#sass writes

Monday; 2:47pm.

The week leading up to the Snowdown Gala is unmitigated entropy.

Every year, Grayson forgets just how miserably chaotic the end of the year is in Piltover. Calendar holidays automatically generate a lot of activity –if only because the mandatory vacation time and traditional celebrations lead to an increase in drinking. The increase in drinking, naturally, leads to an increase in arrests resulting from stupid, drunken spats. Snowdown, as the penultimate holiday of the year, is the crown jewel of such intoxicated chaos. Add in shit weather, and trying to organize duty rosters around the aforementioned mandatory vacation time, and it all becomes one big headache.

Not to mention the Gala itself.

Piltover’s annual Snowdown Gala has been a standing tradition for nearly as long as the city's existence. It’s one of the largest annual society events. Affluent members of the Merchants’ Guild, old money families whose blood runs bluer than her uniform jacket, sparkling socialites from overseas, and the Council members and their families all join together in the ballroom of Piltover’s Gala Hall after sunset on Snowdown. They wine, dine, socialize, network, and dance the night away into the wee pre-dawn hours. It’s a cold war of social climbing and territory marking. Everyone breaks out their finest wear and jewels –effecting armor to the scrutinous eyes crowding the ballroom floor. Everyone judges each other without saying a word –who has the most suitable shoes; who’s up on the latest fashion; who best displays their wealth through their jewelry without being gauche.

If she wasn’t expected to attend, as both the Sheriff of Piltover and a member from a respectably old family in Piltovan society, Grayson would gladly stay home and ignore the whole mess.

Of course, to top it all off, any soiree that merits the presence of all Council members mandates the presence of a special security force –which, as Sheriff, she has to select and organize personally. Then, she has to make sure that her clothes and shoes are in order for the gala (not  terrible, but it just takes more time out of her already packed schedule). To top it all off, New Year’s follows a few weeks later, which means more patrols to break up booze-induced brawls. Not to mention performance reviews as things roll into the New Year; reviewing precinct statistics for arrests, closed cases, and complaints; revising budgets for the upcoming year…

There aren’t enough hours in the fucking day. Grayson lifts her mug of coffee to her lips, then scowls when she realizes it’s empty. She jabs at the button for her intercom system. “Lana, would you bring me a fresh cup of coffee, please?”

The notepad for her to-do list is battered, pages stained through with blue and black ink, and the binding’s on its last threads –much like her sanity and will to keep from retiring.

Precinct statistical review with Inspector Cragen.

Review updates to firearm safety and handling guide for new recruits.

Wednesday: pick up chicken for dinner.

Go over gala duty rosters with Marcus.

Lunch meeting.

Meeting with Caitlyn on Friday, 4:15; black market division.

Polish dress shoes.

Grayson sighs, then tries focusing on the shipping district end of year arrest and closure rate report. The report in front of her does little to ease the stress of the impending deadlines, or the lack of coffee in her cup. 

It starts inauspiciously, as nearly everything seems to, as of late. There’s a conspicuous spike in arrests around the docks.

Drunk and disorderly conduct. Drunk and disorderly conduct. Drunk and disorderly conduct…

More suspicious still, practically every arrest notes that the detainee hails from some part of Zaun.

Sump. Sump. Entresol. Sump. Promenade. Sump…

And yet, for some inexplicable reason, almost all of the arrests resolve in a full dismissal of all charges. The reason given in nearly every judicial summary?

“Insufficient evidence to support charges.”

Nearly all the arrests are logged at midday  –which, as it so happens, times out perfectly with when factory and dock workers are due to return from their mandatory lunch break. A vast majority of the factories and docks outsource labor to Zaun, since the labor comes cheap and is easily replaced. Combined with the new batch of academy recruits recently promoted to officers, and that all of the workers are Zaunites, she doubts that there’s a sudden bout of alcoholism plaguing the workers.

Grayson scowls as she scans down the line of charges and dismissals. I didn’t realize we’d promoted a bunch of buffoons this year. She flips to the next page, then lets out an exasperated sigh. If they wanted to go on a power trip, you think they’d have the fucking brains to cover their tracks better.

The door to her office swings open, and she lets out a quiet sigh of relief. “Thank you, Lana. Just–”

“Oh, things must be bad, if you’ve already forgotten my name.”

She perks up, eyes widening at the sound of your voice. She smiles at the sight of mirth twinkling in your eyes as you approach her desk with a steaming cup of coffee. “What are you doing here?”

“Had a minute. Decided to stop in and make sure you hadn’t merged with your desk chair into one homogenous organism.”

Grayson lets out a tired laugh as she stands. “I wouldn’t count out the possibility just yet.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” You round the corner of her desk, then lean in to kiss her cheek. “Hello, dearest.”

“Darling.” She tilts her head and captures your lips with her own. “You have no idea,” she murmurs once the two of you part, “how happy I am to see you.”

You hum and smirk wryly. “Are you saying that to me…” You lift the steaming mug of coffee into her field of view. “Or them?”

“To you, of course,” she answers –whilst reaching for the mug. She grins when you laugh, then tries to take it in earnest.

You move your hand out of her reach. “Lana said this was your seventh cup today.”

“And?” She raises one eyebrow at you. “How many have you had?”

You purse your lips. Your tongue sweeps along the inside of your cheek. Then, without further argument, you hand her the cup of coffee.

“That’s what I thought.” She takes a sip, hums appreciatively, then sets the new mug next to the empty one on her desk. “How is your day going?”

“Eh.” You shrug, then sit down in her lap once she sits again and holds out an arm in invitation. “End of the semester, term papers are due, lots of grading, last minute office hours, performance evaluations…”

“In the same boat, then,” she surmises when you make a “and so on” gesture with one hand.

“Essentially.”

Grayson hums, understanding, and rubs your knee with her thumb. “We could take some vacation time after the New Year.”

“What would we do?”

She considers for a moment, only for her mind to stall completely. Finally, she shrugs, and says, “Sleep,” before bursting into chuckles.

You laugh along with her. “Honestly, that’s not a half bad–”

There’s a firm rap on the door, and then Lana pokes her head in. “I’m so sorry, Sheriff, but there’s an urgent missive from Azure Acquisitions.”

Grayson bites back a curse. “Azure Acquisitions” is code-speak. Specifically, one of their many confidential informants called in to report on any one of the numerous Piltovan clans’ private security forces. The fact that there’s an unscheduled report means that whatever’s in the message is going to warrant a headache and at least three more cups of coffee. She sighs, then pats your thigh apologetically. “One moment, darling.”

“It’s alright.” You stand –and sneak a sip of her coffee while she gets up.

Grayson glares at you fondly, then strides over to Lana. She closes the door to her office behind her, stepping into the vestibule where Lana’s work station resides. “What’s our status?”

“Freeday Street has gone dark,” Lana murmurs. The hallway outside her office and the other command offices is empty, but prudence demands caution. The number of leaks in the department is reminiscent of a sieve. “No new landings, no lights on across the way. Rumor has it the Iron Lady was seen in the district the night before.”

Fuck. Grayson pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Freeday Street” is code for the United Bridges Coalition. It’s a small, grassroots organization promoting unity between Piltover and Zaun –and, more importantly, recognition of Zaun as an independent nation. By habit and necessity, the department has been watching the United Bridge Coalition for nearly a year now. Any political activism group automatically warrants observation, if only as a precaution. 

Fortunately, United Bridges hasn’t run into any legal trouble with Piltover’s enforcers. Grayson’s willing to bet that whoever is in charge of running the group is clever –and connected–enough to slip beneath their radar.

Unfortunately, United Bridges has been gaining traction with the common people on both sides of the river –and attention from the Council and merchant clans of Piltover. Recently, United Bridges has headed several protests regarding labor law violations in many of Piltover’s factories and refineries. There’s been several headlines –a few written by you, no less–implicating some of the merchant guild’s biggest players in the alleged illegal conduct.

And now, the United Bridges Coalition has gone dark, meaning that the building they’ve been using for meetings and to head up charitable efforts has been abandoned. “No landings” means there’s no new, undocumented arrivals in Stillwater. “No lights on across the way” means there’s no chatter in the Zaun to suggest that the movement members retreated to friendlier waters across the bridge.

Then, there’s the “Iron Lady.”

Fucking Camille.

The Ferros clan has one of the largest private security forces in Piltover –led by none other than Camille Ferros, the matriarch of the clan. Her choice to augment her body with Hextech had raised more than a few eyebrows in Piltovan high society. Grayson, for one, hadn’t really cared –until she’d seen it in action, first hand. Admittedly, being able to jump down the tiers of buildings and soar along the rooftops with the aid of Hextech powered cables was pretty neat. If she’d been younger –and more foolish–Grayson might even be envious.

It’s become clear, though, that Camille had greater motivations than assuaging ailing joints. The new body modifications let her easily zip ahead of Grayson’s enforcers (and any resistance from Zaun).

“How substantiated are the rumors?”

Lana grimaces. “There are multiple civilian reports of seeing her in the area.”

Which means that the bodies of United Bridge’s members are likely in the bottom of the Pilt. If Grayson had to hazard a guess, the labor law violation protests and investigations snuck too close to the Ferros clan’s factories.

As if I didn’t have enough problems already. Grayson –narrowly–fends off the urge to grind her teeth. “Get Spec Ops on the case. I’ll see if I can track down any survivors.” She turns and steps back into her office–

You set a pen back in the canister on her desk. “I have to get going.”

Weariness rolls through her. Grayson sighs. “I’m sorry–”

“It’s fine, Gray.” You round her desk, then cup her face with both hands. “I’ll see you tonight. I was thinking we could have dizi for dinner?”

She groans. “Have I ever mentioned how much I love you?”

You grin, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Maybe once.” You roll up on the balls of your feet and kiss her. “Or twice.”

She kisses you again. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

She watches you leave –what a view–then ambles back to her desk once the door thumps shut behind you. She sits slowly, grunting slightly when her knees pop, then scans her to-do list once more.

There’s a new addition –right at the top, in the header margin of the page, written in neat, flowing cursive.

Bed your wife.

Grayson smirks. She shakes her head with a chuckle, then pulls out a sheet of paper to start writing a note to her contact in Zaun. Once we have the time, dearest. Maybe when the world ends.

…

Monday; 11:53pm.

Muddy water, cast over with an iridescent sheen of oils and chemicals, splashes beneath her boots. The uneven, buckling cobblestone streets would prove a hazard to her ankles if she wasn’t so used to navigating the narrow, twisting paths of the Lanes.

That, and the ventilation system had done wonders for clearing out the green smog that used to choke Zaun’s lowest levels. Vander hadn’t had much to say about the construction project a few years ago, when the installation was in its infancy –but the way he’d dodged her gaze had told her he knew more than he was letting on.

The blatant secrecy hadn’t really mattered to Grayson. The funding –as far as any investigation could tell–was above board. The work site was safe by Undercity standards, and the shipped materials were legitimate. Plus, the project created local work for Zaunites, which, at the time, had done a lot to ease tensions between the cities. That, and she wasn’t about to police who had access to breathable air, and who didn’t.

There’s little else to ease the long walk home, though –especially in light of the meeting at Benzo’s shop.

