Chapter Text
Prologue
Heavy smoke hindered his sight, and even his trained eyes could see only about seven yards away as the acrid exhalations caused by tear gas and chembombs seeped through the filter of his custom helmet, making the simple act of breathing a painful ordeal.
On the bridge that linked together the two incongruent halves of the same city, even light appeared distorted from the chemical fires still burning around him, giving a surreal and ominous red tint to the artificial environment of brick and iron.
Only a few months earlier, he would have never thought that such a view would come to haunt him, not in a faraway battlefield, but within the confines of his beloved homeland.
Corpses, limbs, weapons and rubble littered every square foot of the bridge. The unbearable heat, the weight of the heavy steel armor, helm and the thick smog slowed down his relentless trudge, his long strides echoing rhythmically in the eerie stillness of the narrow wasteland that once had been the main lifeline between resentful neighbors.
They had won.
It had always been an inevitability, since there was little a bunch of disorganized Undercity dwellers could hope to achieve against the merciless deployment of Piltover’s finest. Nothing but a futile martyrdom for a futile cause. Clamoring for better living conditions, food, salaries, the only response they received was unsympathetic steel.
And lead. Fusillades of lead.
The mighty force once used to shield the city, both cities, from external threats had cracked the rebellion into a veritable bloody pulp. They hammered into protesters' heads the concept that picking an unwinnable engagement is seldom worth the cost of leaving a family to fend for themselves, down there, below dirt.
For him, it was just another victory to add to the list. Another task accomplished. Father would be proud. The family would be honored. That’s all that really mattered in the end. The Council would be able to still feel safe and comfortable upon their high thrones of gilded brass.
At the meager price of a few hundred more bodies on the altar of peace and Progress. He couldn’t really bring himself to care about the lives of the human refuse from downtown that so carelessly threw away their future.
Although he hardly saw himself as being above the masses, the Champion of Piltover was a sight to behold. Everyone in the city of brass recognized him and his almost mythical feats.
Children adored him as a hero, men and women alike cheered when they saw him parading at the head of his Expeditionary Corps, in his shining armor in the fashion of a knight of old, flowing cape and tall helm surmounted two long decorative metallic wings, a valiant protector, a true Champion of peace, order and Progress.
The last in a long line of fighters that his clan had been generously providing to the city for hundreds of years. His foes also knew him as the Wolf, a nickname adopted from the snarling, beastly canine snout etched on the visor of his helm.
Few knew that under plate was nothing more than a young man, eager to take up arms for his duty to his home, to his family. His clan. Everything a good soldier, a good citizen should have been, according to tradition.
As the armored warrior strode towards the middle of the walkway, intending to assess the situation, he could only see more scenes of the devastation and death brought upon their enemies by he and his men together with the Enforcers. Finally, something else manifested in his limited field of view. He could gaze upon two small shapes, one crouched on the ground and another, smaller one lagging behind. Just two abandoned kids in the midst of the carnage.
Hostiles? Wouldn’t be the first time these rebel subhumans used child soldiers.
No. No weapons… no awareness... And everyone else is already dead. Although it won’t hurt to take both of them to the Hall of War for interrogation.
He was closer now. He could clearly see the older, pink haired girl, crying uncontrollably over two mangled bodies, while the younger stood a distance, shaking in fear.
Behind her, the tiny, blue haired kid noticed him as he emerged from the fog, looming over them like an iron colossus out of a fairytale. Her blue eyes locked onto him in an expression of pure terror, the paladin’s steel boots echoed loudly in the heavy silence as he approached, his labored breath a droning hum as it percolated through the filter.
Thud, thud, thud
“Vi—…Vi there’s a monster…” the cub muttered, shaking like a leaf.
The older girl immediately responded, glaring at the knight wearing a grimace of pure hatred, her face disfigured by rage, dirty and covered in tears, dirt and smoke. Just a pair of trencher kids looking for their relatives, he bet.
Without warning, a muffled groan grabbed the soldier’s attention to his right side.
