#vander

Katya’s reply was sharp. She clanged the kettle down on the stovetop and lit the burner. Vander swallowed, looked back at the table, back to Silco. He tried to get a read on his Brother and what he might think of this. 

“They’re gonna notice,” Vander grimaced.

Ceramic clinked as Katya withdrew three mugs from a cabinet, and set them on the counter. 

“The board has their heads up their asses. There is so little money on that table that they will not notice.” She shoved her arm farther back into the cupboard, and pulled out the tin of tea bags. Then, quieter, under her breath, “It is the least they can do.”

The muscles of Vander’s jaw tightened, sending an ache down his neck. He looked back to Silco. His Brother’s eyes met his gaze, and sharpened into focus. Silco took one last pull on his cigarette before stubbing the end of it into the lid of a jar. He exhaled, the smoke hanging in a heavy fog around his head before slowly dissipating. 

“What about Will?” he asked. 

Katya divvied up tea bags among the mugs. “What about him? He is a coward. He will not say anything.”

As the kettle began to warble, she went to the icebox and wrenched it open. She froze in its cold wake, her irritation stunned into something softer. As if she’d suddenly remembered where she was, who she was speaking with, why they were there. Her shoulders sagged, and she reached into chest pulling out a near-empty pitcher of milk. And a small jar of yeast. There was a beat - a tight pause as loss needled new holes into their hearts - before Katya placed the items on the counter. She sniffed and wiped her eyes.There was an apology beneath her whimpering. 

Silco got up from the table and started to go to her. Katya’s face blistered, and she waved her hands at him dismissively. The kettle’s weak hiss began to build into a sharp whistle, and she dove to turn the burner off, to distract her. To keep Silco from having to comfort her. 

As Katya’s shaky hands poured the hot water into the mugs, Silco took up the small jar. His hips settled against the opposite counter, and he gently turned it over in his hands. The small grains of yeast rolled over each other. Silco watched. The muscles of Vander’s legs tensed, debating if he should move or not. 

The crack was small, infinitesimile, but Vander caught it:  the way the corners of Silco’s eyes crinkled too deep. Just as he brought the jar to his forehead, Vander closed the space between them, swallowing his Brother up into his arms. His chest muffled the cry that tore from Silco’s throat. Vander squeezed and pressed his nose and cheek into his crown of crow-colored hair. He smelled of cigarettes, Zaun smoke, and the ash from Augmentation Alley. Vander held tighter when the body in his arms tremored.

Katya watched, eyes red and puffy, tear tracks tightening on her splotchy cheeks. The mugs steamed next to her. She locked eyes with Vander as his chest absorbed more muted sobs. He seemed to decide something, and Katya’s expression opened in disbelieving vulnerability when his arm lifted to welcome her in. She was under his wing in a flash, barely having time to glimpse Silco’s tight, stricken visage. One of her arms wound itself around Silco’s back, the other slipped under Vander’s armpit and hooked itself on his shoulder. 

The tea was oversteeped by the time the three unmelded.

Silco didn’t fall asleep so much as his body shut down. His head rested heavy on Katya’s lap, the rest of him stretched across the couch cushions in a leaden jumble of long limbs. A damp spot was forming on her blouse where his open-mouthed, congested breaths huffed against her stomach. Katya carded her fingers through his loose hair, her other hand was in a fist propping her head up. It felt so heavy, her eyes felt so tired.

Vander stepped back into the living room, two hot, re-made mugs gripped in his hands. He placed one on the end table next to Katya’s elbow. She murmured a raspy thanks and carefully looped her fingers around the handle. Vander nodded and lowered himself onto the floor, careful not to spill his own drink. Enyd’s rocking chair sat still nearby. Zaun’s flag was folded neatly on its seat. On the wall, the clocked insisted on ticking, on carrying on. On moving forward.

“Had lotsa folks come into the Drop today offerin’ their condolences,” Vander whispered when the quiet became unbearable. 

There was a long moment where he thought Katya was not going to say anything. Sickly warm disappointment began to prick his cheeks. He badly wanted the silence to be filled. The tightness in his chest unraveled gratefully when she finally spoke.

“As awful as this is, I am glad there are so many who cared for her. Who will also miss her. She deserves it.” Her throat clicked, words building up at the back of her mouth. She took a hurried nip of tea before setting the mug down, and wiping at her eyes. Thickly, she said, “I wish I’d known her for longer.”

Vander dipped his chin sadly, spinning the mug in his hands. “Yeah. That was magic about her, though, wuddn’it? Make you feel like she’s known ya fer years. Make you into family with no effort.”

