeves stopped just above her elbows, and the inside was lined with satin, smoothing over her coat nicely. Folded over the hanger was a pair of wide-legged black trousers that hung low on her hips and pooled around her ankles. The washed and distressed fabric had fringe along the outer seams. Slung over the pair was a studded and glimmering silver rhinestone belt, a silver waist chain, and a pair of red boxer briefs with a black waistband.

Bruis unhooked it from the top shelf rail and began to piece the fit together. She cast a glance at the clock on her nightstand, the hands warning her she was already behind schedule. Not good for the guest of honor. After parties for title fights had become her specialty, since that was all she received by this point. The expenses were always offset by record attendance, despite her current lot. After all, she was a fan favorite for many reasons. And that hadn't changed just because of the chembarons' longstanding hatred of her.

Finally dressed, she picked through the jewelry box on her dresser for an engraved silver wristwatch with a thick band, and three large chains, including one with her first silver medal. She buckled the former around her wrist but paused before fastening the latter around her thick neck. Back when that medal meant something, she'd worn it everywhere, a sign she'd done what no other fighter had. The youngest to jump two divisions, with titles in both, in less than a year.

Now the weighty medallion seemed to mock her. She had another one. No one could hope to take it from her. Only this time, it was because she fought amateurs, still wet behind the ears and spoiled on patron money and living. The higher divisions were the same story, and everyone knew if she was allowed a shot at promotion? No one up there would be ready for her.

Still, Bruise was at least proud of this one. With a sigh, she clasped it around her neck and took a second to admire how it rested on her chest. She'd earned it, and if there was one thing she'd learned early, it was to always own what you'd fought for.

On her way out of the lobby, one of the doormen whistled, and the horseless carriage service for the residences rolled across the cobblestones, stopping in front of the steps.

"Good work, Lyle." She tossed a gold hex his way and waved him off before opening the door herself. The kid beamed and scurried back to the door. Bruise smiled, watching him tuck it into his back pocket, remembering her own small stint as a doorman a lifetime ago. She hadn't lasted long there; the uniform sucked, and her boss was a terror. But it helped her get by. She tried to do the same for the freckle-faced small fry when she could.

The electric greens and neons of the Promenades districts whizzed by until the wheels slowed in front of a club with a narrow door and a line at least three blocks long. The steaming and hissing of the carriage finally stopped in front of a side entrance, and Bruise emerged from the cab. Thanking the driver, she jogged to the inconspicuous door, and a peephole slid open, annoyed green eyes meeting hers.

Three squeaks, each clipped and irate, came through the steel of the door. "You're late. Again."

Bruise rolled their eyes. They raised their left wrist and tapped their watch, chittering back and ending with a lower-pitched chirp. "By like half an hour. Now open the damn door?"

The eyes narrowed, but two seconds later, the door groaned open. A slim-thick chirean woman with thick dark lashes, a neon green unit to her ass, and ears pierced from lobe to tip with bolts and hoops frowned at Bruise, crossing her arms.

"You lucky you cute," she groused, switching to the common tongue as Bruise hurried inside and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Seriously, Bruise you late as fuck, if you ruin this for the kid I swear—"

"Chill out, Dez. You know I'm good for it. The gang all here?"

"Have been. For the past half-hour. For a watch that expensive, it sure don't seem to work."

"Great job, baby," Bruise blew past the jab, already on her way up the stairs to the DJ booth. "'Ey, we still good for next week?"

"Please, don't piss me off today," Dez scowled. "Just get out there already."

Bruise smiled, her pierced bottom lip stretching around gleaming fangs. Dez could be a hard ass, but Bruise knew she'd be around hers the following week, turning that frown into something else entirely. The side entrance emptied behind the booth, where a light-skinned woman with blonde and brown locs was in the midst of spinning. The stemme was already waving out to the crowd from her table, the beats looping and winding over the other, bringing the club to life. The shifting pulse of the lights was calming in a way, easy to lose herself in. From a mixed setup of amps and phonographs, deep bass with a looping electric piano chime boomed out over the club. Bruise had never personally tried spinning, but she quite enjoyed watching the DJ's work. Slowly, she crept up behind the young woman, who had one ear of her headphones on.

"Not bad, Gert!"

Gert nearly leapt up, fumbling her headphones before shooting the nastiest side-eye at Bruise, who was snickering behind her fist. She clutched her chest to catch her breath. "Scared the shit out me, man!"

"Ain't my fault you scare easy," the pitfighter grinned. Gert looked at her set with a conflicted look, and Bruise dialed down the tease in her tone. "Girl, you're doin' great, trust. They lined up around the block for you."

"No, they here cause you on the flyer, front and center. Had four people crowd my damn booth askin' for you."

"So my face sells. Don't mean they not gon' turn up regardless. That's your job tonight. You got this." Bruise was assured the DJ was a perfect fit, a prodigy practically, who'd been spinning for years. She could tell the girl was nervous, in no part due to how long it took her to show up. If it weren't for that weird-ass woman who broke into the locker room, Bruise probably would've been earlier. Still, she had one job: show up and mingle so the real star could get her exposure. "I shoulda been earlier. But trust, they love you. Aight?"

Gert broke into a small smile and nodded, before standing on tiptoe to press a kiss to Bruise's cheek. "Thanks." Then she turned down the volume on the tracks as a small spotlight hit the booth. "Ladies and gentlemen of Pure Air, your guest of honor has arrived! Please welcome to the stage, the one and only, Bruise the Butcher!"

"Y'all havin' a time?" called Bruise, her voice cutting over the din of the club. Gert played an airhorn loop, a perfect punctuation to the sentence.

The club cheered, drinks of all kinds raised sky-high, with drunken and sober cheers mingling into an addictive cacophony.

"Nah, y'all can do better than that. Pure Air! I said, 'Y'all Havin' A Time?'"

The entire club roared to life. Yeah, that was more like it. Gert played a few more airhorn sounds and reverse impact effects. When the crowd slowly quieted, Bruise continued.

"Now, y'all know I'on' need no introduction, but I wanna thank y'all for comin'. You not only came to the hottest party in the Twin Cities," she paused and gestured to Gert. "Y'all also got the best MC in Runeterra. Go 'head and give it up for DJ Chem Sister!"

She turned to Gert and winked while the entire dance floor and even the sections erupted. The younger woman's sheepish half-smile broadened. For all that was said about Bruise in and outside the Pits, she knew how to create moments. How to grant and give them when she could. Because no matter what, she was a star, bringing light to everything she touched. This was her world, and there was nothing she loved more than bringing others in to bask in it.

"Tonight ain't just about another win, but about celebratin' everything that makes that hole in the ground worth it! And that's y'all," She swept her arm out over the crowd as the lights followed. Chorusing agreement met her ears.

"That's these other killers y'all won't forget," and the light followed where she pointed, to a section with three figures. A large woman with dark, buzzed hair and round cheeks, pride written all over his face. A red-haired marai who cracked a fanged grin raised her glass back at the stage, and a tan, dry woman on her left, shaking a mop of curly brown hair at the shoutout. Each one wore their own chains and medals, the wraps on their hands clean but speaking to a life few understood or loved. Bruise smiled back, proud to count herself one of that number. She swallowed.

"-And another night with undefeated! Now let's bring the roof down in this motherfucker! Pure Air, thank you!"

A new track kicked in, more bass and clap-heavy with light snares and a looping but simple melody over it all. Bruise felt her shoulders move despite herself. She didn't know why Gert had been nervous in the first place, because this kid was a natural. Already, the dance floor was filled with swaying and mingling bodies, brought together by the bass. Bruise's smile softened as they patted her on the shoulder before heading over to the VIP section through a walkway, avoiding the sea of bodies that packed out Pure Air.

Despite the apparent smooth start, Bruise could feel Dez's glare burn a hole in the back of her head. If she didn't at least do her part and rub a few elbows or say a couple of words, the 5'4" woman was sure to haul her big ass out of the club herself.

She made her way around to the photo area, where more than a few big-spending attendees were waiting for their promised Polaroid with the champion. This part didn't take too long; the event's photographer was keen to get it over with as well. Some of the guests were long-time fans who asked to pose with her signature Guillotine Choke finisher. A few others were rather forward femmes, who asked for headlock photos. Some of the stud guests asked her to square up. Every guest got their wish, and Bruise thanked each for coming. She had meant it, because the fighting alone, powerful and fulfilling as it was, meant nothing without the people who filled those stands every night, bet on her, and cheered her name.

The queue emptied within fifteen minutes, and Bruise was already being swarmed by sports columnists for the larger publications in the twin cities. Mic after mic after pen was shoved in her face as they pressed her about her most recent win, what training would look like for her next match, and the worst yet, when would she vacate the silver medal to pursue glory in gold. She forced a full-toothed grin at that last one.

With the last bicep had been signed and the last reporter regaled, Bruise found her way to that semi-circle of leather couches, rounding the back of one to clap a heavy hand on a broad shoulder.

"You gotta ease up on that shit, Tito," Bruise laughed. "Already gettin' hard to understand yo' ass sober."

Tito chuckled and placed a pint of Valoran lager down on the little round table in the center. "Yyyou lil' shi-shit. Bring in- bring it in."

The slurring in his deep voice grated on Bruise's misshapen ears as he rose to his feet and pulled her into a tight hug.

"Glad you could make it, man," she smiled around a lump in her throat. She'd meant it. She didn't know how many years the old butch had left. Only that she was glad he was still here. They patted each other on the back before parting as she took in his features. Worn and weary, nose broken beyond belief. In some ways, he was the spitting image of her mentor. The closest thing she had left of him.

"Damn, you goin' on like he boutta die or some shit," cackled the marai from the couch's other end. The red scales on her face glinted with the club lights around a sharp grin. "Get over here."

"Listen, Cain," chuckled the smaller woman on her left. Pale cream liquor swirled in the green bottle she held aloft. "You ain't hear the old bastard's knees in trainin' today. Shit sounded like a backfirin' motor. He got like three days, tops."

"How much y'all had already?" Bruise sighed, unable to keep the smile out of her voice as she slapped palms with both of them and settled into some free space in the section. "Runnin' up my damn tab and I just got here. Surprised you even made it, Frankie."

"Yeah, well, couldn't let you gloat alone, kid." Bruise's ears twitched at the wry and somewhat bitter undertone in her raspy voice. Bruise swallowed and ignored it anyway. "Besides, lil' win bonus you got tonight should cover it just fine."

"Lay off her, would you?" Cain groaned, shoving her in the shoulder. The gesture did little to alleviate the way Bruise's jaw clenched. "You'll be hostin' the next one once Dana gets her head out her ass."

"Ain't layin' into her. Just a reminder."

A nine-year-old mistake bridled Bruise's tongue, and she refused to rip Frankie a new one for trying to check her instead of just enjoying the damn section. After all, what could a night of good drink and music repair that two fighters' hubris had destroyed? Frankie side-eyed her for a long moment, then shook her head. The older fighter swiped an unopened beer from the small icebox on the low table before them.

"My fault, kid. Four years, and you never left your people behind. Shit counts for somethin'."

She held out the bottle to Bruise, a meaningful glint in her stare. One that cut through Pure Air's strobing lights.

"No matter- no mat- no matter what, kid." Tito nodded, smile small as he nodded at Bruise. His face was kinder, but only doubled the weight sitting in her chest.

"We got you," Cain grinned. "Long as you got us."

Bruise's smile faltered. Of course, even now, Frankie held the root of the night's favors over her head. It hadn't mattered that she got them the best section in the house, top-of-the-line spirits, and played a heel for the lesser part of a decade. None of it would take back a mistake that wasn't hers in the first place.

"Well, kid?" Cain muttered, setting down her own pint. "Don't let it go to waste."

Bruise swallowed around the indignant lump in her throat and wrapped her palm around the beer.

"Thanks, Frankie." She felt colder than the glass she closed her fist around. "Imma check sumn' right quick."

Not sparing any of the fighters a glance, she pushed through the throng of bodies on the club's main floor. She felt her way along the walls to the stairs, her footfalls heavy as she finally made it to a back door. Wrenching it open, she found an empty concrete stairwell and finally, alone again, sat on its steps, pushing her palms into her eyes. She didn't know how long it had been, the beats of the room above blending into one constant noise. Then there was a loud creak, and the music swelled before muffling again with a slam.

"There you are, party animal," came Dez's voice, slightly teasing. "Frankie and the others lookin' for you."

"Yeah, well, they can keep lookin' cs I'm done for the night."

The venue coordinator frowned just a bit and moved to sit beside Bruise, drawing her knees to her chest. "Was wonderin' why you showed up alone."

"All this. And it still ain't enough," she sighed, pushing her palms into her eyes. Frankie's words, venomous but trite enough to seem innocuous, still raised her hackles.

Dez leaned forward, bright green tresses curtaining a fuzzy gray shoulder, and smiled sympathetically. She patted Bruise between the shoulder blades and pressed her thigh into theirs. But outside of the casual press of her body against the fighter, there was nothing Dez could say or do to even peel back the layers of rot that drove Bruise down here in the first place. Hiding from what should've been her night of all things.

"Lemme get your mind off 'em then." The purr of the offer had Bruise sitting ramrod straight, ears perked up. She cracked a grin of her own and leaned into Dez's space, one large hand snaking around her waist and the other curling on her thigh. Dez leaned in and whispered into the pink of Bruise's ear. "After I wrap up here. Meet me by the side entrance in an hour, aight?"

She patted the stud's cheek, grazing it with her painted claws, before pushing off the concrete steps to make her rounds in the venue. The door clanged after her, while Bruise found her throat dry and swallowed thickly.

Buoyed by the promise of pleasure, they let the pulse of the music carry her to the dance floor, where a familiar figure decked nearly head to toe in red waved them down. Bruise chuckled to themself as they met the young woman in the middle, weaving and jostling her way through the crowd to the chirean.

Miles of legs in red thigh-highs, and hips wrapped by a blue miniskirt with bikini strings came into view. Bruise's eyes raked upward, past the bare midsection decorated with gold waist chains and lingering on the swell of breasts just underneath a cropped red button-up. They let their gaze loiter shamelessly before finally dragging up to the girl's face, her plump lips parting around a gap-toothed smile with gold grills shaped like fangs. Bubble braids fell around her shoulders, framing round, light-skinned cheeks, and brown eyes with stars in them.