Only thanks to a quick dodge he was barely able to avoid the heavy body that was thrown at him from afar, behind a thick plume of smoke. He grimly took notice of the lifeless Enforcer now lying at his feet. His helmet and face had been completely shattered with blunt force into an indistinct mash of teeth and flesh. There were still more rebels lurking around, after all.
Only one more swing and it would all be over. His hand went to the hilt of the greatsword on his back, which he drew menacingly towards the unseen opponent. He could see from the corner of his eye the two terrified children ducking for cover at the sight of the enormous, sharp, slab of bloodstained steel gleaming in the crimson dusk, the older girl cradling the young in her arms in the vain attempt of protecting her, knowing well she couldn’t possibly stop the warrior if he ever wanted to strike.
“SHOW YOURSELF, VERMIN!” His deep voice boomed as he assumed a combat stance, feet wide and his sword raised high above his head.
The Hound, huh.
It took no more than a glance for the soldier to recognize the man who had just attacked him. Older, about as tall, and definitely larger than he was, his signature iron gauntlets sheathing his hands. With over a decade of experience in robberies, violent crimes and more recently sedition and rebellion, Vander was most likely one of the main responsibles for the riots according to the information provided by the intelligence.
It was finally time to bring the long-wanted criminal to face justice.
“You... you bastards…” he muttered under his breath in an accusatory tone.
The Champion couldn’t tell why, but he felt compelled to argue with the soon-to-be-dead riffraff.
“Us? Have a look around at what you accomplished today. You will not escape the consequences of your actions,” the soldier vehemently retorted, receiving no reply from his interlocutor.
The two exhausted warriors, Wolf and Hound, glared reciprocally in silence for a few seconds, both seemingly ready to get the jump on the opponent at any moment.
clank—clank
The impact of the hefty gauntlets falling on the pavement reverberated in the air, as the mountain of a man unceremoniously let go of his armament with a fatigued exhale. His expression morphed from rage to resignation, his gaze shifting from his armored foe to the petrified girls still sitting beside him, surrounded by death.
He could scarcely reconcile the scene that was taking place before his eyes with what he knew of Vander, a ruthless and implacable bruiser.
“Fuck this. We failed. I failed. Everyone. You’re right, I am the sole responsible. Take me if you must, Piltie , but let these poor girls go.”
He sounded like a man who had lost the very reason to see the sunrise of the next day. In a way, he did. He had lost so much more than what he could see now scattered around the bridge. Pride, resolve. Respect.
The Champion’s otherwise expressionless mask studied the frightened children and then Vander, with a wolfish look, methodically considering his priorities.
There was no point to keep the carnage rolling. Even if he captured or killed Vander, his companions would just persevere on planning insurgencies, raising the stakes until they either got what they wanted or got themselves and everyone else across the river sent to a better place.
Dealing with internal enemies was nothing but a waste of manpower and resources, when the real dangers to Piltover lied far away. Noxus. The pirates of Bilgewater. Demacia. His father had told him that plenty of times, and he experienced the reality of it himself on the field.
But maybe there was another solution. It was worth a try, now that the chief of the rebels had literally thrown his weapons at his feet. With a dramatic flick of the wrist he lowered his greatsword, walking closer to the once fearsome man quaking in front of him.
“Get these two and crawl back into the Sump, trencher,” he ordered flatly.
Gawking in shock, Vander was at a loss of words, as he clearly expected either a summary execution or a lifelong incarceration for his subversive conduct. He could only stare with his mouth agape at the enemy who elected to spare him, despite all logic and all regulations.
“Consider this a binding pact between us, Hound of the Undercity. Go home and tell your ruffians that your war is over, dismantle your organization, disarm your revolutionaries. Make them bow their heads to you, with force if necessary, and keep your filth out of my city. This will be our deal.”
“What- what you ask is...” Vander replied meekly.
“Necessary, if you seek to prevent yet more pointless deaths. And death is the only reward you and your people will claim if you keep on rising up, wave after wave. This bridge and the loyal wardens behind it mark the downfall of your hubris, Vander. Today you reaped the fruits of your arrogant endeavor. You discovered that you will never prevail against us. Against Progress.”
A practiced, well-spoken litany that the Champion had to force himself to believe in, from time to time.