“We haven’t heard anything,” Vander had informed her, expression and voice grave. “No one’s seen any of them for a few days now.”

She grimaces. As much as she’d expected the worst case scenario, she hadn’t exactly been looking forward to all the complications that came along with it.

“You might have better luck with the missus,” Benzo had commented. “She’s got more ties to that kind of thing.”

He’s not wrong. Grayson knows Benzo isn’t wrong. But she’ll be damned if she drags you into this mess –and into the Ferros clan’s crosshairs–on purpose.

She avoids the trolley. There’s a series of private lifts that go right up to Piltover’s streets, accessible only to Enforcers (or those capable of bypassing the key system required to start the lift engines). It’s an uneventful ride up, and the rumble of the engine settles in her tired mind like fog. Grayson leans against the back wall, all thoughts dissipating while she stares, unfocused, off into space.

The sun’s long since set. Here, the electric street lamps, at least, keep the streets from falling into total blackout. The roads are smoother, better maintained. Here, she doesn’t have to worry quite so fervently about being recognized as Piltover’s sheriff, and thus being jumped for petty –but perhaps still fair–vengeance.

Grayson’s feet autopilot her home. After a little over thirty years, her body knows the way back to you, no input from her mind required.

The porch light for your home is on. She can see the yellow glow of the halogen bulb from down the street. As she approaches, though, she spots a cloaked figure sitting on the front step. Out of habit, she reaches for the pistol she keeps holstered at her hip.

The cloak turns out to be a blanket –a plaid, thick flannel normally kept draped over the back of your armchair in the parlor.

You stand when she turns down the front walk, hurrying down the steps to meet her halfway.

“What are you doing up?” Her voice is rough, even to her own ears. “It’s terribly late.”

“I wanted to make sure you got home alright.” You kiss her wind-chilled cheek, then press a warm thermos into her hands. “Tea. Let’s get you inside, love.”

A bit of weariness ebbs from her aging bones, replaced by the soothing warmth of being in your caring hands. She lets you usher her inside and take off her jacket. “I’m sorry for missing dinner.”

“It’s fine, Gray.” You hang up her coat, then kneel to get her boots next. “I’ll warm up a bowl for you.”

“I can do that–”

“Hush, and drink your tea.”

She smirks faintly, bemused, and takes a sip of tea. Delicate flavors of lavender and honey dance over her tongue. A blissful, grateful groan passes her lips. “Trying to get me to sleep?”

“I wasn’t sure how many cups of coffee you’ve had since this afternoon –but now you’re here, I’m not so sure you’ll need my help. You look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You herd her over to one of the dining room chairs, then head into the kitchen. “What business did you have in Zaun?”

Grayson blinks. She’s too tired to come up with a good excuse –or to hide her shock at being found out. “...How did you–”

“You smell like smog, Gray,” you interject lovingly. “And your boots are a mess.”

She sighs heavily, then scrubs her face with one hand. “I’ll shower before bed.”

“It’s fine.” You stir the pot of stew you’re reheating atop the stove. “Why did you need to go to the Lanes?”

Grayson sighs. I shouldn’t have married someone smarter than me.

She doesn’t want to involve you. She doesn’t even want to breathe a suggestion of the United Bridge Coalition and the Ferros clan to you. For the first time in a very long time, you’ve managed to scrape through the year without any death threats. That’s a record she’d like to keep.

“You might have better luck with the missus. She’s got more ties to that kind of thing.”

Benzo’s advice echoes through her weary mind. Her throat feels tight as she swallows. “Do…” She undoes the top couple of buttons on her shirt, then clears her throat. “Do you know anyone in the United Bridges Coalition?”

“Oh. Yes, actually! A few of the founding members are former students of mine.”

Fuck.

“–went on to be my first master’s student–” You set a bowl of dizi in front of her, only to freeze mid-sentence. “Gray?” Your expression –tired, but amiable–falls as you take in her downcast grimace. For a long, silent, arduous moment, you stare at her. Pain and dread clouds over your face. At last, you set a spoon in front of her with a muted clink. “Gray…” Your throat bobs visibly. “Why…”

“Would you–” She has to stop and try again when tears start shining in your eyes. “Would you know their next of kin?”

You jolt, as though physically struck. “I… only for one or two of them.” Your chin quivers. “Do you…”

Grayson presses her lips together, then reaches out and takes your hand. She squeezes it, hoping to impart even some paltry comfort. “I do, yes.”

A shaky, broken sigh ripples through you. You sniff, then nod. “Okay.”

Grayson lets go of your hand when you pull away. She watches, heart in pieces, as you disappear into the pantry, then slumps down in her chair. The one thing that never gets any fucking easier. She sighs, then picks up her spoon–

There’s the familiar clank of glass, and then you reappear with a bottle of wine and two glasses in hand. You set both glasses on the table, open the bottle, then pour a generous helping for each of you. “I don’t know how well this’ll pair up. I just grabbed the closest bottle.”

“That’s fine.” Grayson swallows a spoonful of dizi, then slides her chair over when you pull yours around so you can sit next to her. She leans over and kisses your temple. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” You gulp down some wine, then lay your head against her shoulder.

It’s not the easiest thing, eating while you’re nestled against her like this, but she makes it work. Gods know she’s had to struggle through far worse.

Silence settles over the table, save for the sounds of her spoon occasionally clacking against her bowl. The two of you live in a residential area, so there’s no distant din of street traffic, or the thrum of Piltover’s modest nightlife. All of your neighbors have long since gone to bed. The surrounding world is silent –save, perhaps, for a lone dog, barking in the distance at some unseen pest.

“This is very good,” Grayson murmurs as she slowly works through her bowl.

“Thank you,” you whisper back.

“Of course.” She sets her spoon down and takes your hand in hers. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

…

Tuesday; 11:50am.

“–and he’s still pissed that I cleaned him out! Like, what, it’s my fault he has zero poker face and the betting ability of a three day old baby? And then, he wanted to fight me for the winnings–”

Grayson chuckles. “That went well for him, I’m sure.”

“–and then he was mad when I made him tap out three times!” Vi throws her hands up in exasperation. “I didn’t even have to fight him the third time! It was best two out of three, but he insisted–”

“And you didn’t enjoy wiping the floor with him one bit.”

“I mean…” Vi smirks, then shakes her hand in a so-so gesture. “It was kind of fun. But it still wasn’t worth the whining.”

Grayson shakes her head, then turns the corner into the fashion district. “So, how did you shut Mylo up, in the end?”

“Claggor sat on him until he stopped complaining.”

She snorts. “That sounds effective.”

“It usually is –shit!”

A man dressed in a three piece suit shoves past Vi, nearly knocking her in the busy street. Grayson barely reacts in time, grabbing Vi’s arm and yanking her back onto the safety of the sidewalk just before a cab whizzes by. She tucks Vi under her arm, then glares over her shoulder at the rude pedestrian. “Watch where you’re fucking going!”

“It’s fine,” Vi mutters as she rolls her shoulder.

“No,” Grayson grumbles as she ushers them down the walkway, “it’s not.”

Progress Haberdashery isn’t usually open during the lunch hour; however, thanks to her long-standing friendship and patronage, Agatha agreed to slip them in for a pick up today.

A brass bell rings overhead as Grayson pushes the front door open. She waves Vi inside, then follows, and lets the glass and bronze filigree inlay door swing shut behind her. “It’s us!”

“Ah, good!” Agatha bustles to the front of the shop, hefting two tan canvas garment bags with her. “I’ve got yours, too, Gray, if that’s alright.”

Grayson nods. “That’s fine.”

“I included a tie with Vi’s, too, based on the fabric swatch you sent me–”

“Oh, shit.” Vi’s eyebrows spike upwards. “How’d you manage that?”

“Basic detective work,” Grayson answers with a conspiratorial smirk. It’d been rather easy to get Caitlyn talking about her dress –and the specific color the family tailor planned on using. Almost too easy, really. I should work with her on that. “Thank you, again, Agatha.”

“Yeah,” Vi chimes in with a relieved smile. “Thanks so much. You made figuring this sh –stuff out a lot easier.”

Agatha smiles, eyes crinkling around the corners. “Of course! Anytime you need formal wear –or have questions about fashion–you know where to find me.” She hands Vi’s bag over to her, then holds Grayson’s bag out. “Gray, yours doesn’t have a tie. Your wife said she already has one picked out for you.”

Grayson smirks, then folds her bag over her forearm. “How much do we owe you?”

“Right.” Agatha rounds the front desk, where a counting machine and an invoice book lie atop a leather desk pad. “So, there’s Vi’s consultation, the second fitting, and then your tux…”

As Agatha racks up the billable expenses, Grayson can’t help but notice how Vi tenses out of the corner of her eye. The final number Agatha rattles off isn’t egregious –it’s less than she’d expected, actually–but Grayson’s heart twinges sympathetically when Vi flinches. “Alright.” She fishes her checkbook out of her inner breast pocket, lays it out on the countertop, then takes a pen proffered by Agatha and scrawls out the amount in the neatest handwriting she can manage.

As soon as they’re out of the shop, Vi starts talking in a low, strained voice. “I won’t be able to pay you back all at once, but I get my next paycheck at the start of next week, so–”

“We –it’s alright.” She’s already talked it over with you. Vi’s tuxedo and shoes are a gift, so she has something for high society events. More importantly, she wouldn’t take the younger woman’s money, anyway. Experience, however, tells her to wait until she and Vi are in private to hash out that Vi doesn’t need to pay her back. You were also extremely skittish about money and debt when she started dating you, back in the day. “We can talk about it later. In the meantime–” She angles her wrist to check her watch. “Why don’t we grab lunch on the way back to my office? I can keep your tux there for today, then take it back to my home for safe-keeping, until the Gala.”

“That sounds fine,” Vi agrees easily enough. “But this time, it’s my treat.”

Grayson acquiesces with a small smile. “If you insist. Thank you.”

…

Tuesday; 3:47pm

“–but overall, case closure rates in the 27th precinct have held steady this year.”

“Thank goodness for small miracles,” Grayson mutters as she scans her copy of the report. She squints at a table of statistics –then swears in Farsi before snatching up her reading glasses. “Why the hell are the report writers determined to jam everything into as small a space as possible?”

“I ask the same question often, Sheriff,” Inspector Cragen –a middle aged, balding man with blond hair–sighs. “Apparently, it’s a department-wide effort to reduce paper waste.”

Right, because it’s far less wasteful to print a barely legible report, then have to reprint everything so it can actually be read. Grayson scowls, then flips to the next page. She almost does a double-take as she scans down the rows of numbers. This isn’t possible. Who the fuck screwed up the rates this badly? “Are these legitimate?”

Cragen leans forward as she hands the report over to him. He takes a moment to read through the summary, whispering under his breath while he scans the page, then nods. “I sent back the initial copy to the 28th’s supervising Captain, but apparently their report is accurate.”

Grayson pulls the report back and frowns, bewildered, down at the page. “Fucking how?”

In her many, many years of work in the department, Grayson has seen –and written–a varied number of performance reports. She’s seen plenty of instances of abysmal case closure rates from certain precincts, and she’s even seen some nigh miraculous reductions in crime rates for the city as a whole. Usually, there’s some sort of contextual explanation –lack of departmental funding, an increase in protests, shifts in import restrictions as Noxus and Demacia wage their wars, and so on.