"Hey, Butcher!" she giggled, already pushing into Bruise's space.

"Ichor!" Bruise laughed, giving her a once-over, her large hands already sliding to the soft rolls that spilled out the sides of the skirt. "Damn, girl! This all for me?"

"Mm-hm, just for the winner! Got sum'n else to show you, too!"

Bruise raised her pierced eyebrow as Ichor did a one-eighty and bent with her hands on her knees, pushing her voluptuous backside into the fighter's pelvis. They always appreciated the view, appreciated getting danced on like this even more, but their eyes caught on a design gracing the girl's lower back. A red pair of cleavers cutting hearts bracketed a small phrase in common:

"Fresh meat, huh? Real subtle," Bruise purred, both hands squeezing Ichor's hips and waist to pull her flush against them. "Now who told you to go and get sum'n like that?"

Ichor threw her arms around Bruise's neck, geeked as a pair of clawed hands kneaded the soft fat on her hips. "You like it?"

"Mm, needa get a better look, baby. Club lights don't do it justice."

The groupie practically beamed, catching her idol's drift. "Y'mean it?"

"Course I do," Bruise chuckled, pulling Ichor up to her chest, wrapping one arm around her neck. She bent down to nose at the shell of the young woman's ear before steering them both back to her section. Frankie and the others were still there. Good. "But first."

The girl giggled the whole time as Bruise shifted to sling their arm around her waist, palming the under cheeks spilling from the precarious skirt she wore. They helped her up the steps, even though Ichor was a natural at walking in her platforms by now. The young woman flushed and giggled as Bruise brought her knuckles to their lips and eased them both back into some free space on the soft black leather of the couches. Immediately, the pitfighter let their legs spread while the lights of the club pulsed and shifted with the beat, and waved down a bottle girl. Ichor slipped one hand into their cropped denim vest, playing with their silver medal while they passed off their order and added a hefty tip paid in gold hexes.

"Not another one," Cain chuckled from their end, her gold eyes shamelessly raking over Ichor. The girl blushed, eyes lingering for just a moment on the other fighter. That wouldn't do.

The pitfighter smiled toothily and brought one hand up to grip Ichor's chin. Squealing with barely contained excitement, Ichor threw both legs over their own thick thighs. Wrapped around their claws and overjoyed to be invited in, she preened in their lap alone. The winner.

"How long it take you to get that?" Frankie asked, the tramp stamp prominent from where Ichor had clambered into Bruise's lap

"Uhm, prolly like three hours? Hurt like a bitch too."

"Aww," Bruise cooed, rubbing the pad of her thumb against Ichor's jaw. "No wonder you put this lil' ass skirt on. Had to show off for all that time, huh?"

"Had to show off for the champion."

Well, fuck. Ichor never failed to remind Bruise why she'd even let a groupie get this close. Right before Bruise could reply, the bottle girl returned to set down the case of Noxian vodka, throwing her a wink. The pitfighter had seen her around once or twice. She'd have to make a note to spin the block on her later. For now, though, Ichor was squirming in their lap, pouting as she noticed her idol's eye wandering.

"Damn, you bored already?"

"Wit'chu? Nah. In fact, wanna play a game right now?"

She nodded, and the pitfighter reached for the case and brought the lid to her mouth. They did a trick most of the girls in their orbit adored, holding the cork between their back fangs and tugging it free of the glass in one yank. They spat out the cork, watching as Ichor's pupils nearly tripled in size and her scent thickened.

They brought the case up, the claw on their thumb pulling open the plush of the girl's bottom lip. She obeyed wordlessly, mouth falling open to receive a sip of the liquor. Her face screwed up, and she fanned her mouth, shaking her head. "Eugh! Gods, I'on' know how you drink that! Shit's nasty!"

"Careful, kid," chuckled Frankie. "The shit she knocks back would make Cain go blind."

Bruise smirked, patting her cheek. "Ain't my fault y'all can't hold real liquor. But you did good, baby."

Ichor quit suffering from the brief taste of damn near pure alcohol burning her throat to smile, eyes watering. Bruise's heart-shaped nose flared, and the twitch of their muscles returned. "For real?"

They let go of Ichor's face and brought their hand back down to her ass. They squeezed a handful and nodded. "Teach you a trick. Make it go down easier, if you ready?"

She smiled and nodded so hard that Bruise thought her head would fly off her shoulders. They took a massive swig of the rum, the burn barely registering, then held it in their mouth and leaned in. Pulling Ichor in by the jaw, Bruise pressed their full, painted lips to hers. On contact, the girl parted her red lips again, no command necessary, and moaned into the kiss. She whimpered as the burn returned on her tongue, then giggled once the Pitfighter's tongue laved along hers. All of a sudden, the scalding taste felt a little sweeter, and she slid a hand up into Bruise's freeforms, lightly tugging. One of her hands drifted down to the chirean's belt buckle, thumbing over the now-warm metal.

When the last drops of the liquor finally slid down her throat, Bruise pulled Ichor away by the cheeks, a proud smile bringing out the dimples their piercings highlighted. "See? Don't that taste better?"

The girl nodded slowly, her hoop earrings clinking with the motion. Bruise patted her thigh and stood, helping her to her feet. Ichor wobbled a little on her platformed feet but righted herself quickly. Bruise eyed her, concerned, before she squeezed the pitfighter's larger hand with both of hers, determination in her gaze.

"Please? Wanted this before that nasty ass shit you sippin' on. Want you just as bad now."

Bruise sighed fondly and led Ichor by the hand out of the section, feeling six eyes burn into the back of her head. Good. They swiped the case, corked it, and tucked it under their other arm.

"See y'all at training in a few days."

Ichor navigated the short steps by herself, completely straight and steady. So Bruise let go of her hand in favor of ghosting the small of her back. In the back of her mind, Bruise remembered Dez had offered them a night in her company, too. But she was still on the clock, and they were more than ready to get out of this place. They'd hoped she wouldn't hold it against them.

After all, they were lucky they were cute.

The second Sevika hit the three-sectioned couch, she tugged off her boots and shrugged off her coat. Quill whisked both items off to the foyer. A small smile curled the corner of her mouth as the femme bustled around in their house dress, setting down a glass of water for her without being asked.

"Thanks, doll."

Quill beamed as they sidled up to Sevika, a smile bunching up their bearded cheeks. Their long, partially dyed braid curled around their broad shoulders, a few textured strands escaping to frame their temple. Their hand wrapped around the glass and lifted it to her, eyes full of mirth as Sevika lifted it to her lips and drank. The underboss had relaxed significantly as the younger woman gazed up at her, starry-eyed and waiting for her to drain the glass so she could offer more. With a sigh, Sevika set the empty glass back down, and Quill sprang up to grab it.

"Would you like anything else to drink, sir? I also have food left for you on the stove."

"That'd be gre-," Sevika started, just as Quill snatched up the glass and practically shot off to the kitchen to fix Sevika's plate. She chuckled under her breath, almost certain of the underlying source of their excitement. But they would have their answers soon enough, once their home cooking warmed her stomach and whiskey warmed her throat.

Like magic, Quill rushed back to her side, a plate of mangú and los tres golpes in one hand, and the glass full of liquor in the other. They didn't rush to set it down, but the second both items were squarely on the table, they flew back to her side, practically squirming in their seat.

Sevika reached for the fork, her eye catching how Quill held their breath, lips pressed in a smile that threatened to break into a full grin. She sighed and set the fork back down, resting her forehead in her right hand, a knowing smile on her own full lips.

"Something wrong, Sir?"

"No. But someone clearly has something to get off their chest."

Quill ducked their head sheepishly, face burning.

"Yes, I went to see her."

"And? Was she a good fit? I listened to the entire fight; it must've been impressive to see up close! Did she have demands? I'm sure we could fulfill them perfectly…"

Sevika's shoulders shook in a voiceless laugh as Quill's mouth ran a mile per minute. Just as their food and uncompromising service to her in the four walls of their home refilled her when her own cup ran dry, the deep melody of their voice eased and unwound the tension in the base of her skull. So, she let them prattle on, picking the fork back up and tucking into the slices of fried salami and scoops of mashed plantain. Even as the blend of spices hit her tongue, she felt the bite of disappointing Quill, and eventually Ran, who would surely mope over the nothing burger today's visit turned out to be.

Washing the meal down with some whiskey, Sevika finally held her hand up for some silence. Quill's line of questioning died off quickly, and they waited for her to speak.

"Her style's perfect," Sevika began, deciding to start with a bit of praise. "She's brutal, with the showmanship to match. An animal. Everyone in that arena was hooked, start to finish."

"But?"

Rolling her eyes, Sevika leaned her elbows on her knees. She remembered the little of the pitfighter she'd observed before they caught onto her presence. The way muscles shifted and trembled under grey fur. How growled out panting wracked their entire frame. "She won't sign. Knew we weren't the only ones to approach her, but she wouldn't let me offer shit."

Quill didn't visibly deflate, but their smile fell —just a little.

"Cheer up, doll. You think I'd let her get away that easy? Just gotta find her price first."

"I see," Quill sighed, smoothing their large hands over their knees, the fabric of their house dress shifting with the motion. Sevika's exasperation faded slightly as her eyes flew to their thighs. She was tempted to wring the damp blanket of disappointment out of them the way they loved, her arm's coolant circulating a little faster. But just as she reached for them, Quill whipped around, clutching her left thigh while their eyes shone. The gleam was familiar. Sevika had seen it many times when Quill plucked lovingly at their old guitar, when they'd solved a logistical nightmare, and when they'd figured out a radio drama twist long before the finale. "What exactly did you see when you met with her?"

Sevika leaned back into the plush red cushions, her left arm coming around to caress Quill's shoulder as she sank into thought. "Looked like the fight wasn't over for her. Not sure anything we offer will fix that. Locker room was a disgrace, too. Old equipment, rusted-over facilities. Not exactly champion worthy."

"Did she have anyone down there with her? A team, maybe?" Sevika shook her head, and Quill smiled sadly. "I have an idea. Find out more about her circumstances, then swing by me before you see her at the Pits again."

"What are you planning?"

Quill eased off the couch to take the plate, fork, and glass back to their kitchen, house dress swishing with the motion.

"To land us a champion, darling."

Bruise had dressed a little more low-key, a dark wifepleaser and a green and brown multi-panel leather jacket over her broad shoulders. She didn't flaunt most of her medals today. Wasn't much of a point if she was hoping to have the conversation go the way she wanted. But she did wear one, hanging around her neck by a gold chain with purpose. And if she made her case, Bruise wouldn't have to think about the voucher burning a hole in her pocket for nearly three days.

The windows to the office overlooking the Pits were dark. Not much could be seen outside, by design. And guarding the door to it stood Tito, thick arms crossed and a stern look on a face worn from nearly thirty years of beatings.

"Tito! What's good?" She slapped palms with the older butch and shook hands. "Management in today?"

Tito frowned. "Bruise…"

"What? Just tryna pick up my pay and say hello."

The old butch's eyes softened in sympathy, the age on it obvious. Tito had retired from fighting years ago, still drawn to this place and the legacies it created. He'd had his time and let it pass gracefully. Bruise, on the other hand, was not Tito. "She didn't- she di- she didn't change their… answer last time, kid. Wha' makes you think it'll be… different?"

The chirean's easy smile faltered for a second. "Don't worry about that. I got this. Jus' tell me she in today?"

Tito sighed and opened the door. "You're guh- you guh- gonna get… me in trouble one of- one of these days, yyyou know that?"

"Shh, you'll be aight."

Bruise entered the room. In one corner, bets were being organized for the next few fight nights, where the money was held in multiple safes. In the other, a large blacktop board scrawled over with fighter names and tallies, planning matches out months in advance. And finally, in a corner with a rotary phone and a fat cigar in her mouth sat Dana, the Pits commissioner and management. At least the face of it. She answered to the chembarons at the end of the day. And she didn't seem to have time for Bruise.

"Thought I told Tito to tell you I was out. Or did his punch-drunk ass forget?"

The pitfighter paused, eye twitching. Still, she didn't let the easy smile she waltzed up in here with slide off her face. "It ain't his fault for real. Hard t'say no to this face."

She sat herself in the chair across from Dana without even being invited. The commissioner sighed, annoyance pinching her thin lips and a wrinkle in the middle of her forehead beneath a curl from her ginger waves. "Whaddya want now, Bruise?"

"It ain't me, it's the fans. I know y'all ain't had a sold-out gold league show in months."

"We got a title match coming up in two months."

"Yeah, between 'whoever the fuck' and 'whatsername'." Bruise wasn't trying to be funny. She really couldn't tell who would be passing the gold title back and forth like a blunt this time. "Be honest, Dana. They mad lazy, all them lil' chembaron bitches got no showmanship."

"Your point?"

"I been sold out ever since y'all put me in silver." For the first time in a while, Bruise had to sell herself. She'd hopefully laid out a pitch that would've made Dana's money-hungry mind salivate. "The commentators been talkin' 'bout me. It's obvious. Gimme a promo match."

Dana blinked, then burst out in a full-belly laugh. She slapped her desk, her thin palms thudding down on the hardwood. Bruise felt herself wilt inside, but simply clenched her fists in her pockets. She kept a cool expression as Dana sighed and wiped a tear from her eye with a bony finger. "Never let it be said you're not funny. Maybe when you retire, you can pursue comedy."

"Bitch, do I look like I'm jokin'?"

"Do I?" Dana said flatly. "The answer is no."

Bruise felt irate. She wasn't here to beg for a shot, but she wasn't leaving this office with Dana having the last word.

"Cause they say so?" Bruise scowled. "You really gon' let the chembarons punk you out like this? Lose you good money? Loyal fans?"

"I got money just fine," the commissioner chuckled, not a hint of mirth or warmth. "What I don't got is time for old ass glory seekers like yourself or fans that wanna live in the past."

The past. Bruise was only thirty-four. There had been champions, like Tito, who left a decade past that. When had the Pits gotten so comfortable writing fighters far younger off like this? Bruise knew when. Knew the signage that let all this snowball into a stifled career in a subpar locker.