It was hard for Vander to dissimulate his wishful intent to kill the Piltovan commander with his bare hands, to object, to rebel against the vile topsiders and their minions who abused and oppressed his people every day of their miserable existence, meeting every plea and protest only with batons, lashes and life sentences.
Surveying the devastation around them, he knew that in truth there was little, no, nothing he could do about it.
Thus, bowing his head and holding back the tears, he put his metal fists back on his belt and grabbed both the weeping girls in his arms, ready to carry them back down to a safe place. Home.
“Good.”
That was all the Champion of Piltover had to say as he turned on his spurs and began to walk away.
The Champion couldn’t hope that this solution would work in the long term. Honestly, it wouldn’t have mattered much, as father had assured the Council that a similar episode would not transpire again, no matter the human cost of retaliation.
Decade after decade, a cleansing was getting more and more palatable to the leadership. But maybe fate did have something different in store for the Undercity, after all.
Deeply rooted in his ruminations, the Champion couldn’t spot the look of pure hatred stamped on the little one’s face, blue haired girl, as he disappeared again into the fumes towards the other shore.
He couldn’t have possibly known that his shape, armor, helmet, wings, would be ingrained forever into the girl’s brain.
Furthermore, he could have never predicted the influence that this moment, his choice, would have on the future of the twin cities.
And the disasters that were to follow, in time.
~ Five years later ~
“Noxian silk? Are you insane Jer?” Even the host’s winded voice seemed to reflect his plumpness.
“Don’t you know it’s all the rage among youngsters these days? Aspects, sometimes I forget you’re supposed to be an entrepreneur, Hans.” What the guest lacked in fat, he made up for in ostentatious, obscenely expensive garments.
“Well well, apologies if I’m not an expert in teenage fashion, besides my informer within the Textile Trading Guild tells me that the Council is about to raise the tariffs on Noxian imports yet again…”
“Eheheh, my friend, you think I don’t know what those vultures are up to? That’s why my accountant is having them classified as hospital supplies, with a little help from the customs officer!”
“Brilliant! You absolute rascal, but what abou—"
As much as he would have loved to keep listening to such an enchanting business-related conversation, Bartok knew he had better things to do than snooping on merchant talk, thus he quietly moved along the corridor, the thick carpet muffling his light steps, away from the room where the two fine gentlemen were chatting.
Truth be told, it felt great to be able to once again stroll around the halls of high society. Being surrounded by the luxury and excess of the Piltovan upper class, enjoying the paintings, the statues, the gold and brass. He didn’t know how good he had it back then, when he could still call this place home .
Even if it was for just a short while and… less than noble reasons, just breathing aether that wasn’t the rotten and poisonous air of the Undercity was good enough. He would never get used to that . Gods, he loathed that dump. The unwashed, uncultured, cutthroat bipedal roaches that called it their nest too.
Well, not all of them, only most.
Getting into the opulent mansion hadn’t been difficult, in particular for someone well versed in the arts of illusion sorcery, his domain of expertise, thus able to turn invisible for a brief time with a simple trick of refracting light.
Thankfully, Piltover still had no countermeasures against such an exotic type of eldritch arts. The Ethos that prohibited any kind of magic within the city walls often proved to be a hindrance to real Progress as much as it was an assurance to the citizens, so terrified by the arcane in all its forms. Idiots.
This job would just be another one to add to his moderately extensive list of successes, which was already making several of his less magically inclined colleagues downtown turn green with envy. Well, it would be if this time he actually succeeded in stealing actual valuable pieces and not just pretty baubles, as it passed in his last escapade at the Academy Museum. Ancient pre-Demacian pottery wasn’t exactly highly priced, even by the most cultured fencers around.
Sevi will be frothing mad with envy tonight. What do you think, Sticks?
The art of speech, much less that of telepathic communication, was not part of a familiar’s set of skills, so the small crow covered in purple and white feathers in a polka dot pattern, as per usual perched on his shoulder, did nothing but nibble at his left ear with his curious beak.