Crime report rates down by fifty-seven percent across the board? Arrest and closure rates up by thirty-three percent in total? Grayson scarcely refrains from gawking, but it’s a near thing. “What the fuck are they drinking over there? They cover most of the factory district. Burglaries and vandalism, at least, are a guarantee–”

She stops, abruptly, as the mental map in her mind’s eye clicks into place. The factory district.

The Ferros clan was founded by industrialists and merchants, back in the first years of Piltover’s existence. To this day, the Ferros run some of Piltover’s largest, most profitable factories. Even though some of them are rented out to other businesses and merchants, a vast majority of the sites in the factory district have the Ferros name on them somewhere in their ledgers. As it so happens, those factories –and associated businesses–have recently come under fire due to labor law violations –largely in part due to protests organized by the United Bridges Coalition.

Bitterness sets in at the base of Grayson’s tongue –like she’s been sucking on an old, corroded penny. Her mouth twists into a sour grimace. “Who’s the supervising Captain over the 28th precinct?”

“Captain Yurik. Currently, he’s out on vacation in a villa near the Blue Flame Isles”

Grayson freezes mid-way through making a note to interview Captain Yurik. She glances over a Cragen, one eyebrow arched in disbelief. “A villa. In the Blue Flame Isles.”

Inspector Cragen nods. “I believe it was a present to his wife for their 23rd anniversary.”

Grayson shares a long, knowing look with Inspector Cragen. Then, she smooths her expression into a faint, polite smile. “Well, how nice for both of them. Now” –she flips to the next precinct’s summary– “I had some concerns about the cold case backlog in the 29th precinct…”

Decades of practice see her through the conversation while, internally, her mind whirls with data points, implications, and conspiracy. A fucking villa in Blue Flame Isles on a goddamn Captain’s pay. Grayson bites back a scowl while Cragen walks her through the usual departmental woes –lack of funds, not enough manpower, uncontrollable variables, yessir. She’s plenty familiar. She offers a blithe comment about investing in some new crime scene evidence collection tools, then leans back in her chair as an inferno rages in her chest. I’m going to have our forensic accountants rip Yurik’s fucking balls off.

…

Wednesday; 9:37am.

“Enforcers need to develop the proper mental attitude and concentration essential to be a good shooter. To be competent with a firearm it is necessary to understand…”

Grayson blinks, then squeezes her eyes shut and rubs the bridge of her nose. Fucking hell.

Reviewing firearm training manuals isn’t the most riveting pastime. Someone has to do it –several people, actually, once one counts the shooting instructors that evaluate the manual for practical applicability, the editors that ensure proper formatting, and the department’s robust legal team that verifies the language and guidance in the manual matches current legal standards.

Still, Grayson refuses to be the Sheriff that doesn’t know what her enforcers are learning from. Which means, every year, reviewing the latest edition of the training manual. Not that anyone can hardly tell what the writers have changed, she grouses internally as she opens her eyes and starts reading again. It’s all the same tedious, over-explaining boilerplate.

“Enforcers need to develop the proper mental attitude and concentration essential to be a good shooter.”

She still remembers the first time she fired a gun. Her uncle had her practice before a big hunting event on her father’s land.

“Enforcers need to develop the proper mental attitude and concentration essential to be a good shooter.”

The crack of the rifle going off, making her ears ring. The burst of kinetic energy recoiling into her shoulder. The sharp, sulfuric burn of smoke stinging her nostrils.

“Enforcers need to develop the proper mental attitude and concentration essential to be a good shooter.”

Back then, she’d taken to shooting like a swan to a pond. The thrill of energy and adrenaline. The satisfying ritual of practice. It’s like exercising a muscle. Stretching, strengthening, and honing until it all becomes second nature. She’d soared through competitions and marksman drills alike, until she’d earned her reputation for being one of the best shots in the region, let alone the city.

“Enforcers need to develop the proper mental attitude and concentration essential to be a good shooter.”

And then she’d learned what it meant to shoot for something.

“To be competent with a firearm it is necessary to understand…”

Grayson slams the manual copy down on her desk and shoves her chair back with a sharp squeal. With a rough sigh, she tugs her coat off the rack next to the door and yanks it on.

Lana startles in her chair as the door swings open. “Sheriff!”

“I’m going for a walk.” Grayson finishes buttoning her overcoat, then places her hat atop her head. “I’ll be back in under an hour.”

“Of course.”

Grayson nods, then strides down the hall towards the elevator bank.

…

Wednesday; 10:03am.

The bitterly cold morning air, at least, helps clear her mind.

Grayson grits her teeth and hikes up her scarf higher. I fucking hate it when the wind comes in off the Northern strait. I’d rather just hop naked into a newly frozen-over pond.

Dry, fine flakes of snow swirl around her ankles, flitting down the street until they get caught on corners or betwixt the cobblestones that line the roads. They glitter in the pale morning light, even with the sun mostly hidden behind a layer of feathery, gray clouds.

Grayson walks on, trying to keep her pace brisker than the weather. She bows her head against the wind and presses on.

Thoughts keep stacking together in her mind like the paving slabs that construct the sidewalk. Ferros clan. 28th precinct. Factory district. Reduced crime and arrest rates. Labor law violation protests. United Bridges Coalition.

A sharp gust of icy wind makes her eyes water. Grayson wipes the tears away before they freeze on her skin and scowls. And a villa in the fucking Blue Flame Isles.

It all adds up to a massive pile of shit lurking right beneath her nose. And sure, she’s not liable for Captain Yurik’s misconduct, nor the misdeeds of the officers under his command, but she’ll be damned if she’s caught with her ass out in the morning headlines.

Right under my nose, in my own fucking department. She stomps through a pile of icy slush and rounds the corner to head East. I’m going to put their heads on spikes and mount them atop City Hall.

As far as she can tell, it all comes back to Camille and the Ferros clan. The sighting of Camille near the headquarters for United Bridges Coalition, right after the Coalition had protested and drawn attention to labor law violations in Ferros-owned factories. The drastic drop in crime, and even more drastic increase in case closure in the 28th precinct –despite the other precincts that covered the factory district not exhibiting similar such percentages.  She’d checked, just in case the bizarre statistics were some sort of heaven-sent miracle. And one Captain who can suddenly afford a coastal vacation home. Grayson clenches her fists in her pockets and growls under her breath. Idiot. It’s like he’s not even trying to hide that he’s on the take. 

The worst part is there’s nothing she can do right now but wait. Investigations take time –which she’s learned, over and over, from her years on the force. And while all she wants to do is throttle Captain Yurik and feed him his own chopped off testicles, there’s bigger fish to fry. 

Grayson scowls. Specifically, one blue eyed octogenarian crazy enough to modify her own body so she can fling herself from rooftop to rooftop like some type of psychotic flying fucking squirrel. 

Sweeping out corruption in her own force is a necessity. Sure, she’d be lauded for her vigilance and upright moral standards, but what was the point of bailing out the ship if you didn’t plug the leak in the first place? If she wants to go after Camille, she has to find and snuff out any sources of information siphoning back to the Ferros matriarch.

So godsdamn complicated. Fuck’s sake. Abruptly, Grayson stops at the corner of an intersection.

Across the street is a two-story, white-washed homestead that was converted some two decades ago to hold apartments in the second story, and host a couple small businesses in the first story. The blue tile roof looks more slate gray, now that the sun has retreated behind the clouds once more. The front door is ajar. One plainclothes detective talks to a uniformed foot patrol enforcer on the front stoop. A brass placard near the door reads “United Bridges Coalition –Promoting Relations for the Future of Zaun and Piltover.”

Swiftly, Grayson turns on her heel and strides in the opposite direction.

She can’t be seen here. Currently, affairs at Freeday Street have been quiet enough to stay out of the paper –and if they’re going to connect this and the probable bribery of the 28th precinct back to the Ferros clan, things have to stay that way. The Sheriff of Piltover showing up at a possible crime scene will generate enough chatter among the rank and file alone. This isn’t a time where she can afford to tempt leaks.

As she hurries back to the department building, Grayson does the math in her head. I should have an initial report in a few days –next week at the latest, given Snowdown. Cragen has a few detectives casing out the 28th precinct patrols. Vander and Benzo are keeping tabs on things in case Coalition members show up in Zaun, alive or otherwise. She frowns, then turns her collar up against the wind. As if time could move any slower.

A particularly strong gust of wind cuts up under her overcoat. Grayson curses, then detours when a sign for a cafe catches her eye. Fuck this weather. I need some coffee.

…

Wednesday; 6:07pm.

“–move into a spin… very good!”

The familiar strains of Winter’s Waltz greets her ears as she steps over the threshold of your home. Grayson unwinds her navy scarf from around her neck –a gift from you, from your first year of dating. “How’s she doing?”

“Excellent!” you call back from the sitting room. “She’s a veritable master!”

“She’s just saying that because I haven’t stepped on her foot yet!” Vi interjects.

“No, she isn’t.” Grayson hangs her winter coat on its hook, then strides into the kitchen with the heavy paper bags from the local Persian market. “It took me three years of work before she said I was passable.” She sets the package of chicken thighs to the side of the sink, then turns on the tap and starts rinsing some bundles of fresh mint, basil, and oregano. “How is practicing in dress shoes?”

“How does anyone walk in these?” Vi laments, gesturing at her feet. “They have zero grip, they’re so tight around the toes –there’s no way anyone could run in these–”

“They’re not supposed to hurt your toes,” Grayson interjects, looking over her shoulder. “I thought you said they were comfortable during the final fit check.”

“They were –are,” Vi amends. “I just –they’re so fucking slippery. It’s weird.” She bounces lightly on the balls of her feet a few times. “Yeah, there’s no way I could fight in these.”

“I think the idea is that you don’t fight while wearing them,” Grayson retorts with a teasing smirk.

You make a noise of disagreement over the music and her bustling in the kitchen. “I seem to recall an incident where you ran down one of the inventors from House Wolf in full black tie at one of Councilor Hoskel’s soirees and slammed him against the bar… what, just one year after we got married?”

“He was a cousin of Yancy Wolf,” Grayson corrects you. She runs her tongue over her teeth in distaste. “And he spiked a thirteen year old girl’s drink.” She snaps a few dead leaves of mint off the stem with more force than strictly necessary. “I was perfectly justified.”

“No one’s debating that,” you agree. “But, regardless, you were in a tux and some very nice leather wingtips.”

“I made do in the moment,” Grayson demures. She glances at Vi –who seems impressed–and shrugs. “I have more experience in dress wear. The more you wear it, the more you become accustomed to it.”

“If you say so,” Vi mutters.

Grayson snorts softly, then starts patting her herbs dry with a towel.

“Gray?”

“Yes, dearest?”

“What are we doing with her hair?”

“What –oh.” Grayson turns, frowning contemplatively, dries her hands, and walks over to you and Vi. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

Vi sighs, equal measures resigned and exasperated. “I’m not going to dye it–”

“No, no,” you assure her quickly.

“That won’t be necessary,” Grayson agrees. “We just need to pick a style.”