"You got a sweet deal, Bruise," Dana sighed, finally ashing out her cigar and kicking her feet up on the desk. "Damn near guaranteed wins, decent pay. Keep this up, you could retire with a nice little nest egg, eh? Find somethin' else to do."

Something else. What else was there for someone like her? And since when did pricks like Dana get to decide that?

"Don't fuck it up by bitin' the hand that feeds you. Now take your pay and stay outta my office, would ya?"

There it was. Because the hands that fed her, that slid the heavy sack of silver cogs and gold hexes across the table right now, had said so. Because she refused to play ball and wear the colors of some puffed-up mob every time she performed. Because she couldn't be controlled by a table she'd never sit at.

So, on their orders, she'd be smothered instead. She knew this. It was why Dana's answer would never change. This was the only end for a former star that wasn't on a chembaron's payroll. One devoid of respect and legacy.

Her limbs felt heavy and her hackles raised, but Bruise shoved herself up from the chair and trudged back to the door.

"Bruise, wait," Dana called, sounding exhausted. The pit fighter stiffened, but didn't turn around. "Look, I hate to do this to one of my main guys. Really. You've done a lot for this place over the years. My advice? Get a damn patron already? Find someone to take care of you."

Bruise felt a vein in her forehead pulse. There was no use. She sighed, not quite deflated, and slammed the door behind her, not meeting Tito's eyes. The old butch didn't say much, not even an "I-told-you-so." He'd long known the depths of the Pits' mistreatment of top talent. He'd been the most tragic case, kept around as a warning to those who stayed in too long without the protection of a patronage. But even then, he hadn't let that make him bitter, though he had the very right.

But Bruise wasn't and could never be Tito.

"What're- are wh- what are you gonna do… now, kid?"

The stud rolled her balled fists in her pockets, her knuckles brushing the crumpled slip of paper from before. After that disaster of a meeting? How could she even think about proving Dana right?

But maybe… maybe she didn't have to do it Dana's way, or any of the chembarons for that matter. If that mysterious woman wanted to sign her, Bruise would find out just how bad.

"Kid?"

"See what the hell this 'Sevika' talkin' 'bout. You be easy now, Tito."

The lifts down into the Lanes were somewhat empty tonight, for which Bruise was grateful. She wasn't looking forward to showing up for this negotiation out of breath from scaling and vaulting to the Entresol layer. Bruise told herself this visit was just a little detour from her usual haunts. She'd fully expected to knock that odd woman… to knock Sevika on her ass should their refusal to sign turn into a brawl. But instead, she'd been offered a free drink. Free drinks.

And Bruise had never turned one down before.

Sighing, Bruise shoved her hands in the pockets of her dark, baggy trousers and ducked her head. The cobblestone thoroughfare was clogged with all sorts of the undercity's residents: working girls, food vendors, factory laborers, and a few mobsters guarding their fronts. She dodged to the side just as a driven buggy and carriage barrelled past her. For all the fuss made of hextech, the undercity hadn't been too far behind, automated and mechanical wonders progressing faster and faster than anyone could imagine. Down here wasn't as busy, but she still needed to keep her wits about her. Further down the street lay a crossroads forked by a building with a giant, neon green eye.

Well, the branding was interesting. As Bruise drew closer, she noticed the smaller sign with a metal keg.

"The Last Drop, huh?"

Two bouncers, half a head taller than even she, eyed her up and down. Right. The voucher. Bruise rummaged in her pocket and flashed it. One of them, a tall and thick man well on his way to balding, snatched it up from her and turned it between his fingers. Satisfied, he handed it back and nodded to the other bouncer, who pushed open the door.

She raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment but entered, greeted by strobe lights and heavy bass. Standard fare as clubs went down here. Bruise muscled her way between the pulse of bodies twisting this way and that and finally made it to the bartop. She eased onto a stool and let her eyes wander the barback, wondering which bottle she'd use her favor on first.

"If I- ahem- if I may?"

Bruise stifled a snort at the audible crack in the voice and turned her full attention to its origin. A timid-looking barkeep with choppy purple and auburn hair, a pair of fluffy ears, and a set of short antlers. Their splotched face was visibly flushed even under the thick lighting of the bar. She unfolded her arms long enough to gesture for them to continue.

"Chirean, right? I recommend a mango liqueur with a Bilgewater rum base. The concentration exceeds most vastayas' tolerance. If you're looking for a buzz you can feel? Which, if you're not, it's totally fine, I probably should've just asked what you were looking for instead of assu-"

"Whoa, whoa," the pitfighter chuckled, holding up her wrapped palms to placate them. She found it all rather cute. "It's all good. Lemme get that one. Sounds like you know what you doin'."

The deer vastaya beamed and turned to the barback to start whipping together the cocktail. Bruise watched them work, with their fluffy tail swishing back and forth, and an easy smirk found its way on her face. She hadn't come down here for that kind of pleasure, but she'd make a mental note to spin the block on the tender. They looked shy, eager to please, a bit of a motormouth—usually, her type in fems.

"Thanks…?"

"Corin! Ah, friends call me Core, but that's not a lot of people, so Corin's good? But I mean if you wanna—"

"Core sounds nice. Name's Bruise." With a smile on their face, the bartender held her drink in one hand, not quite resting it on the counter. Bruise slid the voucher on the countertop, the note facing down. "Is Sevika in?"

At the woman's name, Corin's ears swiveled up, and they beamed. Then, as if they remembered themselves, they placed the drink on the counter, crossed their lithe arms, and leaned against the barback. A carabiner on their left hip caught the club's strobe lights. Bruise's eyes flicked down briefly before attaching to the highly conspicuous look on Corin's face. Unexpected, but useful information. "Yeah, she's right up the stairs. She's been expecting someone, which I'm guessing is you?"

Bruise made a non-committal noise in the back of her throat. Of course, the bitch had banked on her coming. Like most of her type, she probably lived keeping the lives of hundreds in her hands. Now she was looking to drop Bruise into her palm all the same and watch her dance. Annoyed, the pitfighter fisted the short glass and knocked it back quickly, slamming a small cog on the bartop. She left for the stairs to the bar's right while Corin protested the tip. It was time to get this over with.

At the landing of the stairs stood one door and a small waiting area before it. The woman of the hour was perched in an armchair outside, one leg propped over her knee at the ankle, and yet another cigar between her lips.

"Took you long enough. Sit."

"Nah, I like standin' jus' fine," Bruise scoffed, arms folded. Her singular medal and matching chain glinted under the lights, resting proudly on her own broad chest. "I ain't your hitta, you not gon' talk to me like I am."

Sevika's grey eyes turned steely, but her posture didn't shift. She took another drag of her cigar and let the smoke leave her nose in thick plumes. "Charming. That scare the other barons off?"

"You don't see 'em sniffin' 'round me anymore. That answer your question?"

"Mm, I got more. Sit. Please."

Bruise arched her pierced brow, but decided to oblige Sevika this time, feet planted square as she eased into the armchair across from her. She wasn't the same livewire she'd been when the woman propositioned her in the lockers, but she needed to make sure Sevika knew she didn't trust her as far as she could throw her.

"Tell me about the Pits. You been there, what? Eighteen years?"

"Ouu, you did your homework."

"You got a great record," Sevika whistled, and Bruise's fur stood on edge. It didn't sound like a blatant attempt at flattery. It sounded like she was impressed? "So how does a performer on your win streak end up in lockers like that?"

There it was. The attempt to shrink Bruise's shoulders. She had two options. Defend Dana's neglect of the people who built the damn place, or complain to someone who had every incentive to promise her what they likely didn't have or wouldn't give.

"You wanna know how much I make now? It's a nice penny. If that's the only thing I was chasing, I wouldn't be here."

Option three: deflect. She knew the shitty cabinets and fucked up plumbing were beneath her. And so did Sevika. That wasn't why she was here. She had to set the pace and tone from the beginning.

"Do me a favor? I'm not blowin' smoke up yours. Don't do it up mine. Called you here to learn more about you and the Pits. Be honest."

"You didn't call anyone," Bruise snorted, her claws pricking into the fabric of the armchair. She wasn't trying to be difficult, but something about the calm way Sevika regarded her while probing for anything that would give her leverage pissed her off. Bruise had shown up her damn self, and she wouldn't let this meeting go like her attempted conversation with Dana. Minding her scowl, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and tapped the short table between them with a claw. "And I ain't come here to discuss no damn lockers."

"Then what'd you come for?"

"To find out what y'all willin' to offer. I wanna hear from the horse's mouth what you think my price is."

Sevika raised an eyebrow and leaned forward. She ashed her cigar. "Whatever you need. Within reason, of course."

"What, you think I'm gon' ask for the damn moon?" Bruise chuckled. Despite her earlier irritation, she felt herself relaxing a little in the underboss's presence. The woman was refreshingly blunt, though not entirely forthcoming.

"Told you," Sevika exhaled a thick cloud of fumes. "Won't blow smoke up your ass. Our resources ain't infinite, but we'll do what we can. That starts with finding a need. For instance, you got a cook?"

"Huh?"

Sevika's eyebrows furrowed, incredulous. "When you're injured, you got a medic? "

Bruise shook her head slowly. Where was this all going?

"What about a coach? The Pits got cutmen?"

Bruise barked out a laugh. If she didn't know any better, she'd have guessed this woman never set foot inside the Pits. "I take back my hom-ohm-work—" She blanched, catching her error.

Sevika raised an eyebrow, and Bruise swore under her breath, feeling her hands shake despite herself. She leapt to her feet, almost panicked, but masked it as safer, practiced anger. She'd already made a fool of herself, coming down here to have her station flung back in her face. She wouldn't make it worse by slipping up even more. "Simple question—"

"Didn't come down here so you could get a sob story. If you can't promise shit better than a cushy ass retirement, don't bother."

"Bruise." The first time the other woman had ever used the first half of her name without the Pit moniker. Bruise turned on her heel, a razor-sharp edge to her glare. "Not the enemy here."

The chirean's pink, pierced nostrils flared, the feigned flare of a temper fighting to roil over into a real one. Not here, not now. She clenched a wrapped fist and sighed hard through her nose. Without sparing a glance behind her, Bruise stalked down the stairs, pushed through the crowd, and jogged back out onto the street. In the green night air, her whole body twitched. The way it always did when she felt small. And it had been too long since she promised herself she'd never feel small again. She'd failed twice today.

The walk back to the Promenade lifts wouldn't be long, and hopefully, the rushing in her ears would slow down by then.

"Well, Ernie, it's a simple question! The new hotshot in the Pits has a 7-2 record, and it's been a year! By now, most rookies take on The Butcher!"

"Hooch, I'm telling you, the kid's smart! The Butcher ain't Bronze league. Gunnin' for that monster during your first year's a recipe for disaster. Has everyone forgotten Imi the Invincible? Diana's just being smart. Or rather, her patron is."

"You got a point! Last signed fighter tried to go for her after a four-fight win streak. If that ain't greed, I don't know what is!"

The tinny, amped voices echoed around Quill's workspace, and her forearms rested on the desk as she pored over the house signet with a magnifying glass. Once she finished drawing it perfectly, she could begin the process to replicate it. This was the last piece in The Eyes' product hitching rides into Demacia on House Arvino's shipments, and she was almost done.

"Speak of the devil, folks, the Butcher is in the building and ready to carve up fresh meat. On the card tonight, we have the newcomer 'Cutthroat' squaring off against 'Punisher', the gold league's 'Phantom' facing 'Bloodhound', and finally, the Butcher versus Undertaker. All coming to you live from the Pits later tonight!"

Two fights before The Butcher's. Quill smiled to herself. After carving the signet and curing it, she'd be through enough of her tasks to fully sit down and take in the match. Ran would be coming over in time, too, though Sevika was currently held up at the Last Drop discussing the opening of another front along the southside harbor.

She wasn't sure when the older woman would see the Butcher again, but that hadn't put a dent in her own preparations. She'd sent for a crate of fruit through her contacts, though it had strained her personal means a little. She'd also sent for some of Anaïs' backlog. Just a few first aid items, which would be delivered to her via a runner in a day. The drone of Hooch and Ernie filled the background until she'd finished the design, and pushed away from her desk, stretching out her back until it popped.

She'd made good progress through most of her workload thanks to the commentary that ran on Zaun's stations and could now set her sights on finishing up dinner. The wings she'd set in the oven were just about done, along with the home-cut fries, waiting to be tossed in a few sauces and laid out on a plate with cut celery and carrots. It was a game night staple, Quill insisting on putting together the plates herself rather than letting Ran pick something up from a stall. It added to the ritual of it all, the community and near-sacred routine of settling in by the radio to witness, or rather listen to, total greatness. Sevika had often joked she didn't get the younger woman the set simply for her to gawk over the bloody spectacle of the Pits. Still, she tried to join the two on those nights, for work purposes, of course.

Easing off her rolling chair, Quill padded to the kitchen to check on the chicken and slid on a glove to remove it, the thick smell of the spices, sweet and hot, already mouthwatering. At a sharp rap on the door, Quill maneuvered the sizzling tray to some space on the counter and reached for the fries as well. Then she tugged off one glove to open the door. Peering through the keyhole, she found her favorite familiar face: one sparkling green eye and choppy fringe staring back at her. Doing a little happy dance, she pulled open the door and swiftly pulled Ran in a hug. The mobster hugged her back as well as they could, the two ginormous cases of Demacian IPA encumbering them.

"Hey Birdy," they chuckled, lifting their full hands out of the way once Quill released them. "Smells great in there! Ionian Barbecue?"

"Your favorite!" Quill giggled, taking one of the cases from their left hand. With a grin, she set it on the counter and began to plate the flats and drums, each cut and separated by her. It was rather funny to be doing a butcher's work while listening to a fighter with the same moniker, now that she considered it. The tray looked lovely as she placed the small bowl of ranch in the center and balanced the tray as she brought it into the sitting room. Ran had cracked open one of the glass bottles with their right hand before handing it to Quill and reaching for another one. Finally set with a bounty in front of them, the two were ready to tune in to the one fighter whose incredible matches drew them in from a gory start to a glorious finish.