Without a sound, shadow or any visible trace of his presence, Bartok moved to the adjacent room, which, according to the tip he gathered beforehand, held an appropriate amount of unguarded treasures that could comfortably fit inside his satchel on the way out.
Sure enough, by one of the large windows that faced a gorgeous view of the upper city, all the gilded rooftops gleaming with brass and shimmering blue, there was a wood and glass cabinet containing a number of antique and precious items from all over Runeterra.
Bartok wished he could spend a few minutes admiring the exquisite craftsmanship on that sublime Shuriman jade mirror, but he was there for a specific reason. So he took his bag and-
BOOOOOOOOOM
The entire building shook to its foundations as an earth-shattering roaring blast exploded outside. Strong vibrations rocked the glass panes of the windows, quaking the books on the library shelves and shedding the portraits down from the walls.
A panicked Sticks began scurrying on his young master’s shoulders, flapping his feathery wings and cawing in fear.
What the Void?? An attack?!
The young thief momentarily forgot about his job and rushed to throw open the windows, hopping to the balcony beyond just in time to glimpse at what looked like a large deflagration of pure blue, arcane energy detonating a large portion of an apartment block a couple of miles from where he was.
Rubble was thrown up in the air for a dozen yards and he could see the immediate chaos that unfurled in the streets among the unsuspecting pedestrians. He didn’t need a spyglass to take note of its epicenter.
Wait a minute.
That apartment complex.
That’s the Academy District.
Oh boy, those idiotic muppets…
“For the horns of my grandm—" His expletive was cut short by the sound of heavy steps and outraged shouts.
“Gods! What in the Maker’s name is going on- WHO’S THAT? THIEF! CALL THE GUARDS! THIEF!!” An infuriated male voice called him from behind, and he saw the fat landlord pointing a trembling sausage finger at him.
It didn’t take long for the suddenly very much visible Bartok to grasp the state of affairs he now found himself in.
“Blast! There's ALWAYS something, isn't it?” Bartok mumbled to himself as he sprang up and, kicking the handrail, leapt from the fourth floor balcony down to the sloped rooftop below, bustling towards the billowing dust column with a depressingly empty pouch.
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She was cornered.
After the blast that doomed their robbery attempt Powder ended up getting separated from her group, first in the ruckus with the enforcers and then the thugs that ambushed her and her friends. Frantic, Powder had run across halfway through the upper city attempting to shake off the gangsters that were on her tail.
Alley after alley, now she found herself alone, on a walkway nested between a large warehouse and the sea, the young burglar had no way of losing the pursuer who was already aggressively stalking towards her, mere feet away.
Devoured by fear, the young, trembling girl with short, blue hair had no choice but to keep falling back with uncertain steps until she hit the railing. This was it. Before, she had already tried to get rid of the thug with one of her nail bombs but, as usual, it failed miserably, going off in a colorful and harmless puff of smoke.
Right now she wished she was as strong as Vi or even just as fast as Mylo. Or at least that her bombs worked properly.
Stupid Mouser, why didn’t you work??
I always mess up, always always always!!
The young hoodlum was wielding a cudgel in his hand and didn’t seem to be bothered by the concept of using it against the feeble, scrawny girl. She knew full well that beating a frightened defenseless child was not outside the rules of the Undercity, or lack thereof.
“You little sumprat, gimme that!” The thug commanded in his hoarse voice, pointing at her precious — for her — bag.
With no other choice left, still clutching to her chest their meager loot, Powder finally made her decision.
She grabbed her haul and tossed it over the railing, watching it curve before plunging into the calm waters of the bay.
Splash
“What did you do you stupid kid?!”
Looking at the satchel sinking down the murky depths, the thug got even more furious at the thought of having spent so much time pursuing his prey just to go home empty handed. Someone had to pay.
Powder covered her face with her hands as her legs gave away and fell to the ground. She was scared and angry at herself, because once again it was all her fault.
Please… Vi… Someone help me!
“...ⱳħɏ đꝋꞥ'ⱦ ɏꝋᵾ ꝑīȼҟ ꝋꞥ ꞩꝋᵯēꝋꞥē ɏꝋᵾɍ ꞩīƶē…”
The bully reacted with shock at the ominous, deep, distorted voice manifesting itself somewhere, everywhere in the surroundings, and turned his gaze around, unable to pick up a single source.
