Peace Through Vigilance

“No, indeed not. One could argue it doesn’t even stop for…” He pauses, not for effect, but because it seems he has come up against a wall. 

His eyes follow a distraction down the road, a family, laughing, the children babbling excitedly with treats and the parents holding hands and smiling fondly at each other and at their brood.

“… Affection,” he finishes, belatedly, his smile still in place, though whatever had caused him to approach the sheriff seems somewhat cooled, and he seems a touch more polite than before. His claws stay tucked, as before, but he keeps his eyes steadier, now. And on her, rather than looking around at the wonders this city has done for the season. “There’s always something to be done, something that needs doing. Can’t have anything unlawful happening. Someone has to think of the children.”

Now that is something interesting.

...It’s impolite to refer to someone’s potential neuroses as interesting. She should endeavor to be kinder to Sanguinus, even if he seems intent on talking to one of the few non-celebrants. Noxus is an unkind nation, after all, and the culture must extend to its nobility. (A working hypothesis.)

“Someone does,” she agrees, and catalogues away her observations. “If only to make sure that no one has too much sugar.”

“What, that choosing nothing is still a choice?” He shrugs, still smiling. “I’ve never been much of a philosopher. A poet, certainly, but the grey matter tends to ache if discussion gets too tangled or weighty. And life’s too short to overthink things.” He takes a deep breath, and lets it out in a pleased exhale, looking around at the banners and bunting and all the well-dressed people making their way down Piltover’s still-snowy streets.

“So. No scones and tea for you today, then, mm?” His eyes turn slowly back to her. “Still on the job, even in the middle of a celebration?”

A man could not be more counter to her if he tried. But Sanguinus is having fun, which is the point of the celebrations - and hospitality is crucial. It really is a well-planned event. She’s simply here to make sure that its execution is as flawless.

Game.

She is still. She is calm. Caitlyn sits behind her desk, hands neatly folded in her lap, and considers the definition of ‘game’. It’s a noun. Something played with rules. They usually have only one winner.

Yes, she supposes it could be defined as a game. A years-long one. Have there ever been any games that long-running? Perhaps one particularly slow game of correspondence chess. The alliteration makes her taste bile. But yes. Game.

She considers the rest of Dianthe’s words next. You guys. As if they are a set. As if she has ever managed to peer into his mind beyond the surface. As if she and he had ever spoken. As if she knows anything of him other than what she can induce from cards and actions. Here is what she knows:

A steady hand. (Induced from his cards and his craft.)

Left-handed, potentially ambidextrous. (Induced from how his calligraphy is ever-so-slightly slanted. She had often wondered why he chose the left, if it was a choice at all.)

Agile. (Induced from his craft. Confirmed in Demacia.)

Slightly taller than herself. (Once again, confirmed in Demacia... and never again.)

Enough disposable income, or simply quick hands, to procure high-quality inks and cardstock. (Induced from his cards. She has turned each and every one over and over until she can conjure the texture on a whim.)

A mind to rival her own, if not surpass it. (It has been confirmed in appearance after appearance. Any other would have made a mistake. But he hadn’t. Until now.)

Here is what she does not want to know, but knows regardless:

He is Piltovian. (From Dianthe.)

His given name is Julian. (From Dianthe.)

He has blond hair. (From Dianthe.)

He is ‘kinda weird’. (From Dianthe.)

He is a middle school art teacher. (From Dianthe.)

She attempts to add the new pieces of information to the metaphorical puzzle. But the pieces don’t fit. The shapes and colors aren’t what she imagined in the slightest. Is she blind? Has she lost her gift? A teacher. Not even a professor. Does he loathe the spotlight outside of her? At least it is art. She has to imagine that she’d have started screaming if he taught maths.

She should have never pressed the subject. But how was she to know that Dianthe knew the secret? How was she to know that C (only C, she would wipe the other name from her mind if she were capable) had finally made a mistake?

It hadn’t even been due to her.