Quill sat forward and turned up the dial, leaning forward like she couldn't help herself.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Pits 341! For all those just tuning in: tonight's card has been intense, with around fourteen fights on record! The newcomers and initiates gave some outstanding performances today, but now it's time for the star of the night: Butcher. Versus. Undertakerrrrrr!"

Ran and Quill let out their own little whoops of excitement. Tonight was another title defense. Last on the card, and against another silver league mainstay: the Undertaker. They'd slipped down from gold after a failed rank exchange from the former silver champion, Diana the Destroyer. They'd middled around in silver for months and now had a shot to leave it behind in two fights. The first of which would be going through Bruise the Butcher. Each of those fights had been fascinating, but nowhere near as enthralling as the chirean legend herself.

"Swill, tonight's been showstopper after showstopper, and now we've saved the best for last. The chirean champion who burst onto the scene nearly eighteen years ago out of nowhere."

"Don't you think 'legend' is a bit of an exaggeration, Jax?"

"What else would you call a now twenty-seven and five record? Her current win streak shows she's on the up and up. We can't ignore that, just because of a failed title defense years ago."

"I'm telling you right now, she's getting older and slower. Thirty-four is pushing it by this city's standards, let alone the Pit. Pits even gave her the underdog bet. Odds of +150 on her and -200 on Undertaker"

"And that's a crying shame! She straight-up bullied Royce weeks ago. And she's ready to put Undertaker in the ground, tonight!"

"Yeah, tell 'em, Jax," Quill muttered under her breath, reaching for a wing to put on her own plate.

Ran snickered at her enthusiasm but reached for two flats as well. "Swill's a hack. No commentator worth their salt looks at a season like this and thinks the Butcher's gonna lose."

"Right?" The two clinked their beers together as the radio mics picked up the roar of the crowd.

"Well, whatever the case, Jax, the lights in the Pits have dimmed, and the Undertaker is making her entrance!"

The radio blasted a progressive rock medley, interspliced with riotous cheering from the pits and a crowd chant. Quill sighed wistfully, picking up the notes and idly humming along. She didn't have as much time as she wanted for most of her passions since becoming a captain, though Sevika had provided her with gigs at the Last Drop whenever she wished. She wondered what the acoustics of the Pit would sound like, and if she'd get to flex a different singing voice she rarely got to try. When Sevika closed this deal, which she would, Quill had no doubt, maybe she'd ask to perform the walkout accompaniment for the Butcher. She could hear it now, dramatic electric guitar swells and deep chempowered bass, all of it heralding the arrival of a true champion. It would be an original, even.

"Coming in at 175 pounds and five-foot-nine. With a record of 28 and 2, Huda "The Undertaker" Gravessssssss." The arena's cheering picked up on the commentator and announcer mics. The Undertaker was a rapidly growing fan favorite. The commentators chimed back in. "In just a few months, she's earned herself a title shot. Headlining tonight's card is a huge opportunity. We'll see if she can make the most of it with a stellar win."

A heavier drum and bass sound filled the arena, filtering through the radio's speakers. Both fans clutched their beers in anticipation. It wasn't that Quill was partial to the sound. She knew she could do better composition-wise. Rather, it was the woman to whom the track was attached. Quill could envision her now, that signature snarl and rippling muscle, all coiled tightly and ready to spring into action. She knew the next words that blasted from the radio by heart. As did Ran, who gave her a knowing smile.

"Ladies and gentlemen of Pits 341?"

"Your four-time, currently undisputed Silver League champion…"

"Coming in at 205 and six foot four, with a twenty-eight and five record?"

Both she and Ran joined the obnoxious drone of the announcer.

"Bruiseeee the Butcherrrrrr!" They shouted in unison. Quill's voice held the drawn-out moniker longer than Ran could ever hope to. Years in the mines as a child and classical training in the academy had made sure of that. Ran, however, a much older butch with lungs straight out of Anaïs' compendium, coughed as Quill held out and jostled her playfully.

"Fuckin' show-off."

They both tuned back in, just as the bell sounded.

"Alright, for those just tuning in, the match has begun. Butcher's throwing out a few jabs? Tryna get a feel for the Undertaker."

"Now, Swill, she's being methodical here. Undertaker's known… known for her takedowns. Last four matches won by submission. Kid's got serious power behind her, and you definitely wanna try and read someone like her before jumping in."

"Couldn't have said it better, Jax. Maybe Butcher's met her match in a grappler, we don't know yet… But she'd better get the ball rollin' soon. The crowd doesn't like all these feints."

"Must be newer fans tonight. Longtime Butcher fans know she's good with mind games, too. Okay, we're seeing a little more action… First blows traded of the match! That was a hard right hook, my gods! Undertaker's shaking it off, stumbling a little though. Butcher looks like she's applying pressure."

Ran reached for a few fries, chewing while they remained focused. Tonight would be a longer fight than some of the other betters had thought.

"Okay, folks, we got a wall clinch! Seems pretty tight so far, Undertaker lobbying for a takedown of any kind. Seems she's hoping to get Butcher off balance. Oh! Butcher's got a grip on her hips now! What a powerful twist, and Undertaker is ON. THE. GROUND!"

Ran clapped and leaned forward while Quill sat up straighter, pumping one arm excitedly. "Yes! Let's fucking go!"

"Undertaker's tryna shrimp, taking heavy damage from Butcher. Now, Jax, she's gotta try to get up before Butcher goes for a hold here. Not many people get out of those before a submission or passing out. Ground control is phenomenal, oh shit, she's gotta watch that arm… Seems like Butcher's got the same idea! And the Butcher's got 'em in an armbar! Let's see if Undertaker will twist her way outta this one!"

Quill whipped her head away from the radio set for just a second to stare at Ran expectantly. The butch set down a half-eaten wing and washed it down with the rest of their beer with a cough and sniff.

"She's got their arm trapped between her legs and driving her hips upwards. It's bent like she's gonna break it."

"Oh! Thank you, dear."

Ran smiled gratefully and tucked back in. Out of the corner of her eye, Quill could see that half the tray was nearly gone. She snickered to herself and plucked a drumstick while the commentators narrated the ground struggle.

"Okay, Swill, that arm looks close to tearing. We've seen it before, Pit careers ended by Newcomers too prideful to call it quits. If Undertaker submits now, she'll be able to walk away from this one."

"Now, Jax, you know that won't do. Here, you gotta commit. Either she flips her way outta this one, or she goes out like a true fighter."

"Well, it looks like she heard you bc we're seeing a couple flip attempts! For a 175-er, she sure is flexible!"

Quill and Ran leaned in, with bated breath.

"Come on…," the butch muttered, the gears in their right hand clicking while it squeezed their left.

"So is the Butcher; the control here is tight. Undertaker's not going anywhere. Shit, we're getting… is that? UNDERTAKER HAS TAPPED OUT!"

Ran jumped up from the seat with a loud whoop, while Quill clapped before the two hugged, jumping up and down. Yet again, Bruise the Butcher walked away a champion. It also helped that Ran's bet, a submission by armbar, would pay out as planned.

"Bruise the Butcher has won yet another title defense in the first minute! Going on an eighteen-year career and a four-year undefeated run, she has done it again!"

"Well, Jax, the only question tonight is, will management finally give her a promotion match?"

"Swill, you think you funny, and I hate that."

"What good is bein' a title defender if you can't move up? Face it, nights like this are her only future in the Pits."

Ran sucked their teeth, scowling at the radio set. "Alright, cut that shit off."

Quill sighed and turned down the volume dial. The wings tray had less than half left, and Ran smiled sheepishly. At least they'd left her some. She swiped one more and dipped it in the sauce in the center and stared at it morosely, resting her chin in her palm, her beard tickling her skin. "It wouldn't have to be if they just gave her the shot. Gold League is languishing as a division, just the same four champions passing the title back and forth."

"Well," Ran sighed, flopping back down on the couch. They blew their longer fringe away from the tip of their nose and shrugged their shoulders. "When 'Vika signs her, maybe we could fix that?"

"Could a patron do that?"

"Probably?"

That got the gears turning in Quill's head. Though Sevika was busy tonight, she'd hoped the underboss caught the tail end of the match. This could give her another angle to work with, promise the Butcher a chance to move back up. If Silco threw enough weight around, it was a done deal. Which, as Quill laid it out in her mind, meant promising first what they might not be able to provide. It was a gamble, for sure. But Sevika had made bigger ones before and come out on top. What was one more?

"Birdy, you're thinkin' so loud I can hear it," Ran chuckled, reaching for another bottle.

"Ran, you're a genius!"

The butch cocked their head to the side, brow ridge creasing in confusion. They smiled appreciatively at the compliment, though. Quill grasped their forearms, immense and corded with years of muscle from work. That spark in her eyes was back.

"We offer her a promotion match as her first fight under us!"

"Huh, guess I am."

Quill rolled her eyes, and the two set about cleaning up. Ran left her the rest of the case, as an apology for eating her out of house and home yet again, and bid her goodbye.

Before turning in, she wanted to at least carve out the design, now that she'd finished it. Pushing aside her divider, she settled into her work chair and grabbed a uniform prism of aluminum. Taking her smallest chisel to its surface, she painstakingly carved out the crest's thin a-shape and smaller uniform flourishes. Even now, as the task demanded her whole concentration, she mulled over Ran and the announcers' words. Perhaps tomorrow, she could glean some info that would help Sevika make progress in these negotiations. When the final etch was complete, she sat up and brushed the soft metal's filings from her desk. A finished mould, and two days ahead of schedule.

From the second Quill brushed the filing from her workspace floor to the moment she slid beneath her covers, she turned the matter over in her mind, gears whirring and churning until sleep weighed on her eyelids. A little while later, she was stirred awake by the heavy footfalls of steel-toed boots. Sleepily, Quill sat up and smiled. Her heart thudded as she pulled the metal cord for her lamp. But she didn't need sight, not when she'd recognize this woman from the sound of her steps alone. She'd be right every time. Sevika's frame filled the doorway to her bedroom, the light from the hallway casting her in shadow.

"Couldn't leave me some?"

"You know Ran, darling," they giggled as the butch crossed the threshold, coming to her side in several strides. She didn't have to bend down to press a kiss to Quill's lips, claws scratching through their beard. "A bottomless pit, like yourself."

"Rude," Sevika chuckled, squishing the soft fat of their face before drawing back to disrobe. Quill's eyes raked gratefully over her figure, that broad back they'd held onto numerous times rippling under the room's warm and dim light. Their thighs shifted underneath their nightgown, squeezing imperceptibly as they shifted to fold their legs behind them, one hand idly tracing the bedcovers. Sevika turned around, chest now bare, and smirked. She knew the power she held over them with a single glance, a strip of skin, or an order. Just one of the reasons she kept them around.

She tossed her clothes into the hamper and pulled at the covers, in nothing but her boxers. She slid underneath with them. "Take it you two had fun?"

"The cordial kind. They have a busy day tomorrow."

"Mm, and you?"

Quill blushed and wound their arms around Sevika's neck, smiling shyly. "Very busy, Sir."

The two kissed, tongues mingling despite themself while Sevika's hold on their waist tightened. And as Quill had learned by now, they would always give Sevika more.

The next morning, Quill found herself continuing to turn over Ran and the commentators' words in her mind as she brushed her teeth. She'd been far too young to remember any of the Butcher's older fights, let alone the Pits themselves, and as a newer fan, she'd only ever known the Silver League run. From what she knew, the woman had been in the Pits for a while. But it didn't seem right that she was stuck in a middling division. Not with her skill or her age.

Shutting off the faucet and heading to the icebox, Quill's mind drifted back to the weekend nights with male relatives crowding into a packed house to huddle around their radio sets. While she'd helped lay out the party trays of food, she'd catch bits and pieces of violent spectacle. Not much of it had stayed with her. A sack of cold arepas was her target, and she fished it out of the ice before pulling a thick cast-iron pan from her cupboards to reheat it. She set a pot of coffee to brew as she picked her brain harder.

The most experience she had was a beloathed tío with the world's worst case of cauliflower ear. That strange man had been adamant that she learn a thing or two from him and try her hand as a Newcomer. She was ten and couldn't throw a punch to save her life. But then again, that hadn't stopped her family from sending her into Valoran's depths at seven, or the warehouses when she, a child, got injured in those very mines. Either way, she hadn't asked much about the Pits as a young child with mouths to feed.

"Maybe I should've," Quill grumbled glumly to herself, pouring the brew in her mug. Would've helped her figure out what exactly all of them were dealing with here. The arepas came off the stove, sufficiently buttery and mouthwateringly dense. Just as fresh as when she'd made them. She munched on a few, mulling over the matter. The negotiations had been kept hush-hush to most of the eyes except those on a need-to-know basis, and though she hadn't made captain yet, Sevika had seen fit to count her privvy to it. The show of trust made her face warm.

She wouldn't let the Underboss down. Until she saw Sevika again, the best Quill could do was gather additional information and present a foolproof plan. She set her mug in the sink, rinsing it out before padding to the bathroom. She went through the motions of her routine, plaiting her hair out of the way in a low style with a few strands out and carefully combing, moisturizing, and detangling her beard. A layer of scented lotion followed, along with a sweet perfume Fuchsia had put her onto. She still hadn't gotten used to the full face beats the older femme and her girls walked around in, but she'd religiously practiced the eyeliner tutorial, a sharp wing that showed off even under the hooded shape.

Today would be more low-key than usual, so after sliding on a long black underdress, she donned her purple button-up blouse, the short cuffs showing off the growing colorful sleeve beneath. She tied a front lacing corset over the shirt and shrugged on a black embroidered vest. Her ripped stockings followed next, rolling over thick calves and thighs. A belt with pouches for her writing implements, and pocketbooks cinched it all together. All that remained were her own thick and steel-toed boots, leaning against the wall in the short foyer.

Quill gave herself a little twirl before stopping to look at her reflection in her standing mirror. The two years since she'd been cast out of Piltover had padded her pockets enough to afford the ink lining her right arm. It was funny, now and then, being reminded she was someone to be feared now. It was also useful, she supposed. Being affiliated enough to command some respect, though much of it came from being tucked firmly under Sevika's wing.

