Chapter Text
“Are you certain he’ll be down here?”
Vi shrugs, playing her torch’s light across the ground at their feet. “My informant was a friend of Vander’s. They don’t usually lie to me.”
Caitlyn frowns, her own torch chasing over crumbling factory walls. Lifeless, just like everything they’ve searched for the past few hours.
She’s rarely been this deep into Zaun, but whenever a tip comes in about one of Silco’s former underlings causing trouble, she and Vi are the ones to take it. For one, despite Caitlyn’s best efforts over the past month, few of her enforcers really care about what happens in Zaun, and even fewer have the experience to actually chase anyone down here.
For another, despite all the long hours they’ve spent talking about Vi’s past and trying to help her accept it, she’s still determined to be the one who deals with any of Silco’s lingering fallout.
And where Vi goes, Caitlyn goes. Even when that means pulling on a filthy set of mining clothes to search through abandoned tunnels which might house anything from transients to major drug operations.
Their presence in this dark and dingy alley, though, seems unnoticed by any but the stones. A few of which tumble from a crumbling wall as their footsteps—heavy, thanks to the ancient mining gauntlets on Vi’s hands—shake them loose. Dust billows from the disintegrating mortar, and Vi muffles a cough in a dirty sleeve. “Don’t think anyone’s been this way for a while,” she says, her voice hoarser than usual. To be fair, it’s been months since she’s come down into these parts of Zaun. No doubt her lungs are no longer used to being coated in grime, especially as breathing apparati are a standard part of enforcer gear. “We should head down the left alley, check out that warehouse that’s not falling apart as bad.”
“Lead the way,” Caitlyn murmurs, readjusting the shapeless hat which hides both her distinctive hair and her eyepatch. Likely a futile gesture, as even with her hood up, Vi is known to most Zaunites—and known to spend all her time with Caitlyn. Still worth the effort. A moment’s hesitation from an attacker is all the opening either woman needs to take down a potential opponent.
Vi turns toward the alley, but one foot snags on the newly-fallen rocks and she almost falls, catching herself against the ruined building. “Shit. Sorry,” she whispers as Caitlyn’s hands come up to steady her. “Not used to these fists. My old ones balanced way better.”
Jayce’s gauntlets, which were retrieved more than a month ago from the base of the Hexgate, and still haven’t been repaired. Caitlyn isn’t sure they ever will be, with their creator’s re-disappearance and with the future of Hextech itself uncertain. She grimaces at the reminder, but Vi is already apologizing. “Fuck. Sorry. I didn’t—”
“It’s all right,” Caitlyn says. It isn’t, really, but they both lost so much in the battle for Piltover, and gods know Caitlyn has said the wrong thing by accident more than once since then. “We’re on a mission. Let’s keep going.”
Vi nods and starts forward again, her steps less sure now. Caitlyn frowns, following a half-step behind. Vi’s not one to let a little thing like ten or twenty extra pounds of metal throw her off balance. Vi can sprint with a fully-armoured enforcer on her shoulders. The mining gauntlets should be no trouble whatsoever. Is she fatigued from their long search? Are her lingering injuries from the invasion still paining her?
Caitlyn peers closer at Vi in the dim underground lighting, but it’s too dark for her to make out Vi’s features, and Caitlyn doesn’t think suddenly shining a torch in Vi’s face would go over well.
Slowing to a stop, Caitlyn opens her mouth to say she needs a break—suggesting Vi should rest isn’t likely to be taken well, either—but Vi speaks up first.
“Just up here,” she whispers, beckoning Caitlyn toward a rusted metal door. Vi shines her light on the latch, revealing fresh scratches in the paint. A sign of life, at long last. “Be ready.”
Caitlyn nods, flipping out her rifle from its holster under her tattered cloak, and Vi kicks the door open.
We could have cut the lock, Caitlyn thinks fondly, but Vi’s tactic has its own merits. A shout sounds from within the building, followed by the scuffle of several someones scrambling to their feet and trying to run through the darkness.
Vi runs six miles before breakfast. Silco’s man doesn’t have a chance.