“Right.” Vi chuckles, but it’s strained. “Don’t wanna scare the guests with the ‘gutter-Sump rat’ look.”

You purse your lips and glance up at Grayson. “Do we have time to schedule a cut?”

We could, Grayson thinks as Vi’s shoulders visibly tense, but we won’t. “I think we can manage with a little pommade and the right brush.” She puts a hand on Vi’s shoulder and tries to smile reassuringly. “Just to keep it out of your face while you’re dancing. We’re not changing your look entirely.”

“If you say so,” Vi mumbles weakly.

“I can get the produce rinsed and put away,” you say as you turn off the record player. “Gray, why don’t you and Vi work on her hair?”

“Sure.” She leads Vi to the bathroom attached to the master bedroom, and motions for Vi to stand in front of the mirror over the sink.

Vi’s practically standing at attention, stiff as a board while Grayson studies the rough style and side shave. She stares down at the porcelain sink basin, jaw locked tight. The tattoo on her cheek jumps when her jaw muscles start twitching. “What’s the plan?”

“I’m not sure, yet,” Grayson admits. “Do you mind if I touch your hair?”

“Do your worst.”

“I’ll try not to,” she chuckles. “My personal worst is a time when I managed to singe off half my hair before a date.”

Vi snorts. “How did you manage that?”

“Well, I was pretty new out of the Enforcer’s Academy,” she admits. “Back then, there were regulations for how women could wear their hair. It had to be at least shoulder length, so I had to grow it out before I could even enroll.”

“That’s stupid,” Vi grumbles.

Grayson grunts in agreement while combing her fingers through Vi’s hair. “Anyway, I was getting ready for a date, and I was so damn nervous that I wasn’t thinking about what the fuck I was doing, so I bent down over a lit candle and…”

“Oh no.” Vi’s expression morphs to a mix of humor and wide-eyed horror. “Did you burn yourself?”

“Luckily, no. I was in my bathroom, so I just turned on the taps and shoved my head into the sink. But my hair was pretty badly burnt, and I only had a couple of hours before the date, so I had to cut off the burned bits, then try to make the other side match and make it all look somewhat decent.”

Vi snickers. “What’d your date think?”

“Well…” Grayson smirks. “She agreed to marry me about five years later, so I’d say things worked out.”

“Damn. Your old lady must’ve been down bad for you.”

Grayson snorts, then picks up a wooden comb. “I was very lucky that she found ‘awkward and hopeless’ endearing, rather than off-putting.”

Vi grins, but stills when Grayson starts combing her hair back. “What’s the damage?”

“Not as bad as you may think.” Slowly, gently, Grayson works the comb through Vi’s pink locks. The younger woman’s mohawk is ragged and uneven –probably on purpose–but Vi’s hair is still long enough to be combed back neatly. “I’d suggest freshening up the sides, and then we could probably pin the rest back with a few clips.” She holds Vi’s hair in place so that the younger woman can assess the hypothetical look for herself. “What do you think?”

Vi quirks her mouth to one side, more a grimace than a smile, as she assesses her reflection. “Not terrible.” When Grayson arches one eyebrow in the mirror, she looks away. “Just… You can’t polish a Sump-snipe.”

“I see.” She doesn’t –she knows she doesn’t–but she recognizes Vi’s reluctance and discomfort as the same kind you bore during her early years with you. Before you settled into your skin. Before you’d settled into the concessions necessary to live this life. Grayson heeds experience and waits, quiet and unjudging, while Vi wrestles with her feelings.

“Can… Can I talk to your lady for a minute?” Vi asks after several long, agonizing moments.

“Of course.” Grayson fetches you and switches back to washing the herbs and prepping the chicken. There’s not much left, but she dawdles on purpose, takes some extra time to tidy up the kitchen and watch the gray, cloudy sky out the windows.

Eventually, she hears you come back downstairs with Vi. The two of you chat indistinctly in the foyer for a moment, and then the front door creaks open before thumping shut again. 

“Is everything alright?” she calls over her shoulder.

You hum in response as you amble into the kitchen. “Vi had errands to run.” You smile when she holds out one arm, then wrap your arms around her waist as you step into her embrace. A soft, contented sigh escapes you. “Hi.”

“Hello.” Grayson tucks your head beneath her chin. “How did dance practice go?”

“She’ll be fine,” you assure her. “She’s got a good sense of coordination and timing.”

Grayson nods softly. “And… everything else?”

You shrug. “It’s a rough transition, and she’s just at the start of it.”

She kisses the top of your head. “Can I ask what you two talked about?”

“She wanted to know what it was like for me, living and working up here, and marrying you.” You stroke your fingers along the front of her shirt, absently playing with one of the buttons. “How I got to a point where ‘playing along with Topside’s rules’ didn’t bother me so much.”

Grayson hugs you tighter. “And?”

“It took time.” You tilt your head back and smile up at her. “Which you already knew.”

“I do,” she agrees with a soft smile of her own.

“And I told her that I kept my goals front and center –becoming a journalist; breaking new boundaries; working to bring inequality to light; increasing upper education opportunities for Trenchers. That it helped to have that focus because it didn’t feel like I was abandoning my home and history once I got a taste of ‘something better.’”

Grayson winces sympathetically.

“And it got easier once I learned that having nice things and dressing in nice clothes doesn’t mean I’ve ‘changed sides’ or ‘lost touch with my roots,” you go on. “And again, when I realized that I can’t make everyone happy. That there will always be people on both sides trying to discredit me by calling me a gold digger, or a class traitor. Or by saying I abandoned my people, or claiming that I’m a ‘terrorist-in-waiting.’”

“I remember those letters,” Grayson comments. “Lots of run-on sentences.”

“Good use of the word ‘capricious,’ though.” You smooth the edge of her collar with your thumb. “And I told her that there will always be hoops to jump through. Always an element of playing Piltover’s game. And that she has to decide what she’s willing to play at, and what’s a line too far to cross.”

“Do you think she’ll be alright?”

You sigh. “I think she and Caitlyn need to have some very serious, very realistic conversations about their relationship, privilege, and social boundaries, and they need to have them soon. Beyond that…” Your gaze goes far away for a moment, and then you shrug. “I don’t know. I had it easier than she does. My father made more money –enough to keep us from outright destitution. We weren’t stuck in the Lanes. Vi’s parents died on Bloody Sunday, and she grew up in the roughest parts of Zaun.”

“The culture shock is stronger,” Grayson surmises.

“It is,” you confirm with a nod. “Only time will tell.”

“Agreed.” She rubs one hand over your shoulder, then kisses the top of your head again before letting you go. “Can I interest you in some tea?”

“Ooh.” You flit over to the shelf boasting (part of) your sprawling collection of mugs. “Twist my arm, why don’t you?”

Grayson chuckles, then carries the kettle over to the sink.

…

Thursday; 10:23 am.

“Councilor Hoskel has requested we give greater attention to door check procedures upon entry to and exit from the Gala Hall.”

“Councilor Hoskel wouldn’t be able to find his own ass with both hands if said ass and hands weren’t attached to his body.” Halfway through scanning the third page of the sea port precinct’s yearly evaluation report –the Council had made note of “an alarming reduction in closed cases,” but Grayson was hard-pressed to pinpoint precisely what the hell they were talking about–Grayson stopped and looked sharply at Marcus. “Since when have we performed door checks upon exiting official functions?”

Entry checks were standard –confirming possession of an official invitation, checking coats and bags, and holding any firearms or weapons in a guarded safe for the duration of the event were standard procedure for any formal, publicly funded event in Piltover. The purpose of the procedure was to create order and ease for the attendees. While Grayson has only ever served during one out and out clan war, surrendering all weapons was a formality, really. An unspoken promise that ensured no one would be using the soiree to intimidate rivals –or, more importantly, that party-goers wouldn’t have weapons on hand in a crowded room after getting drunk on champagne and whatever spirits the open bar provided.

Marcus arches one thick eyebrow at her. “It might be prudent, given that we have a bunch of Trench interlopers on the guest list this year.”

Grayson arches an eyebrow at him in return. “That’s one way to describe the reconciliation efforts between Piltover and the Undercity.”

Granted, she’d been just as surprised when a tentative treaty had formed between the two cities. Centuries of animosity don’t just vanish overnight. And yet, after Heimerdinger stepped down from the Council to pursue academic and inventive ventures, a proffer to Zaun from the Council quickly followed.

Truthfully, it’s a paltry offer –one that raised several protests on both sides. Zaun’s access to the Hextower and trade guilds was still limited; there weren’t any offered legal recourses for those in Stillwater; there was absolutely zero mention of reparations and humanitarian aid to the trenches, despite Piltover’s mining practices having wrecked the local atmosphere (as you’d been quick to point out). 

She’d been more surprised when Vander –among others–had accepted the offer. She’d been even more skeptical when the riots and rage in the Lanes were snuffed out shortly thereafter. Years of detective work and city management didn’t leave her an optimist, true, but you’d been shocked and mistrusting, too.

She’s seen the silhouette of a greater presence lurking in the smog and shadows of Zaun for decades now. Pensive silences and deflection from Vander and Benzo alike; the curious monuments of rotted eyes that pop up at random around the Lanes; the influx of trade leaving the docks with inspection records that are too clean (because typically there’s at least some note of ships needing to change riggings, or to adjust duty rosters to fit legal standards, but the absence of any issues is practically a beacon indicating that something’s not quite right); Zaun-founded businesses popping up and competing easily with Piltovan rivals, but with minimal records about the source of their investors; Shimmer flowing from practically every crevice, with virtually no way of stemming the tide or finding the source.

However, as far as Grayson’s concerned, the closer Zaun gets to Piltover, the closer whoever –whatever–is powering the city’s growing empire has to swim to the surface. For now, Grayson can be patient, net in hand, and watch the shifting waters.

“They’re all reputable business-people and socialites,” Grayson says at last.

“Barons,’” Marcus spits, sneering. “They’re thugs who rule the territories of the Sump.”

“How they choose to govern their city is none of our concern.”

“Isn’t it?” Marcus smacks his fist atop her desk. “They’re criminals. You and I both know it! They’re producing Shimmer, flouting tax laws, dealing in illegal weapons trades–”

“All the evidence at our disposal indicates that only a few select individuals are involved in potentially illegal dealings, and those few are not on the guest list,” Grayson interjects firmly. She stares Marcus down when he scoffs. “Nor are our findings grounds to treat every single member of the Undercity like an inevitable criminal.” She holds Marcus’s gaze until he lowers his eyes. “We’re not adding another unnecessary step and even more manpower to an already complicated event. Councilor Hoskel will simply have to adjust his attitude.”

“He won’t.” Marcus insists. “You know he won’t.”

“That doesn’t mean he gets to dictate the actions of this office –or my enforcers.”

“If anything happens–” Marcus scowls and points at her. “If anything happens, no matter how trivial, he’ll make it out to be your fault! He’ll –he’ll smear you to everyone he knows. To the whole Council! He’ll try to ruin your reputation!”

Grayson sighs, then offers Marcus a small, fond smile. “I’ve dealt with Hoskel before. His tantrums are loud, yes, but rarely do they amount to anything more than a meager annoyance.”

“He could turn the whole Council against you!”