There was little left to do inside her home today. Just the finished Arvino crest, waiting to be imprinted onto a little block of lead, tin, and antimony. Heading back out past the living room area, she pulled back her standing divider and entered the makeshift room that slowly became fuller every quarter. Over time, her assortment of tools had gone from a stash of pencils and borrowed paper to a full-on print-and-stationery shop in its own right.

She pulled up her chair and rolled it to the other end of her workspace, where the medium-sized burner stood on a shelf. She grabbed it and selected the softened block of metal before turning the small dial on the burner. The flames flickered to life, and Quill set a small ceramic bowl over them to heat. Then she grabbed a small metal plate and began to manually flatten each ingot with a ball peen hammer. When the small blocks turned into wider sheets, she dropped the lead in first, followed by the antimony. When both had softened considerably, she placed the tin inside and waited to stir, while she fished the mould from a drawer.

The details of its construction weren't a mystery to Quill, who'd purchased it secondhand from one of today's destinations. Surrounded by a wooden frame, it could be held in the hand when pouring the hot metal alloy. The matrix was clamped at the lower end of the casting channel and fixed with a metal spring. She adjusted it to the needed size, ready for casting the crest's type.

Checking on the bowl, the metal had turned to a thick sludge ready to be stirred. It had alloyed together beautifully. Taking a little rubber spon, she mixed the molten metal until well combined. This portion of her job wasn't so different from the sheer amount of cooking she'd done once moving into this place. At times, she wasn't sure how her small coal stove kept up with it all.

Once complete, she grabbed a pair of mitts and carefully poured the metal into the channel with one hand, and the wood base of the mould in the other. The wood warmed but held, and in time, it cooled. Quill carefully dismantled the mould and plucked the fresh signet block from it. Finally. She checked a clock on her wall. It was still the earlier hours of the day.

Carefully, Quill slipped the finished Arvino crest into one of her pouches. This was her highest commission from the eyes yet. And even after she sent the promised share of her check back to her family, she'd still have a pretty penny over for a frivolous expense. Possibly a new record or another piercing. After one last pass by the mirror, Quill laced her boots, ducked out of her apartment, and locked the door.

The streets in her part of the Lanes were clear in the mornings, with most laborers already well into their shifts in the local factories, and vendors not open for business just yet. She made her way to the smithing district, where a few orders needed to be picked up. Her day was already laid out before her in her mind. A stop by a local hardware store was her first errand. She would need a couple of squares of finished rubber for the stamp and a few metal ingots for its setting. Next was a few blocks from the print house, not too far. She'd chipped a few during a rushed commission, and the letters had begun to visibly corrupt during the process. Last on the list was a few parts for her own steam-powered screw press. Chemtech was useful, but volatile and too corrosive with her current workshop setup. But steam, the forgotten yet versatile bedrock of the city's many earlier innovations, was abundant in supply. The assembly in general was labor-intensive, but if she could hack this, she'd manage to spare herself hundreds in silver cogs on blocks.

The planned route would take her to the Last Drop, closed for the evening as the Eyes had been summoned for a monthly report and new directives. She'd set out early enough to hopefully achieve some of her other goals for today. And by the time she entered the bar's doors, maybe Quill would have enough information to find information that would help Sevika close out a deal on the pitfighter.

Her thoughts kept her company on the way to a building of dark brick and dingy steps. There were bars over the windows and a sign that read Gorham & Sons. Cracking open the thick green door set off a chime, and an old man puttered from behind the desk, glasses low on his thick nose.

"'Eyyy, if it ain't my favorite pencil pusher! Welcome back, Quill!"

"Nice to see you, Mr. Gorham," the scribe smiled back. "That congestion sounds like it's cleared up."

"That soup did the trick. And that tea. Can't thank you enough, kid. What can I help you with today?"

"Just came in for some settings and a yard of rubber."

"You in luck, kid. Just got a shipment from some islands 'round Ionia yesterday. Darren'll show you to 'em. Darren! Turn that damn radio down and get yo' ass out here!"

Quill giggled at Gorham's antics. Not a second later, though, a young man with hair braided to his skull in patterns and ending in beads, with a thin black mustache and a leather working apron, came down the steps near the shop's backrooms.

"Hey, Miss Q!" Darren grinned. "New project already?"

"There's always something."

"Girl, tell me about it. Well, c'mon now. Don't wanna keep you too long."

Quill followed Darren to the store room. True to Gorham's word, the rubber hadn't been priced and put out yet for common sale. On a shelf near the window, a radio blared. Hooch and Ernie, again, droned on about the Newcomer matches.

"Keeping an eye on the open challenges today?"

"Yeah. Jay's got a promotion shot at three and I ain't tryna miss it." A fond smile split the young man's lips. His boyfriend had been working hard, and after leaving Initiate status, he'd get a shot at Bronze. He'd been a long-time fan of the Pits, even before the two years Quill had spent here. And he was just the person she wanted to see.

"You can't ask for a day off?"

"Chile, please," Darren sighed. "Pops' really on one today. Still going on about me taking over after he old and gray. Won't push my luck. Radio's good enough to listen to from home."

Quill smiled in understanding. Gorham could be a hard ass at times, but the man was old. It was only natural that he would be worried about the shop and his only kid continuing the legacy. But now that she'd landed on the targeted subject, she could move closer to her visit's second purpose. "So, are there any other fights you're excited for soon?"

"Butcher's got this one coming up in four weeks. Title defense, as usual."

"What's up with that? She's so much better than that league."

"Tell me about it. Gold run was insane."

The Butcher had been in gold before. Quill hadn't known this. Nearly none of the stations mentioned it. Somewhere along the line, she'd lost enough to slip down a division. As surreptitiously as she could, Quill pressed for more.

Slowly, she pressed for more info. "Do fighters drop leagues often?"

Darren scoffed as he lifted a stack of boxes out of their way and shimmied between some crates. "Bronze league journeymen do all the time. Not Gold fighters though, unless they really goin' through it."

"Is that what happened to Butcher?" She might've overplayed her hand, but if she could get the context the Eyes had missed or neglected in one visit, this could make a difference.

"Girl, what do you think? Nobody that talented loses three fights back to back and gets demoted unless life's smacked the taste out they mouth."

"Darren! Quit wastin' that young lady's time with that fightin' nonsense! Them nails shoulda been unboxed yesterday!"

The young man sighed in exasperation and dug up the box of bronze and silver ingots before grabbing a crowbar and prying open a box near the front. The scent of fresh rubber filled the cramped space, and he reached in to hand Quill a rolled yard. "Gotta go, Miss Q. These what you lookin' for?"

"Yes, thank you, Darren," Quill nodded and picked through the ingot box. Today had been a little more fruitful than she thought. If today's next two stops hadn't proved helpful, she could always pop around Gorham's, maybe with a tray of cookies to match the teas, and pry a little more info out of Darren. "I'm sure Jay will do great today!"

"He better! Otherwise, I might give Tony a call back, hello!"

The two shared a chuckle, and Quill bid him goodbye before heading to the front desk to pay for her supplies.

"Aight, Quill," Gorham yawned, popping his back as he eased off his stool. "That'll be forty washers and a cog."

Quill dug in her coin purse and counted out the bronze pieces and singular silver coin before placing them in Gorham's waiting palm. "Pleasure doing business as always."

"Don't be a stranger now," He grinned. "Might have a few discount tools with your name on 'em."

She nodded before casting a glance back at the storage, where Darren was prying open the nail crate.

"You should let up on him a little."

"Not if he gon' run this shop. I won't be around forever, so I gotta light a fire under his ass now and then. He'll be aight."

No dice. Hopefully, the two could talk it out on their own time, and she knew better than to pry this way. Sighing, Quill thanked Gorham for the supplies, tucked the rubber and ingots into her canvas bag, and set out for the print house.

The sky had gotten a little thicker as the factories started up for the day. Thanks to the sharp fall off the Lanes that had been built in, not much sunlight reached down here. Over two hundred years since the isthmus explosion had allowed the land to settle somewhat, and most Zaunites were quick to adapt to practically living on top of each other. The nature of their little crack in the ground trapped so much smog; most days, it was hard to see three feet in front of oneself. The vents cleared what they could, but it wasn't a cure-all. Quill dug out a scarf from the bottom of her bag to wrap around her mouth and nose, the hairs of her beard catching on the purple fabric.

Her intel from Darren had been helpful. There'd been some sort of setback in the Butcher's career. And if she could figure out the cause, she could find Sevika some additional leverage. Of course, Quill had to think about the pitch. In truth, she didn't know if Silco would go for such a bold move. She considered the risk. It would need to make the reward sound bigger than the risk. The shimmer trade had left him dominant among the other kingpins of the undercity, but they still had their own pockets of Zaun. This was a delicate balance that needed to be respected at all costs. And signing someone who'd been stuck in silver despite her obviously unparalleled skill? Was that asking to upset the scales?

Her musings kept her company until she arrived at Divine Winds Press, a print house run by a Lhotlan with dark feathers named Fadoul. She peered into the small shop window and pushed open the dark door, greeted by the smell of ink and softened metals as her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior. The scrape and screech of claws sounded out above her head, along with an old squawkish voice.

"Good Morning. Much to do, so do hurry."

"Morning Mssr. Fadoul! Do you have any spare blocks? I need a few, since they've chipped."

"Chipped blocks," the voice clucked, clearly dismissive. "Not good. May have some spares in back of shop. It'll cost."

Quill frowned slightly. She'd budgeted for a bit of bargaining today, but had hoped to get the blocks for relatively cheap. "I can offer two silver for four?"

"Three silver."

"Two silver. And I'll throw in an extra muffin next time I visit, along with a pitcher of walnut tea."

Fadoul finally descended from the rafters, talons clutching along the ropes that crisscrossed along the shop's ceiling. Their eyebrows, pinched behind the small glasses perched on their curved nose were slightly askew and smudged with ink.

"Trouble with the linotype?" Quill giggled. Fadoul's frown deepened as their eyes widened.

"How did you guess?"

She glanced pointedly at the pushed-up forearms of the shirt under their vest, streaked with ink and tiny pinch lines, likely from having tried to fix the matrices in the distributor. Fadoul yanked down their sleeves and rolled their eyes.

"Two silver. And the desserts. And you take a look at that machine."

"That's a lot of work. It'll cost you more than four blocks, don't you think?"

Fadoul's eyes narrowed. "Fine. What do you want?"

"Do you know anything about the Pit?"

"That den of violence?" They all but scoffed, thin, sharp brows furrowed in confusion. "No. I keep to myself and quite like it that way. What could a sweet kid like you possibly want with that place, eh?"

"Just a new fan. Don't you print posters for them sometimes?" Fadoul nodded slowly, curious as to where all this was going. "Do any of their runners ever mention anything about champions?"

"You mean a champion, don't you?"

Quill grinned widely, and the old bird sighed, raking a hand through their pushed-back hair.

"All this run-around. You'd better throw in an extra muffin. Their runners are big fans of that, how you say? Butcher? Her, I think. Crowd favorite but no promotion. Not sure why."

"Fadoul, please. Haven't they been coming to you for a while? You must know something."

"Apparently, she had a fall from grace. It was big and, from what it looks like, not entirely uncoordinated by whoever's in charge. Anyways, that's all I know. I don't concern myself with those brutes anyway. Your precious blocks are in the back, and that blasted printer's upstairs. Get started, uh?"

Quill shook their wiry hand in her plump ones and hurried up the stairs to wrangle the printer into shape. The work was familiar, having worked as their print devil when they could no longer labor in the mines for their family. After carefully resetting the elevator and wiping the wet ink from her hands, she plucked the blocks she'd bargained for from a spare box, pressed two silver cogs into Fadoul's palm, and hurried out the door.

More than she'd bargained for. Seemingly, it was somewhat known that Bruise the Butcher's career had been sabotaged at some point. And judging from who actually ruled the Pits by now, that long table of barons Silco sought to control, it would be a hard sell to upend what looked like a plot four years in the making.

Regardless, this might give Sevika a leg up in negotiations. And luckily, The Last Drop was Quill's next stop.

There were benefits to being hired muscle. Most people easily forgot you were there in the first place if you were quiet enough. Ran's whole morning had involved shadowing some bookie for the Pits manager, a show from Silco to curry favor with the manager. A ghost of a smile settled on their full lips as they remembered Sevika's relieved rant the other day, once she heard of this assignment. It was about time their boss finally took this seriously.

So far, the mousey bookkeeper, a timid and short fellow named Bob or Rob or something, hadn't run many errands on their way to and from the Pit. He did have this rather irritating habit of hacking up a lung into an increasingly soggy handkerchief before tucking the visibly damp cloth back into his breast pocket.

Being privvy to a rather disgusting habit aside, Ran had shadowed him through a host of other relevant activities. They hadn't remained too close to their charge visibly; that was just a bad look that would easily tip off a few other observant eyes and ears around town. And the last thing a fledgling mob needed was this many eyes when they had their own on a fighter.

As Ran followed a good number of paces behind the sniffling and wheezing bookie, their thoughts turned to last night's broadcast. And the nearly three months of live fights, re-runs, and commentary discussions blaring from their own radio and Quill's. They'd had a moderate interest in the Pits before, distantly remembering one of their moms having some family over to listen to a few matches. Once they'd left for good to follow Sevika into this godforsaken world, they hadn't much time to sit around a radio set, let alone see one in person. They hadn't remembered how much they loved hearing feats of brutality and triumph over the airwaves until her.

A champion smeared in black paint, with daunting claws and a figure to rival their own lover. The temper and sheer wickedness, too. A woman who left no opponent standing. Who commanded that lawless hole with ease every time she stepped into it.

Bruise the Butcher. If the posters did her any justice, her looks killed as well as her fists did. They'd thought more than once about showing up to a match or two, but once Sevika had her eye on the fighter, there was protocol to be followed. Still, maybe they'd get their chance when she did get signed. It was a when, in Ran's mind. Sevika always delivered, regardless of whether anyone gave her the tools to succeed or not.