She knows why she feels this way. Why she feels a cold rage in her chest. Why that rage is trying to claw her hands and pull her to her feet. Emotions aren’t something to run from. Emotions aren’t something to be ashamed of. She’s known the horrible, ugly truth for years. But even the most miserable things can be tacked to the corkboard of her mind and made tolerable. She knows. But it has not affected her until now.

She has a caveat for one of her last thoughts. Emotions aren’t something to run from, if you can control them. Emotions aren’t something to be ashamed of, if you can control them. Butterflies, reanimating. Tearing free from their pins and beating their vibrant colors against the glass until it cracks - illogical, impossible, she knows - and they spill out.

The problem with partners, she has realized over the years, is that they never quite live up to her expectations. She fills in the unknowns (and even for her, there are so many unknowns) with hopeful inferences and goodwill. She tries so hard to see the best in people. It has been her downfall three times now.

Vi.

Dianthe.

C.

It has only been a few moments since Dianthe last spoke. She hasn’t moved from her stillness. She knows her quarry. She knows the responsibilities of her office and how she must uphold them. She grips her hands together until she knows that they’ve turned white and forces the words past her lips.

“I am, most assuredly! Your nation certainly knows how to throw an all-day soiree, mademoiselle sheriff.” He folds his claws neatly together, so they do not look threatening in the slightest. “I do so enjoy parties where excess is celebrated. And here we are at a party where there is an excess of choices.”

He pauses, and cocks his head slightly. 

“Even for those who choose nothing.” A faint smile curves his lips.

A note for next year: ask about some sort of identification for those who wish to participate in the day’s events and for those who do not. A bracelet? A badge? Something visible. Perhaps a color code.

“Dianthe.”

texting starter - an apologetic text

[13:23] I believe I owe you an apology. I judged you too harshly.

texting starters

[1:21] Ezra. I want you to think very carefully, and to recall the specifics of our previous case.

[1:22] Did any of the onlookers seem unduly interested in us, rather than the theft?

[1:24] We missed him. He was there. I know he was there, and we missed him. I can’t even recall what he looked like.

[MESSAGE DELETED]

It is not the first time Caitlyn has had someone try to kill her. But it’s certainly the closest they’ve gotten, certainly the closest they’ve- where are they?

Logically: she has been shot, cleanly. The bullet exited her shoulder (was it a purposeful target, disability rather than death?) and is elsewhere. Ezra can heal her. She will get back up. She will find the man who shot her. The case will be closed.

Emotionally: her eyes are wide and her breath uneven. She can see the emotions raging as another would. Fear. Anger. She tries to box them away before observer-and-observed collapses into outright, single-minded panic. The light of the Morninglord spills across her shoulder and seals the wound as she seals her thoughts. That’s better.

She breathes in deeply, eyes flicking to Ezra. He’s worried. He has the right to be. But everything is under control now.

“You’ve got me,” she agrees, bringing her hand to her shoulder. It comes away wet - from her clothes, however, and not the former wound.

→ STARTERS FROM THE COMMONWEALTH.

“The city is beautiful,” Caitlyn says dryly.

She looks the noble over. Noxian. Vladimir Sanguinus, if she is not mistaken. The metal claws are quite the indicator, and there is something odd about them in addition... she stores that thought away for the moment.

→ STARTERS FROM THE COMMONWEALTH.

“Ezra?” Caitlyn pivots, light on her feet, and comes face-to-face with what has Dianthe so concerned.

He’s drawn aside a large tarp to reveal a huddle of barrels, each stenciled with a string of printed Zaunite and a hazard symbol.

Chemical hazard. Chemical weapons. At least they’d had the courtesy to mark it before dumping it in her city, before planning to use it against her people, before- she breathes in sharply.

She turns to him, expression inscrutable.

“I brought them before the law,” Caitlyn’s voice is quiet, low, “or at least what passed for it at that time. They confessed. They were sentenced.”

She can feel the phantom weight of a rifle on her back. Not her own, but one of a simpler make. She can feel the trigger beneath her index. But she’d made the right choice, for her father’s sake.