“I sincerely fucking doubt it,” she laughs. “Hoskel is only on the council because his family has the largest vineyards in the region, and therefore has enough money and status among the Merchant’s Guild to warrant a seat at the table. Only Salo takes him seriously, and they’re hardly a prize scholar, either. Besides–” She sets the report aside, then stands and adjusts her uniform jacket. “I didn’t make it this far without keeping my eyes open and making friends of my own. If Hoskel starts playing the victim, I’m more than ready and able to shut him up.”

Marcus stands, expression doubtful. “What, are you going to have your Missus write an expose on him?”

“Don’t tempt her,” Grayson chuckles.

Marcus lets out a bleak laugh. “What should we tell Hoskel in the meantime?”

“I’ll talk to him.” Grayson opens one of the doors to her office, takes a file from Lana’s awaiting hands, then holds the door open as Marcus makes to leave. “And I’ll tell him to stay out of the wine and keep both hands on his purse instead.”

…

Thursday; 1:20pm.

“I’m certain you understand the history of friction leading to such suspicions.”

“I do. Given the fresh, tenuous nature of the truce between our two cities, mandating pocket checks upon exit is nothing short of a disastrous idea.”

Back perfectly straight, not one hair out of place from its elegantly coiffed and decorated updo, Councilor Mel Medarda sets her glass of wine back on the table without so much as a clink. “It is.” Primly, she sets her fork and knife across her plate –china, decorated with delicate, geometric blue designs vaguely reminiscent of the Hextech runes–at an angle, each piece parallel to each other. Before she so much as blinks, a server clad in a white tux and black tie clears away her plate and the remains of her meal –roast duck, charred greens, potato puree, and an exquisite Bearnaise sauce. “I’ll speak with Hoskel. I’m confident he can be convinced to trust in the capabilities of his own personal security guards.”

“Your support is much appreciated, Councilor,” Grayson says sincerely. She sets her own silverware on her plate in the same fashion as Mel, then leans back as a server removes her plate –she’d opted for spiced pork loin with silken braised greens. She stands when Mel does, then extends one hand as Mel rounds the table. “Thank you for taking time to meet with me today, Councilor.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Sheriff.” Mel clasps her hand with a surprisingly, but not excessively firm handshake. “Although, before we part ways–”

Fuck.

“I did want to let you know in person,” Mel says as her schooled, pleasant expression strains at the edges with exasperation. “My mother is keen to attend Piltover’s ‘society event of the year.’”

Fuck my life. It takes an entire lifetime of training –both from work and her upbringing–to keep her expression neutral. “Thank you for letting me know.” As Grayson releases Mel’s hand, she adds, “Just so you’re aware, I will not be making exceptions for party members or security staff who try to carry weapons into the event –magical or otherwise.” She adjusts the cuff of her sleeve, aiming for nonchalant as best she can. “Anyone found unwilling to comply with the Gala rules will be barred from the event.”

Mel’s smile turns wolfish, teeth bared with scarcely constrained delight. “I’d expect nothing less from an officer of your experience and caliber, Sheriff.”

…

Thursday; 5:54pm.

Grayson returns home to find her dining room table turned into a veritable display of china, crystalware, and cutlery “Ah.” She kicks out of her boots, then shucks her overcoat and hangs it on an open hook. “Taking a refresher course, are we?”

“This makes no goddamn sense!” Vi laments as she slumps back in her seat.

“She’s got it all down,” you call over your shoulder. “Just a last minute review to lock everything in.”

“Excellent.” She hangs up her uniform belt and jacket, then heads upstairs to change and freshen up. Once she returns to the main floor, she can hear the familiar clinks of dishes being put away –and Vi’s voice.

“One of these dumb glasses could feed a family in the Sump for three months,” Vi says, tone flat and dejected.

Your voice cuts over the rattling of china. “I know.”

Grayson stops at the foot of the stairs. She doesn’t want to interrupt. She wants Vi to be able to vent freely to you. She’s worked hard to earn Vi’s trust, but none of that can trump your shared experiences of growing up beneath Piltover’s shadow.

“And you said these aren’t even the expensive ones!”

“Relative to the industry, they’re not.”

Vi lets out a groan. “But the ones at the gala will be.”

You hum in confirmation. “Some of the highest quality pieces in the industry –maybe second only to Councilor Medarda’s private collection.”

“Fuck. And yours were gifts?”

“Wedding presents from Grayson’s grandmother.”

There’s a pause, punctuated only by the gentle thumps of the doors on the china cabinet swinging shut. 

“You know it’s all bullshit, right?”

“I do.”

“They’re –they’re up here throwing parties, rotting in their wealth, while we starve beneath their feet!”

“I know.”

Vi scoffs. “I don’t know. Maybe you have it figured out. Is it better on the other side of the bridge?”

Grayson purses her lips and clasps onto the wooden banister to keep from barging in. She’s sympathetic to Vi’s fury, but protective of you even more so. Still, she’s old enough and wise enough to know that shoving in is going to send the wrong message. Let her handle this.

“I’m not going to sit here and deny my privilege,” you answer after a long moment. “I have a prestigious job, and I married a woman with generational wealth. I have constant, reliable access to clean water, breathable air, and nutritious food. Not to mention things like medical care, education, and recreation.”

“Sounds pretty sweet to me,” Vi mutters.

“I came up here with a goal,” you state, voice firm. “I wanted to affect change and expose corruption.”

“Emptying an ocean with a teaspoon.”

Grayson grimaces. She suffers from the same feelings, most days.

“It feels like that at times,” you admit. “But” –the smile is audible in your voice– “no one can say I went quietly.”

After a moment, when Vi doesn’t reply, Grayson takes the moment of silence to amble into the dining room.

Immediately, Vi pales and straightens up. She greets Grayson with a stiff nod. “Sheriff.”

Grayson smiles sympathetically. “Just Grayson.” She draws you into a half-armed embrace and kisses your temple. “Good day?”

“Decent enough.” You lean your head against her shoulder. “Protests against the overturned prison reform made getting to the university a little hairy.”

She winces. “I heard about that.” The offer to escort you over tomorrow rolls onto the tip of her tongue, but she holds back. She’s heard your lecture on mob mentality and the inciting nature of an Enforcer’s uniform more than once –and she’ll hear it again tonight, but not in front of Vi. I’ll bring it up after dinner. She kisses the top of your head, then lets you go and looks over at Vi. “You’re welcome to stay for dinner. If you want to head out, I can walk you to the trolley.”

“No –uh, thank you, no,” Vi stammers. She jams her hands in her pockets and shrugs, smiling nervously. “I need to get back to my sister.”

“Of course,” Grayson assents with a nod. “I’ll get my coat.”

“Right. Oh, shit.” Vi stops halfway to the door and rummages through her pockets. “How much were the suit and shoes? I don’t have much, but I scraped together a little money to start paying you back.”

Grayson locks eyes with you over Vi’s shoulder. Then, with as gentle a smile as she can manage, she places her hands on Vi’s shoulders. “There’s no need for that, Vi.”

“Respectfully, Sher– Grayson,” Vi retorts, “even though I don’t think you’ll charge me interest, I’d rather get a jump on paying my debt to you.”

“There is no debt,” Grayson insists.

Vi frowns, brows furrowing together. “What –what do you mean? I watched you pay Agatha. She didn’t give you a freebie.”

“I mean that I’m covering the costs. In full,” Grayson clarifies. “I didn’t go into this with the expectation of making you pay for a tailored tuxedo and shoes.”

Vi sputters, expression morphing through stages of confusion, distrust, outrage, and then back to confusion all over again. “I can pay for my own expenses!” she insists, voice rising to a near shout. “I’m not some mangy, hangdog, alley mutt looking for pity!”

“You’re not,” Grayson agrees.

Vi wrenches a faded cloth pouch stuffed with coins and paper money out of her pocket and jams it against Grayson’s chest. “Then–”

“As you’ve said, this is a different world you’re stepping into,” Grayson interjects, careful to keep her voice gentle. “One that, as you’ve so astutely pointed out, was built on the backs of your people and your home.” She glances purposefully over at the china cabinet –where the two crystal wine glasses sit prominently at the front–then back to Vi. “I want to cover the cost. Call it the perks of privilege.”

Vi’s mouth twists into a tight frown. “And, what? Months, years from now? You need something from me, and we’ll both know how much you spent getting me all spiffed up.”

“No.” This time, Grayson is firm, meeting Vi’s fire with her own. She looks Vi directly in the eye and says, “You owe me nothing, Violet. No matter how things go between you and Caitlyn. No matter where you go, or what you do with your life.” With one hand, she gently pushes Vi’s sack of money back against the younger woman’s chest. “This is a gift, solely to try and make a ridiculous challenge instituted in your life by people who look down on you a little easier to surpass. End of story.”

Vi shakes her head, then turns on her heel and stomps out the front door. “Yeah. Sure.”

Grayson shoots a despairing glance at you over her shoulder, then yanks her coat off its hook and rushes into the dark, cold evening air after Vi.

…

Friday; 5:29 am.

“–completely unacceptable!”

The dry, hot air being blasted into the underground security hold for Piltover’s council members borders on a desert gale. She can already feel the membranes her sinuses shriveling back in fear and desperation.

“If this is their response to our doing the gracious thing–”

The overhead, faintly buzzing fluorescent lights cast the stone room in a harsh, unforgiving glow. There’s already a headache grinding away above her right eye, just behind her brow bone.

“–credible threats against the very heads of our city–”

Or maybe it’s just the hyperbolic whinging from all the talking heads.

“Drastic measures must be taken!” Councilor Hoskel slams his fist against the marble tabletop. “If these Undercity mongrels think that they can terrorize the leaders of this city as they like–”

“We don’t have any credible information identifying the source of these threats as of yet,” Councilor Medarda interjects. “As it stands, the messages were intercepted barely two hours ago. If–” she continues, talking over Hoskel’s red-faced sputtering “–we act rashly, we’ll be all the worse for it. I need not remind all of you” –at this, she scans the rest of the table, making eye contact with each councilor as she goes– “that the peace between Piltover and Zaun is incredibly fragile right now.”

“A peace they’re determined to shatter!” Salo insists.

“We don’t know that,” Mel retorts, voice steely. “Based on our intelligence, there are none of the usual indicators in the messages that would link back to any of the well known, capable insurgent groups in the Undercity.”

Sometime in the pre-dawn hours of the night, several poster sized “notes” were glued to the Gala hall doors. Now, displayed on the center of the council table, they all appear to be made of similar butcher paper, with random, glued-down newsprint cutouts forming the various threats.

“SnOweDown Gala is Over!”

“We will DeStory The Gala!”

“No Gala! Merch-I-nts Will pay!”

“counsel Gala will fail!”

“we will End The Council!”

Grayson’s eyes narrow as she briefly scans each paper. She’ll have more time to examine the threats later –and assign her domestic terror taskforce to the incident–but even on a first glance… Something about these feels off.

Once the night patrol had raised the alarm, Grayson was rousted out of bed –out of her comfortable, warm, wonderful bed she shared with you–half an hour before five in the morning. The perimeter of the Gala Hall was locked down –and the Council Hall, just to be safe–while canvassing for witnesses began. Meanwhile, she’d been summoned to the fortified walls of the Council’s bunker just to listen to the Council leaders panic and argue with each other.