The struggle is brief, and Caitlyn’s backup unneeded. Moments later, they’re finally marching a handcuffed wannabe Chem-Baron from his hiding spot. His guards lie groaning on the factory floor, but Caitlyn’s long since learned from Vi that minor criminals like them aren’t worth taking in. They’ll get their lumps from fellow Zaunites and find other jobs, more or less legal than this one. Stillwater, despite the reforms Caitlyn has begun drafting, is far too harsh a punishment for ‘working for the wrong man’.
They hand their prisoner off at an enforcer checkpoint not far from the old factory district and continue back into the parts of Zaun which Caitlyn is more familiar with. Vi’s haunts, she fondly calls them in her own mind. Under Vi’s patient tutelage, Caitlyn is beginning to learn the language of signs and symbols marking various questionably-legal businesses, and has even patronized a few.
She resolutely turns her gaze away from a building she identifies at once as a hidden brothel, the neon lights above hopefully washing the blush from her cheeks, and studies her partner instead.
No matter how Vi disguises herself, she usually moves through these streets like a shark, causing lesser fish to part around her. She’s doing well today, though. Her head is downturned, as befits her mining clothing, her steps dragging a little against the grimy stone.
And then she stumbles into a wall, her hood falling back. Her features are thrown into stark relief by the neon glow of a shop’s sign overhead, and Caitlyn’s heart clenches.
Vi’s attitude, her stride, might not be deliberate affectations.
Her skin is paler than usual. Nearly as pale as the times she’d been bleeding out in Caitlyn’s arms, which is a scenario she wishes she was far less familiar with. Sweat beads on Vi’s forehead, and the neon doesn’t hide the flush on her cheeks, an angry and patchy red that obscures her faint freckles. Her bright gray eyes are too bright, shining glassy in the coloured lights.
“Vi?” Caitlyn asks quietly, but Vi moves to readjust her hood as though she hasn’t heard. Stares at the gauntlets covering her fists as though she’s forgotten she was wearing them.
“I’m fine,” Vi says lightly, and starts back down the street, her uncovered hair as bright as the neon signs above.
It’s clear by now, however, that she’s anything but. Just as clear that she’s in no condition to walk all the way to Piltover. Cursing her partner’s stubbornness, Caitlyn tugs Vi’s arm and ducks them both into an alley, checking first to make sure it’s unoccupied.
“Cait?” Vi asks, not meeting Caitlyn’s eyes. Vi’s voice is still hoarse, and Caitlyn curses herself for not questioning it earlier.
She cups Vi’s chin in one hand, and Vi leans into the touch, swaying against the brick wall. Her skin is far too warm, sticky with sweat. “You’re ill,” Caitlyn says. Trying her hardest to keep accusation from her tone.
Vi shakes her head, then winces at the motion. “Nah, I’m just hot, Cupcake,” she rasps. Flashing Caitlyn a smirk that falls flat in the dim light. “You should be used to that by now.”
“This isn’t a laughing matter,” Caitlyn insists. “You’ve got a fever, and it’s affecting your balance. And,” she speaks over Vi’s attempted protests, “it’s clearly getting worse. And quickly.”
Caitlyn sighs, her voice growing softer as her hand shifts to press against Vi’s cheek. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Vi is clearly mustering up another denial, but one look at Caitlyn’s determined worry deflates her. “It’s… not what you do,” she mutters instead.
Caitlyn raises an eyebrow, and Vi elaborates, low and rough. “Here, or… or Stillwater. You don’t let anyone know you’re feeling weak.”
A chill runs down Caitlyn’s spine, though she doesn’t let it show. Gods damn it, every time she thinks she’s grown used to Vi just saying traumatic things like they’re no big deal, Vi hits her with another gut punch. “Well, you’re in a relationship now. The rules have changed, love.” In the short time they’ve been in the alley, Vi has sagged farther against the wall. Her breathing is growing harsher. “You’re… you won’t make it back to Piltover in this state.”
“It’s not that far,” Vi says airily, and pushes herself off the wall. Caitlyn has to grab Vi’s biceps as she starts to topple. “Okay. Maybe… I guess you have a point.”