Katya nodded in agreement. Then a small, watery chuckle bubbled from her lips, and she swiped at the tears sparkling on her lashes. Vander cocked his head at her in question.

“Sorry,” she muttered, cheeks coloring. There was a wobbly, fragile smile on her face. “It is true. Also feels slightly incestuous.” 

Despite himself, a small, amused breath wheezed through his stuffy nose. “How d’ya think I feel?”

Katya’s eyes snapped to him. Sadness, pity, understanding, and gratitude swirled in their honey color. Her lips pulled into a thin line, eyes dropping back to Silco’s profile. Vander’s own gaze dropped to his tea, watching his warped reflection in its dark surface. Soon enough the clock’s ticking became smothering again. He looked to the wall where it was hung near the kitchen table, seriously considering taking it down and unwinding it. Then his eyes fell to the medical supplies. His gut twisted uneasily.

“Yer sure about havin’ taken all that?”

Unlike before, Katya stayed quiet. Vander’s insides knotted further.

“I’ll forge some paperwork,” she replied quietly. “Claim that people came in to get patched up. I’ll make sure to list miners that’re Children. They’ll help cover.”

Vander agreed, but his queasiness did not abate. 

“‘N yer co-worker –?”

“Will won’t say anything.”

“He’s not one of us –”

“No. But he is still a Zaunite; still a victim of Piltover. And he is too spineless to cause trouble. Worst he’ll do is guilt trip me.”

Vander nodded. He did not know Will, so there was nothing to dispute. He spun the mug around in his hands. The clock ticked on.

“I just don’ want nothin’ happenin’ to you.”

And he meant it. For her sake. But mostly for Silco’s. 

Grayson was not doing well. Hadn’t been doing well. Ever since Bone’s botched funeral. She’d never meant for it to go so badly. So much blood was on her hands. Blood of citizens; blood of the men and women she led. Staying composed the days following the battle was the hardest Grayson had ever worked. She didn’t sleep, didn’t eat; her insides were a sour mess. She attended mandatory meetings about Piltover’s disintegrating relationship with her Undercity; she stood at LeDaird’s side when he gave the eulogy for the fallen enforcers, stoic and phlegmatic. She did her job.

No one knew.

All of Piltover assumed that the Children of Zaun were the ones that had tossed the bomb. 

No one knew. And the guilt, the shame was a necrotic rot laying waste to Grayson’s soul. The truth was lodged in the back of her throat, begging to be set free. Fear and duty kept it firmly anchored inside her. Fear of what would happen to her: dishonorably discharged, tried for treason, sent to Stillwater. The Grayson name would be forever tainted. Her family would be shunned and ostracized for her mistake. Duty to her city and to Bone: she’d promised to protect Piltover’s citizens. She’d promised Bone she would see his vision through. 

Shame curdled into self-hatred.

Grayson was not home much anymore. There was too much to do: too many public relation situations to handle, too many enforcers and hired soldiers to keep in order, too much fear to assuage and keep under control. She spent most nights curled up on the stiff loveseat in her office. If she was able to sleep at all. Another casualty of guilt. As hard and awful as it was, Grayson preferred not being at home. At least at headquarters something was always going on, there was always a reason not to be idle. There was always a task to be done - trivial or important - that she could pretend somehow made up for her egregious misstep. Something that could distract her mind enough to carry on.

At home it was quiet.

At home the space between Grayson and the truth of her mistake thinned into nothing. Drink was a temptation, as was her service pistol. The whisky in her glass burned through the overgrowth of internal vitriol. The metal of her gun was icy on her temple; a kiss from a frostbitten loved one.

Ultimately, she didn’t pull the trigger. She poured the rest of the bottle down the drain. For good or ill, Grayson couldn’t do it. She couldn’t let her father’s daughter go out like that, fragile and unredeemed. She couldn’t do that to her city. To Bone. To the person she wanted to be.

The following morning, Kat groggily blinked awake. Her eyes burned, their lids swollen from disjointed bouts of tears. The sting of bile hovered at the back of her throat; grief causing her stomach to curdle. One of her arms was slung heavily across Silco’s middle, rising and falling with his breath. He was on his back, sharp profile pointed up at the bedroom ceiling. He was awake, eyes staring blankly. Kat pulled herself in closer, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

“Can’t sleep?”

“It’s too quiet.”

Kat deflated against him, her fingers tightened across his ribs. She understood. The silence pressed in on them.

Eventually Silco murmured, “It’s time to get up anyway.”

They stayed still for a while longer, as if waiting for something other than them rousing to break the silence. When nothing did, Kat slowly withdrew and Silco sat up. Quietly, they got out of bed and dressed. 