Of course, they would do anything to make her job easier, because gods knew she needed easy. So today, that entailed picking up whatever information they could during this bookkeeper's errands. The current street wasn't too busy as far as the promenades were concerned, but Ran managed to find enough cover in the occasional passing body, horseless carriage, and sharp turn. Down the thoroughfare, their charge ducked down an alley and knocked in an irregular pattern on a sheet metal door. Ran swore under their breath. They weren't quite cleared to follow after their assignments in events like this. They breathed a sigh of relief when the man didn't enter, instead fishing a pouch of coins from the inside of his cloak. A pair of hands reached out and opened the small bag, rummaging around in its contents before closing the bag and chucking it at the bookkeeper. The small alley carried the emerging quarrel to Ran's ears.

"You lousy bookie, you shortchanged us!"

"I assure you!" stammered Bob, Rob, whatever his name was. "This is simply the amount congruent with the new odds for that match! You bet on the Butcher, did you not?"

"And she won. So why the fuck did you bring me less money than I wagered?"

Ran's brow ridge flew to their hairline.

"I-I'm sorry, sir. Pit's policy! Her odds have changed this month!"

"Hmph, see if I ever bet on that fuckin' heel ever again. Gimme back my winnings and scram!"

The hired muscle almost felt bad for how Bob-Rob scrambled to his feet and simperingly offered the bag back to the rather irate fan. Still, it wasn't a serious threat to the man's life. So they weren't to interfere. The metal door slammed shut, and Bob-Rob dusted himself off before spitting at the now-empty threshold. He skulked his way back out of the alley, not even bothering to glance at Ran, who tailed him yet again on his way back up to the Pit. That had gone poorly for him, unlike his other deliveries, but it did yield some benefit. Someone, or multiple someones, were fixing the Pits' bets. Which meant for Ran…

Shit. They'd definitely fucked up their parlay on last night's match thanks to the new odds. They didn't regret it. She was a surefire win, and betting against her was possibly the dumbest thing one could do at this rate. It made sense to give her discouraging odds, but to change it right before or after matches without letting the fans know? It didn't seem as practical as it did retaliatory. There was a message being sent to the fans that gambled on the Pit… and potentially, a message the Eyes had missed.

Against their better judgment, Ran crept closer to the bookkeeper just outside a rather crowded area. Silco's territory was the Lanes, not this section of the Promenades. So they'd have to corner him without drawing a bunch of eyes. Just as they came up on his cloaked form, they produced a smaller dagger from their thigh, slipped it under his cloak, and pointed it at the small of his back. Their freehand, the right mechanical one, clapped heavily on his shoulder.

"Bob-Rob! Buddy! Let's chat."

"It's Rupert!" shrieked the bookkeeper.

"Same thing," Ran chuckled, squeezing the life out of the bookkeeper's shoulder. "Now don't scream. I got questions, and you're gonna answer 'em for me, okay?"

"Wait till I tell Da-mmph!"

"Shh," Ran chastised, pressing the tip of the blade against the thin fabric of his shirt. "I don't wanna hurt ya, man. I'm sure Dana wouldn't mind us havin' a conversation."

Having got the message, the bookkeeper settled down, and Ran removed their metal hand from his mouth. Scanning the street for any alleys and finding none, their eye alighted on a small descending step below street-level of a boarded-up shop. Perfect. They steered the shorter man down there, partially bracketing him in. They'd followed him on foot without breaking a sweat the entire morning, whereas he slipped out that same soggy handkerchief to cough up his damn pipes. He wouldn't be able to get far if he tried booking it now.

"What- HAUGHK- what do you wanna know?"

Ran frowned, knowing that to most people, it would come across as a dour scowl. "How often do y'all lower the Butcher's odds?"

"The Bu- ACAUGK- oh no, I can't answer that!" Bob-Rob turned to bolt, not getting far as Ran yanked him back by his collar.

"Easy, buddy. Just answer the question."

The bookkeeper trembled like a leaf and swallowed nervously. Ran wished they had Sevika's eyebrows just this once. It would've made for a somewhat effective and expectant look. They folded their arms, knowing the gesture brought out the meat of their forearms.

"We-we've been changing it for four years!"

"Why?"

"We're hemorrhaging cash each time she- ACK- OUEGH- fights. Guh-guaranteed wins ain't- KMPH- good for the house!"

Ran thought back to Swill and Jax's conversation on the radio. "Wouldn't it be easier to promote her? Give 'er fights with people that stand a chance?"

Bob-Rob coughed and sniffled again, around a nervous but wry laugh. "Well, no, not after she gave the finger to the board four years ago."

Ran straightened up at that and advanced closer to the bookkeeper, who yelped and scrambled backwards. They crouched to his eye level and placed their right hand on his shoulder.

"Great job, buddy. Just one more thing. This talk never happened, alright?"

Bob-Rob nodded frantically, throat bobbing with more nervous swallowing. "W-w-what talk?"

Ran's singular green eye searched his, and satisfied by the utter terror, they smiled, baring a bit too many teeth.

"Awesome. Let's get ya back to your boss. Wouldn't wanna keep her waitin' would we?"

They hauled Bob-Rob up out of the steps behind them and accompanied him all the way to the plaza where the Pits stood.

For all the resources the chembarons siphoned from the already downtrodden people of the undercity, they sure knew how to make something glamorous of their theft. The Pits, at one point a dingy sporting club built around a naturally occurring ditch, was now an immense stadium. The front was rounded and lined with gas lamps that illuminated six double-door entrances. The brick and ironworked facade all culminated in a beautiful glassworked dome. It was the kind of place that drew in nearly every kind of audience member looking for a spectacle of truly magnanimous proportions.

Ran followed Bob-Rob to a side entrance solely for staff and slipped in behind him. The corridors were just as awe-inspiring as the entire building's exterior, lit by electric lamps inside. It was nearly a maze, with small directories to the gym facilities, the lockers, and the Pit itself. The cement floor echoed with each footfall of the two's boots as Bob-Rob led them to a door. Inside were three flights of narrow stairs.

"Lifts- heh- out of- of service today! Hope you don't mind."

Ran shook their head slowly and gestured for the bookie to keep leading the way. He turned around and wheezed and hacked his way up each flight. Ran was surprised the nasty handkerchief wasn't dotted with blood by this point. They were grateful for his sake when they finally reached the landing. It appeared to be the back entrance to some kind of overhang to the Pit, its windows mostly tinted.

"After you," Ran insisted, not ignorant of potential ill intentions that often befell goons. The bookkeeper stammered apologetically as he unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding it open for Ran.

Inside was dimly lit, with a few swinging lamps and thick cigar smoke filling the interior. Ran didn't take much time to sightsee, though they kept an eye out for where the money seemingly changed hands. They kept close behind Bob-Rob as he made his way towards a large desk. Behind it sat a thin woman with red hair and an obnoxiously large cigar in her mouth. She paused briefly to look up as they approached.

"Hm. Fine work, from Silco, lettin' you return my bookie this late."

Ran opened their mouth to defend their boss when Bob-Rob piped up. "Muh-my fault! Truly. Took a few wrong turns today! Must've been the humors."

Dana glanced between the two suspiciously but said nothing as she tossed Ran a bag of silver cogs. The henchman breathed a sigh of relief to themself. Looked like they'd gotten the point across to the mousey bookkeeper after all.

"Well. For your troubles. Got him back in one piece. Meeting your chembaron when he finally picks a fighter should be interesting. Gold league's got a lot to offer the Eyes."

Ran felt their eye twitch, but nodded in a slight bow and turned to leave. They weren't here to pass along any messages. Simply scope out what they could and guard a bookkeeper. Luckily, they'd return with far more valuable intel than even Silco could've hoped.

Finding their way back down the stairs, they set out for the Last Drop.

"Sir! I got updates!"

Sevika looked between the two as they burst through the door to the Last Drop at the same time. She'd just dealt a hand of cards with Gustove while waiting for the rest of the captains and goons to arrive. Leaning back in her chair, she waved a hand at them. "Well. Speak."

Quill looked around the circle of other members. Those who weren't clued in on the process of courting the pit fighter probably shouldn't overhear the intel she and Ran had carefully gleaned. She looked over at the hired muscle, deferring to their place in the order. Ran nodded and turned back to Sevika. "Confidential."

That was all they needed to say. Setting down her hand, she jerked her chin for the two to follow her into one of the second-floor rooms. Only Silco really held a proper office, but a few stores of rusted and older ammunition and weaponry, to say nothing of the unmoved shipments of high-grade shimmer, were housed above the bar as well in their own rooms. It was as secluded as the three would get, save for an audience with the chembaron himself.

Sevika yanked open a particularly stuck door, disturbing thicker clouds of dust, before motioning inside to the two. Ran let Quill head in first before following, as Sevika shut the door behind them all.

"Alright, out with it. Daily assignments and debriefs go out in five minutes, so make it fast."

"The Pits, sir." Ran began. "They been changin' the Butcher's odds. It's retaliatory, and the other chembarons are in on it. Been goin' on four years."

Sevika caught Quill's eyes, widening slightly, the same look the younger woman had when she finally received the final vital piece of intel crossing her light brown features.

"And you?"

"She used to be in the gold league before slipping down to silver, sir. Also, four years ago. Was the gold title-holder before that. There are widespread rumors of foul play or other sabotage. Further back, there seems to have been an event of some kind that set all this in motion."

Sevika folded her arms, metal and flesh, an unreadable look in her eyes. In truth, she was proud that both had the competence and initiative to find and bring this intel back, but part of her was worried as to how either of them, but especially Quill, had received it.

"Your source?" she asked Ran.

"One of Dana's bookkeepers, this morning. Got called on it by a disgruntled gambler. Did a little prying myself afterwards."

"Sure they won't talk?"

"He's scared shitless. Trust, he won't be snitchin' anytime soon."

The underboss turned to Quill. In truth, the urgency of the news hadn't distracted her much from the way the young femme had layered and chosen their outfit. Even the carefully finger-curled strands framing their temples caught her gray gaze. Focusing on work matters was never difficult for Sevika, but it seemed Quill, in all their earnest embrace of who she knew they were, was determined to distract her. She tore her eyes away from the outward swell of their embroidered vest. Right. Their intel.

"You. Your source?"

"A hardware store owner. Or his son, rather. Darren's quite the fan and knows a lot, so he's likely-"

Sevika kissed her teeth, and Quill immediately quieted. "Keep it brief, kid."

"Yes, sir," Quill assented, and started again, slowly, with the bare essentials. "Darren from Gorham & Co. And Fadoul from Divine Winds Press."

"Good job, you two. Now downstairs. Meeting starts soon," she let a slight smile tug at her lips as the two visibly relaxed. They'd done well, and once the day had ended, she'd figure out appropriate rewards for each, knowing just her attention and satisfaction were enough for either of them. "Meet at Quill's tomorrow by midnight, understand?"

Ran and Quill both nodded before Sevika opened the closet to let all three of them out. Finally, Sevika had what she'd missed in her probing and prodding for what would buy the fighter's allegiance. A woman starved of respect and of the opportunity to claim what she viewed as her rightful place. And perhaps, if Silco were convinced to flex enough influence, to shake the table as he had from his initial takeover, Sevika could promise Bruise that much.

Not much longer, the Eyes had gathered on the main floor of the Last Drop. Everyone had snagged the available regular chairs, leaving Quill a stool and Ran to perch against a wall. Without being told, Quill slipped out her pocketbook and a fountain pen, ready to etch symbols only she understood onto its pages as a record. Not a moment later, the bar's entrance opened, and Silco, flanked by three captains, entered. As he advanced through the space, the captains each found their own seating. He didn't stop until he'd reached the landing of the stairs. With a curt nod, he continued up the stairs and shut the door behind him.

Turning back to the assembled Eyes, Sevika began. "We'll start with muscle. Ran, Gustove."

"Shadowed a bookkeeper today," Ran grunted. "The Pits' manager is impressed. Looks forward to final scouting decision."

"Shipment to the hexgates went off without a hitch. Helped that a certain someone wasn't involved today."

Everyone in the room shivered at that. Luckily, the little blue-haired terrorist was stuck on that old factory fan, putting together another glittery munition that would inevitably backfire. They could all meet in relative peace this morning. Sevika didn't bother acknowledging Dustin. Nobody was quite sure what his assignment was beyond licking some random lamp post.

"New assignment. Some runners reported mismanagement at the harbor factories. Get there, scope it out, rough up whoever you need. Alive 'til we figure out who needs to be made an example of. Take Dustin with you."

The two nodded once and shouldered their way out of the bar, with Gustove snatching Dustin's lanky form up by the collar on the way out. Sevika turned back to the remaining members. A few bookkeepers, the scribe, and the three captains.

"Quill. The Arvino commission?"

The scribe lifted her head from the journal briefly and rummaged in a pouch strapped to her hip. She withdrew the completed print block and stood from her stool to hand it to the underboss. Sevika's fingers brushed hers just a little longer than necessary as she turned it around in her hands. The work was of quality, as usual. And two days ahead. "The stamp will be completed by the deadline, sir."

"See Tucker about your pay after the meeting," she grunted, handing the block back. "Your next assignment comes through tomorrow. Have a runner ready to pick it up in the morning."

"Yes, sir." Quill ducked her head and returned to the stool, jotting the exchange in the margins.

The three captains each provided their own reports. There were little to no signs of trouble in two territories, and a few junior Slickjaws were jockeying for a few front businesses in the third. That territory's captain, Yaaba, had shown up in her usual purple plumage, bald head reflecting the barlights.

"Has it escalated?" Sevika asked, one perfect brow raising at the news.

"They've robbed one front. No immediate harm to the shopkeep or her family, though threats were made."

"What kinds?"

Captain Yaaba's brow creased. "Further robberies, assault of a runner. I could use some muscle to restore order."

"I'll pass it along. After the factory's investigated, Ran and Gustove can pay 'em a visit for you. In the meantime, all three of you should keep a better eye on your territory. Now ain't the time to let the snakes in the grass. You were made captains for a reason. Try to remember why."

With a curt nod, the three captains stood and nodded their heads. They lingered a little longer; after all, they'd get their own audiences with the boss himself. The bookkeepers each brought their ledgers to her for a review. Once satisfied, she sent them to Quill to get their papers encrypted and the original figures destroyed. The meeting over, that left one task before her other duties for the day. And she could only hope it would go as smoothly as the meeting.

She proceeded up the stairs to Silco's office and knocked three times.