There’s not enough coffee in the world for this bullshit.

“I agree with Councilor Medarda,” Jayce pipes up. 

Out of all the council members, he’s the only one who maybe looks as fatigued as Grayson feels. Dressed in a simple, soot-smudged shirt and trousers, his hair is somewhat ruffled, and dark circles hang heavy beneath his eyes. He hardly looks the part of the polished, dashing boy wonder. According to the debrief from the officers in charge of securing and escorting the council members to the security bunker, he’d still been awake at his forge, hard at work on the next Hextech invention. 

“Any reaction we make right now is going to be based on emotion, not fact. Peace is in the best interest of our people. We can’t just throw it away because we panicked.” Quickly, Jayce hides a yawn with his fist, then scrubs his face with his hands. “Maybe I’m speaking out of turn, but doesn’t anyone else find it suspicious that these random anonymous threats showed up the day before the gala?”

Even with years of practice at keeping a neutral face, Grayson can’t help but perk up a little, impressed. Not so green behind the ears after all.

“What do you mean?” Councilor Shoola asks from across the table.

“To be frank, it seems convenient,” Jayce says with a tired shrug. “This is the first year the Snowdown Gala is open to Zaun’s leaders and merchants. A decision” –he shoots a sweeping glance in the directions of Hoskel, Salo, and Bolbok– “met with heavy protest by many members of this Council. And now, at the eleventh hour, the perfect justification to rescind our invitation drops in our laps?”

Councilor Shoola narrows her eyes –which, despite the hour and the fright surrounding the circumstances, are already accentuated with kohl liner and delicately gilded with gold paint. “Surely, you’re not suggesting that a member of this Council fabricated the threats?”

“There’s more than just the Council invested in this,” Councilor Kiramann interjects. “Many representatives of the Merchant’s Guild were also opposed to the Undercity’s inclusion.”

“You make it sound like both cities are waiting to implode,” Councilor Shoola fires back with a displeased sigh.

“If that’s the case,” Mel states, voice purposefully light, “then perhaps we ought to cancel the Gala entirely.”

The uproar from the table is immediate and flabbergasted.

That actually might be nice, Grayson muses, carefully locking her expression into perfect, professional neutrality. My enforcers could spend the holiday weekend with their families. I could spend the night home with a book and some wine. Quickly, her thoughts divert to you and your garters –the black lace ones she treasures so greatly. Or forgo the book entirely.

“Seeing as how no parties here are content with that solution,” Mel pipes up, nearly shouting to be heard over the chorus of malcontents, “then we shall have to rely upon the advice of Sheriff Grayson.”

“Thank you, Councilor Medarda,” Grayson replies once Mel makes eye contact with her. “At this time, the investigation into the source and veracity of these threats is ongoing. I have shifts of guards stationed around the Gala Hall, and the venue itself has already been searched and cleared of any explosives or other weaponry.”

“Did the search teams find anything else?” Councilor Kiramann asks, hands primly folded on the table before her.

“No. And there’s no indication that any sort of weapon or explosive device was installed, then removed before we could locate it, or that there were any attempted break-ins into the Hall or its grounds,” Grayson continues.

“What about the threats themselves?” Jayce inquires with a skeptical grimace. “Do we know where they came from?”

“It’s still early,” Grayson says, shaking her head. “However, our domestic terror division is confident that these weren’t issued by any of the regular incendiary groups.”

“How are we supposed to act upon your department’s confidence?” Salo asks, expression pinched with fear and disdain. “Your investigators surely wouldn’t have had time to enact a thorough investigation and interrogate the members of these groups. Are we just supposed to proceed on their hunches?”

She opens her mouth to reply, but a shuffle of blue out of the corner of her eye catches her attention. “Given how close we are to the Gala,” she hurries, quickly pinning Marcus with a steely glare, “there wouldn’t be enough time to conduct that number of interrogations and yield credible results.”

Marcus stares back at her. He’s pissed –the tips of his ears always turn red when he’s hot under the collar. His eyes flash to the table, then back to her.

Grayson narrows her eyes at him. Don’t you fucking dare. “I trust my domestic terror investigators,” she continues as Marcus falls back into line, “because they’ve had years to familiarize themselves with the activities of these gangs and their means of communication.” She faces the table once more, careful to make sure she looks at each council member while she speaks. “Domestic anti-terror is their only job. When our two cities first ventured towards peace, I founded this unit to make certain that greater access to Piltover wasn’t an open invitation for retaliatory violence. Since the division’s installment, only three major attempts at disorder have made it to the stage of viable threats. The rest were caught before the radicals even had time to lay the foundation for bloodshed.” She stares at Salo, making sure to deliberately lock eyes with the Councilor. “If they say these threats aren’t from our regular actors, then I will take them at their word.”

“A new group, then,” Bolbok suggests. “One your department isn’t familiar with.”

“I sincerely doubt it,” Grayson retorts. “The reason we’re so familiar with our regular offenders is because they have the income sources to sustain their efforts. In the Undercity, having access to that kind of money means affiliation with chembarons. Without those connections, there’s little chance of any kind of movement gaining momentum.”

“‘Little chance,’” Shoola repeats, displeasure evident.

“Which is why,” Grayson says with a deferential nod, “I have already installed greater security measures to ensure the Snowdown Gala is a peaceful and safe event for all its attendees. There will be officers on every entrance, constant patrols on the streets for the surrounding six blocks, and we’ve prepared escorts for both Piltovan and Undercity attendees to make certain everyone makes it too and from the event without issue. Considering that we were already prepared to check all guests and workers for weapons or other contraband, and that the site itself is secure, I can’t see what more we can do” –she glances at Mel– “aside from cancelling the event outright.”

There’s a pregnant pause as all the Council members look at each other.

“I’m sure you’ll go through every effort to keep the peace, Sheriff,” Councilor Kiramann finally allows with a nod.

Grayson nods back. “As I always do, Councilor Kiramann.”

“Then, if we’re all satisfied?” Mel looks around before continuing. “I think Sheriff Grayson’s efforts would be best served in overseeing the security for the Gala, and the investigation into these alleged threats.”

Grayson nods. “Of course.” She offers the table a short, respectful bow, then turns on her heel and leaves.

“You can’t just let Salo disrespect you like that,” Marcus hisses once they’re far enough away from the table to not be heard.

“What you can’t do is let him get a rise out of you every time he decides to be a jackass,” Grayson fires back. She presses the lift button for the ground floor, then pinches the bridge of her nose after the elevator doors slide shut. “As I have told you for over ten years now, there is a process for managing the council members. They panic, they whine like school children, and they demand everything they want like toddlers. The last thing you do–”

“Is just give it to them,” Marcus finishes. He rolls his eyes, then lets out a heavy sigh. “Where do they get the fucking nerve, looking down on us? We’re the ones who do all the work to keep this city going! They just sit in their posh mansions, fat on cream and wine!”

“Cultivated breeding,” Grayson replies drily. She smooths one hand over her hair, then straightens up when the elevator car lurches to a stop. She steps out, then flags down the nearest deputy. “Tell Captain Alston to report to my office with their preliminary report on the composition of the threat notes. Marcus, I need you to head to the Gala Hall and oversee the patrols and inspections.”

“Right.” Marcus nods, then hesitates. “What are you going to do?”

She sighs. “I am going to go find some goddamn coffee.”

…

Friday; 11:15am.

“–analysis reflects that the structure of the messages is incongruent with past threats and communiques used by all three major gangs.”

Grayson nods as Captain Alston hands over a sheaf of papers. She briefly skims the analyst’s synopsis, then flips through various photographs comparing the Gala Hall threats to previous declarations from Zaun’s most notorious radicalists. “How confident are they?”

Across the desk, Alston smoothes a stray lock of dark auburn hair behind her ear. “Considering that no reference has been made to any specific action, and that the attempts at ‘Lanes-speak’ barely makes it across the bridge?”

“Gods, you aren’t kidding,” Grayson mutters. Educational disparity aside, these are pathetically obvious fakes. The ‘misspellings’ are just sad. She peers closer at the pictures of the newest “threats,” then adds, “Not to mention that all these cutouts are from Piltovan newsprints.”

Alston blinks. “How do you know that?”

“Married a journalist,” Grayson says with a smile, “and then dutifully listened to her talk about classism and printing presses.” She holds the pictures out across the desk. “The spacing between the letters of the whole words is too even. The Undercity still relies on manually positioned presses. Piltover’s printers switched over to an automated Hextech-powered system four years ago.”

“I don’t think I ever would’ve noticed that,” Alston says, studying the photos carefully.

“The single letters taken from letterheads and titles are a giveaway, too,” Grayson adds. “It’s the calligraphy-style filigree. Several major publications moved towards stylizing their prints so as to appeal to a ‘more sophisticated’ readership. That” –she points to a particularly ostentatious ‘G’– “is from Precipice Print. The ones with the little Hextech marks in the middle of the capital letters are from Progress News. They ran favorable stories on Hextech in its infancy. In return, House Talis helped innovate the automatic press system and did the first installation for Progress News.”

“I never heard about that.”

“It was quite a scandal in the printing communities,” Grayson explains with a faint smirk. “Rival companies were quite worried that Progress News’ increased printing capacity would put their rivals out of business.”

Alston offers her a bemused half-smile in return. “I take it your wife kept you abreast about all of this?”

“In detail. Sometimes with daily updates.” She chuckles, but sobers again as Alston lays the papers on her desk for them both to examine. “Given time, I’m confident that a forensic chemical analysis of the paper cuttings will reveal that the composition of the newsprint paper is not a match with newsprint used by Undercity printing houses. And, call me biased, but somehow I doubt that self-respecting Undercity gangs would purchase topside newspapers for their intimidation efforts.”

Alston frowns, brows furrowing together. “Not even for the sake of symbolism? Or to shield Undercity printers from scrutiny?”

“Topside newspapers don’t circulate to the Undercity,” Grayson counters as she shakes her head. “It’s a deliberate blackout on the part of the city’s industry. Preserving jobs and relevance for local printing presses, not crossing the class lines, etcetera.”

“So, anyone who wanted to cut apart a Piltovan newsprint would have to cross the bridge, purchase it here, then take it back to their base of operations,” Alston surmises quickly.

“It’s a lot of extra effort for results they could get without potentially exposing their operations and intentions,” Grayson agrees, nodding. “Granted, canvassing might turn up something, but nothing about any of this” –she gestures to the papers loosely– “smells right. Especially–”

Alston raises one eyebrow when Grayson stops herself abruptly. “...Especially what?”

Especially since Zaun gained independence. Especially since new laws protecting the defendant’s rights passed despite notorious opposition. Especially since Zaunite merchants started becoming more competitive with Piltovan shipping houses. Especially since Zaun signed a shipping accord with Noxus.

Especially since Freeday street. Especially since the 28th precinct.

“Need-to-know basis,” Grayson says, schooling her expression into stern neutrality.

Alston’s eyebrows raise towards her hairline. She studies Grayson’s face for a moment, shock settling into trepidation, then cautious understanding. She nods. “I’ll be sure to keep you abreast of any credible information my team receives.”