Caitlyn hisses a curse, and despite her weakness, Vi’s lips quirk into a smile. Just like they always do when Caitlyn uses ‘undercity lingo’. “Take off your gauntlets,” Caitlyn insists, consulting her mental map of the underground maze as Vi complies. “The nearest guard post is blocks away. I don’t know if I can help you get there without being recognized.”
Vi shakes her head, steadying herself against Caitlyn now. The heat of her body, usually a comfort, now a concern. “No need. I got a place. Close.” She slings one arm over Caitlyn’s shoulder, gauntlets dangling from the other hand, and gestures farther down the alley. “Left up ahead, then two streets down. There’ll be skinny metal stairs. Not easy to get up, but I can manage.”
Caitlyn wraps an arm around Vi’s torso and begins to drag them both forward, wondering what den of iniquity Vi is going to take her to this time.
There are no discernible signs or symbols on the worn brick building Vi directs Caitlyn to, though judging by the sharp scent of alcohol and the discarded bottles in the gutter, they’re not far from some manner of bar or pub. The stairs, as Vi warned, are a jagged nightmare of loose railings and weakened metal. Caitlyn ends up bracing Vi from behind with her own body, clutching the handrail, as Vi struggles to lift her feet from step to step. The mining gauntlets, tied together, hang over Caitlyn’s shoulder; the twenty pounds of solid metal make this even more difficult, but Vi is strangely protective of the ugly things.
The stairs lead to a row of identical metal doors, rusted and gleaming dimly in the weak streetlight, nearly a dozen jammed together along a stretch of wall only slightly wider than Caitlyn’s bedroom. Vi points down the row. “Sixth,” she mutters, and Caitlyn snorts. “What? It’s a classic. Needed something I could remember no matter how out of it I was.”
The reasoning behind this confusing statement becomes clear once Caitlyn slips the key into the battered lock and swings the door open.
The room is tiny, smaller even than a Stillwater cell, and just as chilly. A barred window on one wall lets in sickly orange light, illuminating the room’s contents. A low, squat coal stove, long cold, nothing but old ash within it now. A toilet, a sink, and a shattered mirror—Caitlyn notes, uneasily, that the shards emanate from a spot the size and shape of a fist. A rough sleeping area, nothing more than several patched-up sofa cushions arranged on a pair of warehouse pallets. A punching bag, hanging from the ceiling in one corner, misshapen from abuse.
And dozens of alcohol bottles. Clustered on the windowsill, behind the toilet. The cloying stench of cheap booze mixes with old sweat and coal smoke, and Caitlyn muffles a cough in her shoulder, her nose wrinkling.
Vi, on the other hand, coughs openly. And hard. The exertion up the stairs can’t have been good for her, and Caitlyn can’t keep her from collapsing onto the ‘bed’, releasing a cloud of dust that only makes her coughing worse.
“Breathe, Vi,” Caitlyn says desperately, closing the door behind her and dropping the gauntlets. She hesitates, then snatches a small bottle that looks marginally cleaner than the others. Rinses it and fills it with tepid water from the sink. Holds it in front of Vi, and rubs her back, soothing, as her body shakes beneath Caitlyn’s fingers.
Vi catches her breath at last, though it takes long enough that Caitlyn—holding her own breath without truly noticing—is growing dizzy. Drains the proffered bottle in one long swallow and leans back against the wall with a heavy sigh, seemingly unfazed by the state of the room.
“Never wanted you to see this place,” she mutters, her eyes glinting in the light from the window.
Caitlyn nudges one of the taller bottles, glancing helplessly at her own reflection in its curved side, then in the splintered mirror. “Are all these… yours?”
“Yeah,” Vi sighs, flopping back onto the horrendous bed. The cushions shift under her weight, separating, leaving one arm to rest on the pallet below.
Caitlyn compulsively begins to count the bottles, then forces herself to stop. The implications are clear, and damning, and churn her stomach even worse than the smell does.
Before Stillwater, Vi lived in The Last Drop. After Stillwater, Vi lived in Kiramman House….
Until Caitlyn left her in the ductworks.