Few words were exchanged as they maneuvered about the apartment, readying themselves for work. Briefly, Silco hovered in Enyd’s doorway, staring at the bare bed and vacant chair. Kat approached, and gently took hold of his arm. 

“I’m going to get her today,” he said after several seconds.

Kat squeezed his bicep, and rested her head on his shoulder. “I will come with. Do - do you have any plans for - for her remains?”

The tremor that shook through Silco was slight. He turned away from the bedroom and wiped the sudden wetness in his eyes. 

“No. I - I am not sure what I will do. I never asked –”

The realization was nauseating. The small bite of porridge he’d managed earlier threatened a reappearance. How had he never thought to ask? Even at the end when it was clear that Enyd’s death would precede Zaun’s birth, how had he not asked? She would always die before him. How had he not thought to ask her? A dangerous flame of wild regret began to lick up Silco’s spine. It was quickly smothered, though, when Kat grabbed his waist and pressed her forehead against the space behind his heart. 

“You do not have to know right now. Or decide. I just wasn’t sure.”

Silco grabbed her wrists, lifted her hands to his heart, and pressed them there with his own. 

“What did you do with your father’s?”

Kat didn’t answer immediately. The pads of her fingers dug into his chest as if she might actually touch the organ beating within it. 

“There were none to have,” she finally said. “I had to leave his body in that alley. We did not have the money for an undertaker, nor cremation. And we had no friends to assist. I am not sure what happened to him. I imagine that when enforcers found him and that other officer they gathered them both. The enforcer I killed probably received a hero’s funeral. Papa was probably incinerated and tossed.”

Silco turned and gathered her up. “I’m sorry.”

Kat did not reply, just held him back and breathed deeply. She wished it had been different, but it hadn’t. Though there was an envious ache to it, she was grateful Silco would be able to decide what to do with his mother. 

Kat braced herself for the guilt trip she’d mentioned to Vander the night before as she approached the clinic, and saw the lights were still on. Will was waiting at the front desk when she walked in, arms crossed, a deep scowl on his face. Kat imagined that this was similar to how parents looked when their children arrived home after curfew, or if they’d gotten into trouble while they’d been out. Some secret and efficient network of adults informing the parents of their child’s transgressions before they returned home so the child had no hope of getting away with their crime. Her papa had never given her that look. He’d never needed to because Kat had not had the time nor the opportunity to get into youthful trouble. She could easily imagine Enyd giving Silco and Vander that look, though. The mental image of the two of them - who had both probably surpassed Enyd in height by the time they’d been Viktor’s age - shrinking beneath her maternal disappointment would’ve greatly amused Kat if she were not so wrung out. 

Kat closed the clinic door, and began to shrug out of her coat.

“Say what you need to.”

“Did you take the supplies?”

“We will get more. Eventually.”

“And you’ll just steal those, too, won’t you?”

Kat glared at him. Her eyes ached. She wanted badly to rub them. 

“I will give aid to those who need it.”

Will huffed and threw up his arms. Several monosyllabic sounds bleated from his mouth as he tried to decide what to say. Kat waited. Her head was beginning to pound, her intestines roiling like a bed of snakes in her belly. She really did not have the patience for this. Finally, Will’s anger deflated a touch. He took a step toward Kat, palms open to her. 

“You said before I knew nothing about you. And that’s true, apparently. But I knew your father, and he would not want you doing this, Katya.”

The fury that had left Will found its way into Kat’s chest. It blazed through her, burning away the despondent exhaustion that’d covered her for the past days. Teeth bared, she stomped toward him.

“This was my father’s idea! Taking supplies and medicines, and selling them was his idea. We needed to cover the remainder of Viktor’s tuition, and this is how I’ve been doing it.”

Will gawped at her. Clearly he’d never considered the idea that Kat had been stealing long before Silco came into the picture. Clearly he’d not known the elder Slostov either. It felt like his insides were seeping out the soles of his shoes, leaving his skin clammy and cool. He tried to speak, but again words failed him. It was several moments before any found their way onto his tongue.

“This isn’t the way, Katya –”

“There is no other way. Was no other way. I had to help Viktor. And then I had the chance to help Zaun. So I did. There is no other way,” she repeated. 

The conviction in her voice was definite. Will pressed anyway.

“And if you get caught? What will happen to Viktor then? The decisions you are making are not only dangerous for you, they are dangerous for him!”

Kat advanced on Will with such ferocity that he stumbled back. 

“Everything is already dangerous for him! Has been since the day he was born! Everything will remain dangerous until Zaun is free!”

“Everything has gotten so much worse since those Children of Zaun terrorists appeared. Look at the Undercity now!”