Relief and pride flow through Grayson’s veins. This –among many others–was one of the reasons she promoted Alston and made her one of the domestic anti-terror department leaders. “Thank you, Captain.”

Right as Alston turns to leave, Lana opens one of the double doors that lead to the hall. She extends one hand, holding out one of the glass tubes used for sending messages across the city’s pneumatic system. “Sheriff.”

Instantly, Grayson recognizes the university’s logo etched into the glass at the top of the tube. She unlatches the cap, and withdraws a folded piece of paper with matching letterhead.

It’s been too long since we’ve taken some time together. Let’s get lunch and walk the river.

Grayson refolds the paper, tucks it into her breast pocket, then hands the tube back to Lana. “I’m taking lunch a little early. I’ll be back before two. Hold any messages for me until then.”

…

Friday; 11:25am.

Despite the biting chill in the wind, Grayson finds herself grateful for the miserable weather. It grants her a good excuse to turn up the collar of her nondescript tan overcoat and pull the brim of her bowler hat a bit lower. The enforcer’s uniform tends to stand out in crowds –especially the one tailored for the Sheriff’s rank. It’s much easier to hide in plain sight with the same outer layers everyone else is wearing.

You find her first. An Undercity kid through and through, hiding in crowds is in your blood. You slide your arm into hers without missing a step. “I just love the decorations this time of year.”

Grayson adjusts her stride to better accommodate you. “It’s quite festive.”

“Mm,” you hum in agreement. “The lights make the city look so lively.”

“Oh, yes.” She steers the two of you away from the Piltover’s center –and away from the mercantile district dominated by the Ferros clan. She glances at the storefront windows –scanning for tails in their reflection. “Lots of blue crystals this year.”

You snort without much amusement. “Always best to be en mode.”

Grayson smirks, then squeezes your gloved hand fondly. “And mark up prices for a ‘Hextech approved’ collaboration.” She grins when you bark out a laugh, then guides you down a side street.

“Meteorological reports call for snow in the next couple days,” you continue as you squint up at the overcast sky.

“I read we’re supposed to have proper accumulation on the night of the gala.”

“Oh, isn’t that just wonderful.”

“One might even call it auspicious.”

The cobblestone streets bustle with the usual amount of foot traffic. Despite the foreboding weather, shoppers are still out purchasing last minute Snowdown gifts, shift workers are thronging to and from factories, and vendors working outdoor stalls still call out to passersby.

Down the street, a flash of blue catches Grayson’s eye. Quickly, she ducks her head and steers you down a side alley before the patrolling enforcer has a chance to see either of you. “I was thinking about picking up dinner tonight.”

“That would be lovely,” you reply. “I’m practically drowning in grading.”

This used to be easier, Grayson thinks as she flicks her gaze upwards. Suspicious, she stops to turn halfway and inspect the rooftops of the buildings behind you both, rising above each other as they get closer to the city’s peak.

She likely wouldn’t see anything, anyway. Her eyesight is fine, and years of shooting have honed in her instincts for minute, faraway details, but the flash of seasonal lights and fluttering tinsel make parsing everything out nigh impossible.

Lips pursed in an annoyed scowl, she turns and starts walking again.

…

Friday; 11:40am.

Ahmadi’s is a small, slate-roofed diner that overlooks “Piltover’s half” of the river. Tucked between taller complexes built out of sandstone and granite, it’s easy to miss if you don’t know what you’re looking for. Heavy, cobalt blue velvet curtains trimmed with golden fringe and tassels line the front windows. The shop’s name is written across the windows in Farsi script and English in bold, bronze letters. The front door is painted a deep navy blue, with pretty red and yellow mosaic patterns painted on top that resemble poppies.

A brass bell rings overhead as Grayson holds the door open for you. Immediately, warm air thick with the scents of roasting meat, garlic, turmeric, and cumin washes over her. She takes off her hat and overcoat, hanging them on the racks provided just inside the shop’s entrance, then hangs your charcoal gray overcoat and forest green cloche hat up for you.

The two of you pick a booth all the way at the back of the dining room. The high, intricately carved ebony backs of the benches keep you both carefully hidden from the outside world. Right now, the diner is relatively empty. It would seem, as fortune would have it, that the two of you made it here just before the lunch rush. Even still, Grayson tucks herself further into the booth, just in case.

“I’m so glad you could make time for me,” you say, voice carefully light. Your expression is pinched, though, mouth tight and brows somewhat furrowed.

Grayson slides her hands across the table and takes your hands in hers. She rubs her thumbs over your knuckles. “I always have time for you.”

Five minutes later, the restaurant’s owner, Farhad, approaches with a tray. Two plates, each boasting a lamb shawarma sandwich with pickled vegetables, two cups of black tea, and a cucumber and mint salad to share. He sets the food down without a word, nods once to you both, then leaves.

Your hands shake as you pick up your cup of tea. You blow across the water’s surface, sending steam wafting in the air. “I knew seven of them. Former students.”

Grayson’s heart sinks into her shoes. She closes her eyes, grief-stricken on your behalf, then opens them again with a sigh. “I’m so sorry, my darling.” She puts one hand over yours when you try to pick up the serving spoons, then scoops some of the salad onto your plate for you. “How much have you heard about the latest publishing surrounding the Gala?”

“Precipice Print is already drafting a headliner for this evening’s print. Progress news has a more ‘in depth’ coverage piece ready to accompany a radio interview with Councilor Bolbok in the morning.”

“Fucking hell.” Suddenly overcome with exasperation, Grayson takes a long, irritated swig of her tea. “‘In depth coverage piece.’ There isn’t enough information to cover a fucking teaspoon! He’s just peacocking for his house’s foundries. They took a major hit in industry-level competitiveness this year because, as it turns out, assuring quality in your fucking multi-million dollar marketing campaign don’t mean shit if your quality assurance testers aren’t doing their fucking jobs.” She scowls as she scoops some salad onto her plate. “And then it hits my department as a fraud investigation, and then the Council is up my ass because they chose to cut corners. Idiots.”

Finally, a bit of light returns to your eyes. You smirk. “Eat your sandwich, dear.”

Grayson snorts, then does as she’s told.

You stay quiet for a couple minutes, mostly twiddling with your fork, before asking, “You think they’re connected?”

Why not? Another thread in the world’s shittest spiderweb. Grayson swallows, then catches your eye across the table. “Don’t you?”

“Of course,” you reply without hesitating. “You’re just not usually one for conspiracies.”

“I do prefer evidence to assumption. However,” she wipes her fingers on her napkin, “when an organization promoting unity between both cities –which so happens to be involved in a major labor violations protest–is suddenly wiped out with no trace, and a shitpile of false threats pop up against the year’s largest society party that, for the first time in history, is including figures from across the bridge, the possibility of simple coincidence suddenly starts disintegrating.”

“The threat notes are confirmed fakes?”

She nods, swallowing again. “I think they will be, once the investigation concludes. All of the letters used were from Piltovan print houses.”

You sit back in your seat. Shock washes across your face, before settling into disgusted bemusement. “They didn’t bother thinking about picking up a few Zaunite newspapers?”

“Or wouldn’t,” Grayson chuckles, darkly amused. She takes a few bites of salad, before stopping halfway through fourth when she realizes you’re staring at her. She frowns, confused, and swallows. “Something wrong?”

You inhale shakily. “‘Wouldn’t?’”

Too late, she realizes her mistake. Regret and panic sluice down her spine like melting snow, chasing away any exhaustion as adrenaline spikes through her bloodstream. Can’t stuff the shit back in the horse. Grayson sighs, then nods. “It’s a personal theory.”

“Based on?”

If she could kick herself, she would. She’d kick herself for marrying the single-most brilliant woman to have ever existed, and then she’d kick herself again because marrying said woman means all that unbridled genius is deeply, intimately familiar with the very patterns of her own logic and thought, and then she’d kick herself a third time because she doesn’t regret her equally foolish and intelligent decision to marry you in the least.

Grayson glances over her shoulder –not that she can see the front door–as the bell rings and the sound of chatter starts to flow into the dining room. She waits to make certain no one’s approaching your corner of the Ahmadi’s, then leans in and murmurs, “There are reports that Camille was seen near the Coalition.”

Your expression darkens, eyes going hard and murderous.

Which is hot.

And also troubling.

“You need to stay out of this,” Grayson insists.

“I can make my own choices.”

“And I love that about you–”

“These were my students–”

“Camille will kill you,” Grayson hisses. “It doesn’t matter that you’re my wife, or an esteemed academic. She’ll kill you because she can. Her house has enough money to outrun the legal system.”

“Gray–”

“I cannot lose you,” she grits out, voice cracking as sudden thoughts of seeing you, cold and still in your casket, flit into her mind’s eye. She reaches across the table, squeezing your hand tight as she tries to catch your gaze. “My love. Please.”

When you finally lift your head, the heartbreak on your face is the only answer she needs.

Grayson sighs. Bows her head. Curses silently. Then lifts your hands and kisses your knuckles. When she can bear to speak again, she says, “Then be safe. Please.”

You squeeze her hands back tightly, fiercely. “Always.”

Grayson offers you a watery smile, then nods at your plate. “You need to eat, too.”

You scoff, then pick up your sandwich and start eating.

A short while later, once you’ve both finished your food, you retrieve a small, inconspicuous envelope from your purse and slide it across the table to her. “I’ll get your coat and hat.”

Grayson thumbs open the unsealed envelope and quickly rifles through the papers folded inside. It’s easier said than done –you’ve managed to tuck quite a bit into a very small package–but halfway through, she realizes you’ve collected letters between you and your former students from the past six months. Names, addresses, mentions of friends and family members… She closes the envelope, tucks it inside her inner breast pocket, and says a quiet thank you to you (and to the universe for introducing her to you in the first place).

A few moments later, you return with her coat and hat, already dressed in yours. “I need to go. I have a meeting this afternoon.”

“Alright.” Grayson inclines her head for a kiss, then smiles as you wave good-bye.

Getting back into her hat and coat without leaving the booth is a bit of a trick, but she manages. She pulls her collar up around her face, then heads to the front counter, wallet in hand.

Before she can finish approaching, though, Farhad spots her and shakes his head. “She already took care of the bill.”

Grayson stops in her tracks, stunned. Then, as the realization hits, she laughs and shakes her head. Brat.

…

Friday; 4:15pm.

Caitlyn arrives at her office, shadowed by Marcus, precisely at a quarter past four. Her uniform dress is perfectly pressed. The cravat at her neck is flawlessly white –no doubt laundered within an inch of its life ahead of time. Her boots gleam, even in the waning winter’s evening light that streams through the windows of Grayson’s office. Not a hair out of place, not an errant speck on her uniform. She’s the model picture of both an Enforcer and the future head of House Kiramann –fastidious, duty-driven, and a consummate professional.

“Sheriff.” Caitlyn nods respectfully, then holds a manilla envelope out across Grayson’s desk. “I’ve curated a copy of my quarterly report, and the department statistics regarding the parallel Hextech market.”

Grayson quickly clocks the slight tremor in Caitlyn’s hand, and suppresses a fond smile. “Thank you, Detective Kiramann.”