"Enter."

She sighed and pushed open the dark wooden door. Sevika had needed the wiry man's ear the past few months. Handling her usual workload and more "pressing" business had outweighed the newer mission of recruiting a pitfighter, according to him. Like always, she delivered flawlessly, without complaint, only to be subject to a dismissive hand wave and further directives. Now, Silco sat with his chair turned in the other direction, gesturing carelessly as Sevika shut the door behind her.

"What is it now?"

"The fighter, sir," she began, even as her eye twitched. "She's difficult, but she's got a price. A promotion match. First fight under us."

"And why would I do that?"

The underboss felt her nostrils flare but sighed. She had the pitch down. Knew the situation was a hard sell, but Ran and Quill had busted their asses getting her the info she needed. She wouldn't fumble this at the last second. "You're the only baron without a fighter, Sir. This one's the best."

"Not according to any of the chembaronies. Or Dana. Had that been remotely true, she would've been signed already."

"Sabotage, sir," she gritted out from clenched teeth. "Orchestrated. Bets are fixed against her, and her placement shoulders the blame for Dana's own managerial failings. You sign her, and the other chembarons fall in line. Yaaba's already dealin' with Slickjaw shits pushin' on her territory. We got the chance to send a message."

Silco pursed his lips and looked into the distance, as if he were seriously mulling over her words. He rose from his desk and collected a few papers. Then he spoke. Measured, slow, and positively dripping in condescension. "Where did you gather such information? I assume your sources are infallible for you to push the matter, as you do."

"One of Dana's own bookkeepers. Along with dedicated fans. Things we couldn't keep an eye on until our operation finally got legs. What more do you need? Complete victories for four years. Secure her, and the Eyes have a deadly reputation. Fail here? You'll be left with chembaron chaff."

"What a charming metaphor. I didn't take you for farming stock. Nor did I take you for a chembaron. No. I seem to remember I hired you for the express purpose of doing as directed. Yet you bring me useless rumors and gossip. So hear me now: you either hire the fighter without this foolish offer. Or you find a different kind. I hear the gold league is crawling with talent, no?"

Sevika felt her shoulders tense with the dismissal. Even now, with months of methodically scoping out a competitor and doing her best to balance all her other moves for the eyes, this stubborn and utterly disaffected man couldn't possibly understand the stakes. She knew he wasn't utterly incompetent, which left one other possibility.

"You're scared."

"What did you just say?"

It was true, compared to a few other chembaronies, the Eyes were new. Fragile in a way, and had much catching up to do. Shimmer money only got them all so far; even now, they struggled to get the drug past Bilgewater. All the other balances of order had to be respected, if they didn't want to foolishly incur the ire of the much older, much more resourced chembarons.

"You're scared, or jealous. Don't give a shit which one's more true. I get it's only been four years. Been in survival mode until the last one. But we can't give up an advantage this big to stay comfy. When I followed you, it wasn't just cause of those plans, the charts, the resources. Followed you because you knew shit don't get done without risk. This fighter? She's that risk."

Sevika let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, though she maintained her steely glare. But this was one risk Sevika could see panning out. The soft power attached to what was possibly a former legend, someone the entire apparatus had to conspire to keep where she was, representing the Eyes on a climb back to the top? A rhetorician, which was honestly Silco's strong suit, should've seen the image it would craft for them all.

It had to be her. And it had to be this match.

"You want respect in that boardroom? You wanna finally grow instead of gettin' by? You want the Lanes to know the power you have? The greatness you can lead them to? Get your head out your ass and strike now."

Silco's eyes narrowed, and Sevika didn't miss how he shrank in on himself by a fraction. His job wasn't to be strong. He knew what it was like to deal with those who didn't belong in power. To follow their lead aimlessly, hoping anything would give. That the gamble of following behind their leadership was worth it. His job was to be confident and sure. To make the right calls and the hard ones. And to give a damn when those he claimed to trust had a point. His one blue eye and the eclipse of his left finally regarded Sevika with something other than general disregard.

"Very well. You may meet with the fighter again. The next time you report to me, you'd better have good news."

For the first time in a while, Sevika didn't feel bile in her throat when she responded, "Yes, sir."

By the time she dragged herself to one of the few places in this city where she could drop her shoulders, Sevika was exhausted, a migraine brewing in the back of her head. She wanted nothing more than to receive the care and release she knew awaited her behind that apartment door. She didn't bother knocking, having entered Quill's apartment both in their presence and absence. It really had become a habit over the two years since the young woman crash-landed into this cavern they all called home. The light was on, and the aroma of some amazing dish wafted from the inside.

She'd also returned on memory of Quill's earlier request. Now that Silco had finally seen reason, Sevika planned to return to the Pits tomorrow and finally put the new strategy to the test. That wouldn't prevent her from arranging a premature reward for the diligence of her dog and favorite toy.

Like clockwork, Quill was at the door ready to accept her cloak and usher her to the small dining table waiting for all of them.

Ran was already at the table as well, with a slight pout on their face. They perked up the second Sevika sat down on their left and jostled their shoulder.

"Ain't take that long, mutt."

"Food's been ready for fifteen minutes. You're lucky I got manners."

"They were well behaved," Quill giggled, already dishing out servings of the warm soup she'd spent the afternoon preparing. The mixture of veggies and translucent noodles in a thick orangey broth had both Ran and Sevika's stomachs screaming. "Only had to smack their hand away from the musubis three times."

In the center of the table sat a full plate of seaweed-wrapped spam and rice blocks, still warm, and unpilfered by the other henchman. No small feat given Ran's bottomless pit tendencies. Next to it was a pitcher of tea, and three brown bottles of malt liquor. Once the soup was ladled out in truly enormous bowls before the two, and Quill finally took her seat, the two gave their thanks and dug in. The scribe smiled broadly at the two before tucking into her own bowl.

"Gods, been lookin' forward to this all week," Ran groaned around a mouthful of rice and meat. Sevika smacked them on the side of the head. "Ow."

The underboss chuckled at how they rubbed at their hair, while Quill passed her a bottle of malt. "Your mamas raised you better, c'mon."

"Glad you like it," Quill smiled. "I had to clear out the fridge for tomorrow's shipment, and my runners don't inhale as much food as the two of you, so that killed two birds with one stone."

Ran snickered at that, even as they shoveled another spoonful of the soup in. Despite being made from her leftover stock, the cabbage and dumplings agreed in texture, and the sauce Ran added to theirs added the right amount of sweet and savory.

"Got another box comin' to you in a day."

"I should be out of supplies around then, so thank you. And my other shipment from Anais came in as well."

Sevika's spoon slowed at that. "Didn't get any injury reports."

"Oh no, darling," laughed the scribe. "It's for the other reason I asked you over."

"The fighter?"

Quill nodded and poured a glass of iced tea for herself, the blend yet another gift from a dear friend down here. She took a sip before excusing herself to the kitchen once more. Sevika glanced briefly at Ran, who had obnoxiously drained their bowl and already reached for the pot and ladle in the center.

"The hell's she planning?"

"Dunno. You gonna eat that musubi?"

Sevika snatched it up before Ran's hand could even reach for the plate. They pouted but reached for their own bottle of malt instead, just as Quill came back into the dining "room."

In her hands, she held a large, shiny red pail, not unlike the ones miners sometimes carried tools or meals in. Or like the ones Quill prepared for her on particularly long days. The underboss raised an eyebrow.

"For the Butcher. We can give her what she wants and what she needs. Though I'd suggest leading with this."

The move was calculated but sincere, and Sevika found herself impressed yet again by the scribe. She kept this up, and in a couple of years, she could find herself higher in the ranks. Still, the corner of her eye twitched. "Made her a lunch?"

"Care package, actually! There's some high-grade medical supplies in here, a couple of fresh fruits, and yes, a lunch. A few musubis is all."

Ran laughed, reading her scowl for its true nature: A pout. "Don't be jealous, Vika, it's just one pail. Quill made you one for each day of the week yesterday."

The underboss shot a sidelong glare at the henchman, but took the pail from Quill and set it on the table.

"Came here to reward hard work," she scoffed. "But clearly someone's feelin' mouthy."

"Oh, c'mon, don't be li-"

"Shut up. Go wait in her room. Not a stitch of clothin' on ya, understand?"

Despite Ran's initial protests, they couldn't hide the wide grin on their face as they got up from the table and quickly put their dishes in the sink before scampering off to the bedroom. Stifling a chuckle at her dog's urgency, Sevika turned on Quill and gripped the younger woman's face with the claws of her left hand. Lightly, she scratched at the skin under their beard, grey eyes burning a hole into brown ones.

"Fine strategy. But I got the feelin' you're sweeter on 'er than you're s'posed to be."

Those sharp and shiny eyes slowly glazed over with the tight hold the underboss maintained on their face, a giddy smile taking over. "Is that an issue, sir?"

There wasn't a bratty bone in Quill's body, that Sevika knew. The question was genuine, and it only made the urge to see them suffer for it stronger.

"Not as long as you remember who you do this for. And I think you need remindin'."

When she set out from the scribe's apartment the next morning, that same heavy red pail in her grip, she planned out the offer. If the Butcher hadn't just come from a fight, negotiations might go better this time around. And luckily, one hadn't been announced for nearly a month. Ran mentioned there were training facilities in the arena's construction. It was possible she'd find her there. She'd offer this first, maybe pry a bit more if the champion didn't close up on her again.

The Eyes also couldn't spare any muscle or lower-level runners to tail them without tipping off the other barons. And given their particular gripes against the Butcher, that was out of the question. So that left her guessing. Something she loathed. No open challenges were running today, meaning the Pit itself was empty. She flagged down a janitor and followed them to the basement. The training room she'd been shown to had more than its fair share of fighters beating heavy bags that hung from the ceiling, sparring on large brown leather mats, and running through calisthenics of various kinds.

Sevika scanned the dimly lit basement for the tall chirean and her dense head of freeforms, finally spotting her re-wrapping her hands by a section of mats near the back. Tipping the janitor a silver cog, she advanced on the group, drawing more than a few eyes. Bruise, who was seated and speaking with another fighter, a short woman with a worn face and slight build, slowly stopped talking and turned to face the underboss. Surprise crossed her features briefly before irritation and, what Sevika surmised from the flattening of her ears, fear.

Curiously, it didn't seem to be fear of her.

"You got a minute?" She didn't miss the pinched glare of nearly every fighter surrounding her, all three of them, immediately fixed Bruise with. Slowly, and somewhat guiltily, the chirean rose to her feet. Bruise's pink nostrils flared at that and cut back to the other fighters around her, namely the short woman.

"See you guys in a sec."

Judging from the disbelieving look on one of the fighters' faces, that might've been the wrong answer. Overall, a new factor for Sevika to contend with. Bruise trudged back out of the double doors, jerking her head for Sevika to follow. The underboss silently followed, eyes burning a hole in the back of the chirean's head as the two of them left the basement entirely. Bruise kept walking until they reached the Pit itself. Sevika followed her to the top of the stands when they finally whirled on her.

"What the fuck, man?" they whispered harshly.

"Bad time?" the underboss remarked flatly.

"You- oh my gods, I can't right now. Who the fuck even told you to come here?"

"We're negotiating. Got a new offer. Hence." She raised the pail and shook it a little for effect. The sheer ire of those fighters she'd found Bruise with replayed in her mind. "Who're those guys? You close?"

Bruise laughed ruefully, pushing their freeforms back from their forehead with both hands in aggravation. "Sum'n like that. That ain't your business either way."

"You're scared of them. Why?"

"Sc- don't piss me off right now, ain't nobody scared." The sentence shook with irritation, a hissed affect tacking onto the words.

"And the sky ain't full of Grey. Why? Fighter like you got no business shrinkin' their shoulders like that."

"It's just-" Bruise noticeably struggled for the words. "It's just some guys. Unsigned. Known 'em forever. And they ain't the biggest fans of chembaron hounds so thanks for blowin' your whole damn cover."

"And you?"

"I ain't either, don't get me wrong."

Sevika snorted, easing into a seat next to them. "Came to see me last time."

Bruise drew up short at that, before groaning and pushing the heels of their palms into their eyes. "For Janna's sake. Why the hell you here, man?"

"Like I said: Negotiations. Ain't long before the other chembarons catch on."

Bruise opened their mouth just as Sevika passed them the pail. The chirean glanced down at it, then back to Sevika. Curious, they grabbed it and sat on one of the stadium's benches. Sliding it open, two mangoes, a glass bottle with red liquid that smelled of tart fruit, and a bottle of medical-grade painkillers greeted them. Further back, a flask of the strongest alcohol they'd ever smelt. "Who this for?"

"Our new champion."

Bruise eyed the red-painted pail warily. Shiny and clean, the thing looked like some homemaker had cobbled together a lunch for a lover at work. Sevika swallowed down her own envy.

"Who made this?"

"Need to know basis. That's just part of what's waiting for you, signing with us."

The claws that picked through the pail paused. The pitfighter scoffed, the laugh thick with ire. "Unbelievable. You thought a housewife's lunch was gon' put me on y'all's leash?"

The underboss's eye twitched yet again. She'd been through tough negotiations before. Usually, her own words and ability to throw her weight around when required were enough. Something about this woman, though, made the process infinitely harder. For one, they were just as strong and just as vicious. They'd also already gotten under her skin in a way very few people managed to. This was a woman used to being chased for one reason or another. And Sevika was gonna need to outpace them for this to go well.

"I know," she started slowly, crossing her arms underneath her cloak. "You been without care too long. I also know you've been starved of the opportunity to do more. And I know who's keepin' you from bein' fed."

Bruise side-eyed her at that, ripped ear slowly lifting.

"But you don't get one without the other. You wanna do this as long as you want, when you want, and how you want? You need that support."

"From who? You tellin' me Silco's got a mini army of mobwives with a soup kitchen and massage parlor? Nah, nah, you ain't make this. And the Eyes didn't either."

"Bruise. More waiting for you in a deal with us than there is stickin' it out on principle. The food, the supplies. The fights you deserve."

At that last addition, Bruise's shoulders fell, and they looked genuinely surprised. Sevika felt a flicker of hope. Maybe she'd finally gotten through.