Kat pushed him, and Will tumbled into the desk. His back cracked on its edge, and he hissed in pain. 

“We are not terrorists!” She was shaking, bones rattling beneath her skin. “Just because you are afraid, Will, does not mean others are! Does not mean I am!”

Will stared at her, one hand propped on the desk, the other cradling the small of his back. His glasses had been shaken askew from Kat’s shove. Their lenses magnified the fight that was dwindling in his eyes, shrinking back into the flattened smallness that was his typical demeanor. Gingerly, he stood up and reset his glasses.

“This is not the way, Katya,” he repeated softly.

The heat of Kat’s anger was sputtering as well, but she kept the snarl on her lips, the spark in her eyes. But all she wanted to do was lie down. She felt sick.

“Go home, Will.”

He held her glare for a moment more before looking away. He limped for the coat rack, gathered his things, and left without another word. The minute the door snicked shut, Kat’s head and limbs felt like they’d filled with concrete. Her stomach took a sickening, stressed twist, and she stumbled for the small waste basket behind the desk. She spit a few frothy wads of bile into it before crumpling to the floor. The metal desk propping her back up was cool, her hands rested heavily in the messy cradle of her crossed legs. Closing her eyes, Kat tipped her head back against the desk. 

The blubber surprised her. It snuck up her throat without warning, and its suddenness, coupled with her exhaustion, allowed a bawl to barrel its way out of her chest. She wailed and shivered up at the buzzing fluorescent lights. She hoped that no one would come to the clinic. She didn’t have anything for them anyway.

Rynweaver frowned at the numbers before him. Blindly, he brought the rim of the crystal tumbler to his lips, and sipped at the amber liquid within. He grimaced, and looked at his drink. The ice cube was much, much smaller; his evening tipple watered down to a paltry imitation of it had once been. Glancing over to the timepiece near the blotter, he realized it was much later than he’d realized. He sighed, and set the crystalware down with an annoyed thunk. 

The tallbacked desk chair he used creaked and swiveled as he sat back into the plush leather cushions. He brought the pads of his fingers to his temple, gently rubbing at the ache forming there. The budgeting papers remained fanned across his desk, and his frown deepened.

The mine was still in the black. Cutting pay and reducing hours had helped, but they were not sustainable solutions. Some members of the board were already squirming, nervously thumbing through feedback from shareholders. Rynweaver was not concerned. They would weather this storm. He was just thoroughly irritated by the length of this rainy season. Even after placing so many invasive, militarized measures in the Undercity, Trenchers still were not talking. Some arrests had been made, but not enough. Nothing had uncovered the Children’s whereabouts, headquarters, smuggling tunnels. Nothing. 

It frustrated Rynweaver. Gnawed at him like a sumpvole that kept evading traps. He’d invested so much money in trying to eradicate this problem; called in several favors from peers across Runeterra for weapons and mercs. And, yet, had nothing to show for it. The Undercity’s bullheaded resistance to know and accept their place made his teeth grind.

Rynweaver toed his shoes against the leg of his bulky desk, and spun the chair to face the large window behind him. It was late. The sprawl of Piltover’s business district twinkled, mirroring the stars in the sky. His eyes tracked the Piltovan streets until they hit the River, and the pleasant, quaint lights of a nighttime cityscape was suddenly and harshly demarcated by piercing spotlights pointed at the Undercity’s Promenade level. He knew more of those invasively bright lights were peppered throughout the Entresol and Sump; illuminating every dark corner, exposing any shadow that may be carrying a secret. 

What would it take? What would finally tip the scale, and return the Pilt Valley back to its sacrosanct order? Something had to give. They had to give in –

A knock at his office door pulled Rynweaver out of his increasingly obsessive thoughts. He spun the chair back around, confused why anyone would be knocking on his door at this hour. No one but himself and his secretary were in the building, and his secretary knew to only come when called. 

“Enter.”

Rynweaver watched the doorhandle turn, then the young man elegantly slid in. There was an open pneumatube clutched in his hand. His secretary had carte blanche permission to read whatever was sent to the office. He was Rynweaver’s first filter; determining which correspondences were worth the magnate’s time and which got tossed. 

Who was delivering mail at this hour? And delivering mail that was apparently worthy of making it to his desk?

The secretary strode toward the desk, gait stiff, face a touch sallow. Was it from the hour, or the news?

“Sir. I apologize for the interruption, but this was just sent.”

He withdrew the paper from the glass tube, and handed it across the desk.

Rynweaver took it, and glanced down at the messy handwriting. “What is it?”

“A letter, sir. From one of the employees at the mine. One of the medics. He says there is something important you need to know.”

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