“I–” Caitlyn reaches for the chair on the opposite side of Grayson’s desk, then halts when Marcus pulls it aside and sits down. “Um.” She falters for a moment, glancing between Marcus and Grayson, then straightens up and continues. “There’s some promising developments in the work on the Hex-radio piracy ring.”

Grayson nods as she flips the envelope open and begins examining the report. “What came from the investigation into the suspect tower sites?”

“Well–”

“Nothing concrete,” Marcus interjects. “The Canal Overlook tower site was in violation of some minor safety regulations, but there wasn’t anything else noteworthy.”

“...Actually,” Caitlyn continues after staring at Marcus for a moment, “I did a little digging, and I found some discrepancies in the interviews with the site workers.”

“What” –Grayson flicks a glance at Marcus when he sighs– “did you uncover?”

“Pages five and six,” Caitlyn supplies as she flips through her copy of the report. “Jerrick Mast, the site manager, reported that nothing suspicious had happened, there wasn’t any unusual interference on the lines that would suggest pirateers using the signals for their own broadcasts, no unusual surges of electrical power that would indicate a heavier load, etcetera. The employees in charge of the day and night broadcast teams, Dalton Bragg and Louis Wensforth, respectively, backed the site manager’s opinion. However, the day shift secretary, Hallie, reported ‘unusual static and chatter’ whenever the broadcasts would switch over to commercials, and she claimed that she saw a man matching the visual description of Shark’s Eye hanging around outside the building at least once a month when she was leaving work.”

Grayson frowns down at the page in contemplation. “Green glass right eye, black mustache, tattoos of nautical insignia and Kraken tentacles? He was arrested on charges related to overseeing the operations of a fake doctor’s office on the Promenade level that was distributing Shimmer to its patients last year.”

Caitlyn nods. “Released two months ago on good behavior.”

Marcus snorts. “Right.”

Grayson shoots him a glare this time –a warning. I expect you to model professionalism, jackass. Even when talking about the goddamn recidivism rate. “Did you follow up?”

Caitlyn nods. “I went back to the station with a photo array containing a mugshot of Shark’s Eye.”

“And?”

“She’d been terminated from her position.”

Slowly, Grayson looks up at Caitlyn. No shit. “Really.”

“The day lead said they didn’t have her address in their records when I asked so I could follow up with her.”

“I am presuming,” Grayson says, “that you already had her address from taking down witness particulars during questioning.”

Caitlyn nods. A small, pleased smile crops up on her lips, but she quickly smothers it by clearing her throat. “Yes, Sheriff.”

“Did you manage to follow up with the secretary elsewhere?”

“I did. I located her apartment building, then managed to track her down at her new place of work by asking the building’s supervisor if she’d mentioned finding a new job–”

Marcus rolls his eyes. “All on the department’s time, no doubt.”

“When else is she supposed to do it?” Grayson asks, staring Marcus dead in the eye. She waits the few seconds it takes for Marcus to gulp and sit up straighter, then returns her attention to Caitlyn. “And?”

“She refused to speak with me,” Caitlyn answers. “I showed her the photo array–”

“If she refused to speak with you,” Marcus interrupts, “then how are you supposed to establish an identification?”

“I know she recognized Shark’s Eye!” Caitlyn snaps. She glares down at Marcus, then turns back to Grayson and plants her hands on Grayson’s desk. “I saw it in her eyes! She saw him at the station!”

“‘Seeing it in her eyes,’” Marcus snipes back, “is not evidence. The black market for Hextech technology is growing by the day–”

“Her firing was retaliatory! The site manager and shift leads are in on the radio wave piracy! It’s the only explanation!”

“Or,” Marcus drawls, rolling his eyes again, “she was trying to get back at a boss she didn’t like. She could’ve been having an affair with one of the managers, it ended badly, and now she’s trying to get them in trouble by making up lies for attention.”

“You’re–” Caitlyn sputters and spins, red-faced. “You’re just saying that because she’s a woman going against the words of a man!”

Marcus lurches to his feet, scowling. “It’s the unverified statement of one witness against three other witnesses–”

“Who clearly all had time to get their stories straight–”

“Enough.”

Marcus and Caitlyn shut up and snap to attention in unison.

Grayson ignores both of them as she collects herself. She adjusts the position of her chair, straightens out Caitlyn’s report on her desk, and drinks the last of the coffee in her mug –which has gone cold. She swallows it without flinching –eugh–then sets the mug back on her desk atop a coaster.

Her mug is ceramic, painted with songbirds and berries, and glazed to protect the design. You’d made it for her at a “pottery for couples” class, some ten, fifteen years ago.

Grayson allows herself a moment of nostalgia and warmth as she thinks of you. Your curiosity. Your intellect. Your ferocity. She yearns, just for a moment longer, for this evening. For when she can finally be home, collapse into your arms, and bury her face in your tits.

Caitlyn and Marcus watch her like deer in headlights when she finally looks back up. They’re already standing at attention, but somehow draw themselves up straighter under her stare.

Grayson counts to five in her head to let them sweat just a touch longer. “This department is nothing without cooperation between our officers.” She smiles politely –which both Caitlyn and Marcus see for the threat it is, given how they both flinch. “I should not have to fucking spell out that I expect my officers –at all levels of employ–to treat each other, their work, and their experience with dignity and respect.”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Grayson lets the silence stretch out again, counting to fifteen this time because it’s the end of the work week and she’s tired enough to feel petty. “This” –she taps the report and looks up at Caitlyn– “is good work.”

Caitlyn perks up. “Thank you, Sheriff.”

“But,” Grayson continues. “Assistant Sheriff Marcus is correct. While I agree that the differing accounts and sudden termination are suspect, there isn’t enough information to establish anything credible.” She folds the envelope shut. “Keep searching. Cast a wider net. Cases are like tables –they’re built on four legs, not one.”

Caitlyn nods again, expression solemn. “Yes, Sheriff.”

Grayson nods back, smiles encouragingly, then shifts her attention to Marcus.

He recoils, just slightly. There’s even a few beads of sweat dotting his hairline.

Grayson bites back a smirk. “I trust, Assistant Sheriff, that you will lend Detective Kiramann your open, unfettered support in the course of her investigation.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And that you will accommodate the man hours it will take her to conduct her investigation without harrying or aggravation.”

A pained grimace, this time. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” Grayson nods to Caitlyn. “Detective.”

Caitlyn nods back, then takes her cue and exits the office.

“One moment, Assistant Sheriff,” Grayson says as Marcus turns on his heel to follow Caitlyn out the door, to the relative safety of the outer hall. She waits until Lana closes the door after Caitlyn, then locks onto Marcus with a withering, sour glare. “What the fuck was that?”

Marcus sighs and deflates like a slashed tire. He sags into the chair across her desk. “I’m sorry.”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t fucking cut it,” Grayson hisses. “Haranguing young female officers for doing their fucking jobs is a one way ticket to a disciplinary hearing and shitting away your pension!”

Marcus lowers his head into his hands. “I know,” he moans plaintively, voice muffled by his leather gloves. “I know.”

“Manifestly not,” Grayson retorts, “considering the chauvinistic dick-measuring display I just had to witness.”

“Grayson–”

“Don’t.” She narrows her eyes, watching as Marcus wilts before her. “Are you suffering from a traumatic brain injury? Did you go swimming in the Pilt and wind up with one of those brain-eating worms up your nose? Because, barring either scenario, I can’t fathom a reasonable explanation for the ogre-like performance you just gave.” She arches an eyebrow, unsympathetic, when Marcus groans. “For the record, the critics are panning you.”

“She’s a spoiled brat!” Marcus finally spits out.

Grayson stares at him, unimpressed. “I will infer you are referring to Detective Kiramann, a trusted and valued member of our force.”

“She is!” he seethes, finally meeting Grayson’s flat, cold stare with a look of outrage and disbelief. “She’s had everything handed to her in life, and she still expects it to be that way! She ignores any and all protocols for assignments, goes over any superior’s head without warning or prior request for a meeting, she’s constantly conducting her own investigations without authorization, or checking in–”

“This,” Grayson interjects, tapping the manila folder containing Caitlyn’s report with her index finger, “isn’t that.”

“You have to tell her ‘no,’” Marcus insists. “Give an inch, she takes a mile.”

“And this report,” Grayson repeats more sternly, “isn’t misbehavior. Caitlyn is right. The sudden termination and description of Shark’s Eye reeks of retaliation and intimidation!” She scowls, then leans over her desk when Marcus sighs and shakes his head. “I expect an officer of your rank and experience to be able to separate conduct issues from a tenable investigation. Pull this shit again, and I’ll put you on off-duty status faster than you can fucking blink.”

With one last sigh, Marcus finally straightens up and nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I mean it, Marcus. Your rank implicates the whole unit beneath you. Add Kiramann’s family name to the mix, and you’ve got the whole department yanked into a sexual discrimination lawsuit. If she wasn’t so determined to have this job, we’d already be in the shit.”

“I know.”

“Then fucking act like it.” With a final glare, Grayson waves him off. She sets Caitlyn’s report in a folder stand, off to the side, then picks up her mug and lifts it to her lips.

Empty.

The area around the broken sword was thick with a hateful aura, a miasma that shuddered when she stepped near. It was the sword, trying desperately to pull at the feelings clinging to it, to make them tangible. She already had an aura cast around her; a pale, gentle blue that circled around her ankles and held the miasma at bay.

“I’m not here to fight you,” she said to the menacing air, closing her eyes. “Not yet anyway.” When the battle mage opened her eyes, there was an odd purple glint in them. The miasma was now visible to her, a murky red substance that oozed and pooled around the ground. “I’m just here for one little part of you.”

There it was, a tiny flash of blue, threatening to drown in all of the muddled red. Aggie knelt down and, with a swift, practiced movement, swiped up the little blue patch. She shifted the small bit of blue into her left hand, and readied her staff with her right. It was only a second, a flash of purple and just like that, the miasma was reeling back from her strike and in her palms was left a little soul.

She was surprised at how big it still was, about the size and consistency of a gelatinous grapefruit. The gentle glow and purity of the blue meant it was still in good condition, relatively untouched by the miasma’s corruption.

“If anything can be said about you,” she said to the soul, now settled comfortably in her hands. “It’s that you fought to stay yourself, Damien.”

The soul didn’t react to her voice; they never did. She wasn’t surprised, but the battle mage, in some small capacity had hoped this one would be different. Damien was, despite all he’d done, a person Aggie would have liked to sit down and talk with. It’d been impossible when he was alive and, despite her hopes, she knew deep down it was impossible in his death.

“You’re a funny one,” she said, musing over the soul. “Normally, souls are almost weightless. They’re so eager to lift away to wherever they go to rest. But you’re so heavy, it feels like you’re sticking to my fingers a little. I guess that means you still have something you need to do here.”

Her expression went somber, wondering if this need is what kept Damien tied to the miasma. Damien, she was coming to realize, was a person who, with all his good intentions always took the wrong paths.

“I won’t let you be their martyr,” she told the soul. “You can still fulfill your purpose, but I won’t let you fight for them.”

No, she had an idea already in place for this soul in her hands. The soul of a boy who had wished his whole life to stand alongside his brother as an equal. While she couldn’t quite give him that, she could at least set him down a path to help another gain that strength.