"What fights?" she asked tentatively, her raspy voice subtly softening.

"A promotion match. Your first fight under us."

"Don't fuck with me right now," Bruise chuckled ruefully. "I'on' hate you like that. Don't gimme a reason to start."

"Well, that's good news," Sevika sighed, leaning back in her chair. "But you do what you do now. Fight a few of the chembarons' pets now and then, and win. S'all we ask."

"And say the suits offer you sum'n'? Or y'all got debts to pay? Tell me, what's stoppin' y'all from settin' me up down there?"

Sevika's brows furrowed in confusion. She'd heard of the practice before, but what good did signing and caring for a fighter do a mob if they sold them out? The profit couldn't possibly be that high. Not for the utter betrayal of loyalty that resulted.

"Don't act like you don't know. Your lil' friends at that table in that lil' greenhouse? Sacrifice fighters to each other all the time. The second they can make more money from each other, gettin' us killed down here? They do it. I'm s'posed to believe y'all different?"

"Whatever the other chembarons get up to, the Eyes have always prized loyalty."

"To who? Silco's old ass?"

"To Zaun. And each other. One thing I can promise? We'd never sell you out." Bruise's nose rankled at the mention of "Zaun", though Sevika ignored it. That goal of hers, at least, had remained unshakable. Since she was young, and until now. The undercity could well and truly become its own people, again. And if she backed the right horse, she'd make that a reality. Now was just another step in that plan. Just one more hurdle. It was a pipe dream to most others. And Sevika hoped she hadn't lost the fighter by mentioning it. The assurance of loyalty might offset that miscalculation. "What do you say?"

"Y'all prize loyalty?" Bruise said after a long while, slowly rising from the stadium seat. "I do too. Those guys who gave you the stink eye down there? Been through too much with 'em to pull sum'n like this. I owe 'em."

"You owe yourself, Bruise. Ain't askin' your friends, I'm askin' you."

The pitfighter eyed her warily, flickering down to the pail and back to Sevika's firm grey eyes. The underboss could see something else warring in those eyes, lifetimes she wasn't around for. And finally, the fear from the beginning returned.

"Gimme a day."

Sevika sighed. This was the most productive answer she'd received so far. She could work with this.

"You know where to find me."

For all that fighting independently earned Bruise, it had stolen just as much. Everything she'd gained turned to grains of sand falling in the hourglass that was her time here. And the honor of holding out against the petty, self-serving parasites who dared call themselves patrons had taken its toll. What was this all for anymore? What was honor worth when it ruined her chances at the two things she wanted more than anything? Vengeance and a fucking legacy?

For the first time, Bruise was well and truly tempted. A vow taken nearly a decade before couldn't mean more than her life and her world back in her hands. Could it?

With the pail in hand, feeling heavier than it was, Bruise made her way back down to the basement. The last time one of them had done that, nothing had been the same since. Long after the last few stragglers went home, Frankie, Tito, and Cain had hung back, expecting an answer from her over the underboss's sudden appearance at the Pit.

Glumly, Bruise approached them again, remaining standing while the three packed up. She avoided the six eyes on hers, looking past them to the hanging gym clock. She owed them an explanation, and it was clear she couldn't proceed without providing one. Still, the words were caught in her throat, choked out by nearly nine years of rot.

"What the hell, Bruise?" sighed Cain first, the spined fins of her ears bristled and sharp. Bruise's ears flicked from where they were downturned. "You'd better start talkin'. Why's there a fuckin' Eye in the gym, and why's she lookin' for you?"

"Cain, relax," Tito chastised. He looked at Bruise expectantly, betrayal but not surprise written all over his features. "Sh-sure the… the kids an- got an answer for this."

Bruise's eyes finally roamed over the group before settling on Frankie's. She glared at Bruise with eyes both tired and furious.

"So," she spat. "What she offer you?"

"E-easy, Fffrank—"

"Shut the fuck up, Tito. Well, Bruise? Go on. The fuck that bitch with the boots offer you to finally fall in line?"

"That ain't fair, Frankie," Bruise tried to summon some calm. Nine years of shared suffering, and at the drop of a hat, it didn't matter anymore. "You know that. I ain't gave y'all a reason to think I'd sign this whole time y'all known me."

"No, asshole, you don't get to pull that when a damn chembaron's lackey shows up in here like she owns the damn place, askin' to talk. So spit it out. What she offer you?"

Every eye burned a hole through Bruise, and the wave of shame she felt began its familiar alchemy into irritation. The core of truth to what Frankie had so venomously laid out only made it worse, and she bit down on a growl.

"You wanna know what she offered me? A fuckin' title shot."

The other two glanced at each other, shock and concern crossing their features, but Frankie's face only hardened, unruly, thrice-split brows knitting themselves together in the center of her forehead.

"Oh, I'm sure that offer got you wet."

Bruise snarled. "Go to hell, Frank. Same for you two. I been loyal for how many gods damn years? Y'all don't get to act like it never mattered."

"Oh, get a load of this guy, " laughed Cain, rising to her feet. "Countin' the days till you could give us all the slip? Fuck principles, 'cause you done your time, huh?"

"No, dumbass, I refused to tow their line and look where this shit got me: fightin' nobodies, playin' a heel. And this whole time, I had to hear from all of y'all about how it was the least I could do. How, because they fucked up, because they got set up, I owed y'all that much."

"Oh, come off it," snorted Frankie. "You'll never stop owin' us, and you don't get to be in your feelin's that we're still suffering because of you two geniuses' stupid deal. You don't get to act like that's what this is about. You already been through every league. You got your dumbass medals. What the fuck more could you want?"

"More than this! More than beatin' people I know I'm- know I'm better than."

"Is all th- this all ab…out Fangs?" Tito suddenly piped up. Bruise's blood ran cold. "Kid, sh'been almos' ten yyyears. You have let to- to let it-"

"Don't finish that sentence," she growled, voice sparking and snapping in her throat. "I ain't nev-ever lettin' that ssshit go, you bet' not open yo' mouth on that bullssshit again."

She scrubbed a hand down her face and tried to collect herself. "Fuck I'm… I'm tired, man. These people got me plarin' for a pay- playin' for a participation trophy 'cause they know what I want, what I deserve, more than- more than anything is a shot at the top. Been like this for fffour years. I can't play these games wit 'em no more."

"Ego." Frankie laughed incredulously. "Amazing. You're just like them. Chasin' what you're owed, you don't care if it fucks the rest of us over. Who was here day one? Who was here when Vennor bit the dust? Who was here when you ain't had two cogs to rub together to buy shitty handwraps, huh?"

Bruise, for all her anger, for all her pride, for all the guilt and the years of walking on eggshells, still had enough shame. Shame that weighed down her ears, and dropped her gaze to the floor even as her nostrils flared in defiance. Even now, she couldn't help but feel like she was seventeen again, learning how to wrap her hands and keep her chin tucked. Learning from them. Big and grown as she was, she couldn't look any of them in the eye now. But Frankie wasn't having it, and she shoved at Bruise's broad chest.

"Don't. Don't you do that. You look at me. Those people don't give not one fuck, not two, about your ass, now you wanna come down here like you're hot shit? It's fuck us, you got yours, right? For what? The same people who hunted you down for years? You really wanna make the same mistake Bash did?"

Bruise saw red. "Bitch say that shit again, I dare you."

"Say what, you damn brat? That you're fuckin' selfish just like that pompous princess? Bring it on, I'll wipe the floor with you."

"Frank. Bruise," Tito warned again, finally standing and putting his bulk between the two irate fighters. "This won't fix a thing. Bruise? Think about this."

But Bruise wasn't having it. Couldn't have the death of the one who'd saved her before dooming everyone else, thrown around like she didn't suffer the most for it. The bitter chuckle that left her throat while her hands balled into fists resonated with a snarl.

"Selfish? Please, I ain't done shit but bend over backwards for y'all. Wasted summa my best years on a dumbass oath. Let y'all son me even when we all knew I been outgrew y'all. Nah, all that shit's over now. I ain't gon let y'all hold their mistake over my head just 'cause none of y'all got a snowball's chance in hell at bein' half the champ they were."

The whole room fell silent. Everyone's face, even Tito's, fell, and Bruise instantly knew it. This was over. She'd crossed a line, finally letting the bitterness of every hollow victory since that night corrode every fragile bond that remained between them all. There was no walking it back. And maybe the worst part, she didn't feel the urge to. She grabbed her own gym bag and turned her back on the group. Despite her resolve, she knew she didn't deserve to look any of them in the eyes now. Not anymore.

"I wasn't askin' for y'all's blessin-in'," Bruise gritted out. "Imma do muh-me. I can't go- can't go out sad. Nnnot- shit- not when I know I got a good ass run in me. I'm done sayin' sorry. Done bein' humble."

"Bruise," Frankie warned. "You walk out those doors, I swear to shit you'll hear from none of us ever again. And when the chembarons finally fuckin' kill you, I promise we won't so much as toss your body in the godsdamned Pilt river."

The pit in Bruise's stomach had migrated to her throat as she nodded. She fought against the blur in her vision and kept her eyes on the door, finally putting one foot in front of the other, until her palm pressed against the cool of the rusted iron, and the chill of the hallway settled on her fur.

Then she pushed it open and let it slam behind her. Leaving nine years of pain behind her to chase the bitch with the boots.

Corin had passed along the message in the small hours of the morning. When the Undercity's smog was still thick and tinged with the neon lights of stubborn nightlife, it had been insanely early, and the message even more cryptic.

"Meet at the alleys near the lifts ain't exactly a location," Sevika sighed. The sleep hadn't quite left her eyes, but the journey over in the cold early hours had shaken her awake enough. She frowned at her appointment, deep inside the already narrow dead end, where she leaned against the brick of the tall buildings, thick, warm sweats obscuring most of her. "Ain't that easy to carry off. Try it at your own risk."

"Relax," Bruise laughed, casting her eyes up to the green-tinged sky above them both. "Not stupid enough to jump you. Just don't gimme a reason."

The underboss chuckled, blaming her temperance on the sleep that lingered in her bones. She cast a look about the alley. Nothing was remarkable about it, save for the large tunnel with the heavy grate over it at the far end. Why here? "Depends. Called me here to gimme good news?"

"Depends."

"Hope you thought it over. Offer won't be around forever. You're smart enough to know that." Sevika wasn't holding her breath, but something had to give this time. One of Volkage and another of Finn's lackeys were already catching on. She couldn't put a target on Bruise's back any longer. She had to get through to her, and she had to know what the stubborn woman was holding out for. "What you got to lose from this? Really?"

"If I'm wrong about you? Everything."

Sevika didn't let the bewilderment in her mind surface at that. But she did shift her posture. And though it might've been stupid, she advanced into the alley, boots kicking through the trash and scrap to rest on the opposite wall. It was barely two steps across from the other side, and her own steel-toed boots narrowly avoided brushing the suede work boots across from them. She dug in her pouch for her lighter and two cigars and offered one to the pit fighter. Bruise side-eyed her, but took it carefully between her claws.

Sevika smiled, just a faint upturn of her lips, and produced her lighter. Bruise leaned in slightly as the flame flickered to life and caught the end of her cigar. The underboss gazed at the flame's glow reflected through the Pitfighter's eyes. The acrid smell of burned leaves and the vice wrapped within filled Sevika's nostrils. Once Bruise leaned away, Sevika lit her own and took a drag, her shoulders falling a little. The two stood in silence as smoke filled the alley.

"So," Sevika broke first. She crossed her arms underneath her cloak, head tilted to the side in invitation. She'd finally met with a Bruise that felt willing to spill something other than blood for once. She couldn't squander this. Sevika gestured at the chirean with her right hand. "You been wrong before?"

"Not jus' me," Bruise sighed. She sucked in a puff and blew out a cloud, eyes cast towards the ground. "And I lost sumn' 'cause of it. Someone. My world, for real. They got signed. I went along, 'cause we was both scared and allat. They sold 'em out. Killed 'em dead in that hole wit everybody watchin'. After promisin' them the fuckin' moon, too. Nothin's been the same since."

She shoved off the wall, her brown eyes firm and unflinching, and took the cigar from between her plump lips. The movement brought her that much closer to Sevika, whose eyes stung from the added smoke, leaving the other woman's mouth. Arms crossed and that medal on her chest, puffed out proud. Despite the tragedy, Bruise didn't look sorry for herself. Not one bit. Sevika regarded the deadpan leveled at her with interest.

"I clawed my way up here eighteen years ago. No funny shit, came up out that hole right there," Bruise paused to point at the grated tunnel. Sevika's head turned briefly, eyes widening just a fraction. "Told myself I'd be at the top, and I meant it. I did it once. For me. And for them. I'll be damned if I let the other chembarons tell me I can't do it again just 'cause I'on' do it for they benefit. Come too far just to be shoved in silver for the rest of my life."

She stepped closer, almost invading the underboss's space. And when she spoke, her words rang clear with conviction.

"I wanna believe you different. You know what I'm owed and you wanna help me get it. If I gotta knock a few heads in for the Eyes, fine. But I swear to Janna, try and fix a match to save y'all's asses? Better pray I die right there. Because the second I leave that hole, Imma kill y'all. Startin' with you."

Sevika held back a snort. She'd seen the woman in action, but she'd survived worse. Yet? So had Bruise, a woman she was beginning to grow a begrudging respect for. She demanded her place in the world, and from what Sevika had seen, she was qualified to talk the shit she did. She spoke about her work with pride and vitriol for what the Pits had become. From her, Sevika had grown a weird respect for the Pits, no small indignation taking root in her the more she learned about its current state of affairs. Fixing the crown jewel of undercity negotiations wasn't a priority, but she could work at it. Now that she finally had a champion.

Well, almost had a champion. She realized Bruise was staring her down, waiting for an answer. "I swear on it. The Eyes want one thing from you. To win. Be mighty stupid to fuck with that. So, we got a deal?"

She meant it because Sevika was many things. But she had never been a liar. And she had never been disloyal. She stuck her warm hand out to secure the first part of the agreement. The latter would be done once Bruise put pen to paper in front of the other chembarons. The chirean glanced down at her hand, eyes hard and full of scrutiny. But finally, after an eternity, Bruise clasped her hand tight and shook once.