“ᵾꝑ ħēɍē ƀꝋɏ…”
It spoke again, like the frigid wind on a moonless night.
The gangster’s face lost every trace of color, his mouth wide open as he stared terror-struck at a dark, swirling mass of formless shadows coalescing in a corner of the adjacent building. It was a vision out of a nightmare, a really bad, drug fueled one. He could feel the cold on his skin, a terrible, eerie sensation as the creature, or whatever it was, inexorably crept towards him, slithering.
He could see a large pair of horns, a number of pointy and sharp appendages flowing in the black smoke surrounding the creature.
Lidless, flashing yellow eyes appeared in the mist and seemed to be impaling his very soul, a rift similar to a knife cut in the vague shape of a mouth was smiling maniacally.
“...Ī ⱳīłł đēꝟꝋᵾɍ ɏꝋᵾɍ ꞩꝋᵾł, ƀꝋɏ…” Its intentions were crystalline.
Without needing any additional encouragement, the terror-stricken street rat uttered a visceral scream and started running away from the scene as fast as he could, without sparing a single look at Powder, who was still with her butt on the dirt, her round puppy-like face caked in dirt and tears, staring at the ground and crying silently, shutting herself own world of fears.
“Oi.”
“I said oi.” Only now Powder became aware of the creature which was towering over her, calling her in a weirdly nasal voice.
A shape… smoke… Horns.. Teeth … is it.. The Monster?!
“Good grief, pull yourself together Pow, you ninny! It’s just me.” The sound of fingers snapping in annoyance pervaded her ears.
Having finally regained a semblance of lucidity, everything started making sense to Powder. It wasn’t exactly a monster, and certainly it wasn’t THE Monster of the bridge that still haunted her worst dreams, many years later, even if he did share a couple of his characteristics.
In fact, the young man, boy, person who had just saved her from a hefty pummeling was someone whom she knew quite well.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Dressed in black thief leathers, a dark purple cloak, carrying an array of belts, pouches and bags all over, Bartok wasn’t exactly tall for his age, a painfully average in fact.
Lanky and awkward as he was, with his physique he wouldn’t have been able to scare away a humble mugger if it wasn’t for the illusionist ploy he had just performed, a simple show of lights and shadows that in regions more used to the arcane was considered little more than a parlor trick.
That whole school of sorcery was usually frowned upon and dismissed by the mages that wanted more ‘direct’ firepower, but there was little that could sway Bartok’s fascination with it, one he had since infancy. His funky looking bird familiar was as usual sitting on his shoulder, busying himself by pecking on the collar of his shirt.
The only quirk that set him apart from the hundreds of other pickpockets and small-time thieves that infested the Undercity was his vastaya heritage.
The chimeric appearance of vastayas, mortals touched by extraplanar influence, varied greatly depending on their heritage, from animal features to wings or halos, but in his case it had only “gifted” him a small set of horns sticking from a mop of dark hair as crowning a set of pointy ears, a fairly lengthy nose sprouting from his otherwise gracile yet sharp lineaments, as well as thick claws on his fingertips and a slender, long, prehensile tail that ended with a flat, spear-shaped tip.
A skin tone ranging from light blue to purple depending on the natural light, bright yellow eyes and a row of sharp fangs completed the picture of the scoundrel that had been working for her dad for the last couple of years, alongside Powder’s big sister and older brothers.
It was no secret to everyone that his ancestors had by some means intertwined themselves with the Void, the outer plane of chaos and evil, in ages past.
“B-Bartie?” was all the startled Powder could mumble as she identified her ‘colleague’.
“Oh that’s me alright. Care to explain to me what the sod just happened? Did you see the explosion? The whole city’s tits up and there are Enforcers crawling everywhere. Why was that scum chasing you? And where are the others? I almost ran into an entire Enforcer platoon in full riot gear on my way here, you know? Things are getting really, really bad, so spit it,” he mercilessly barked at the weeping child.
The older teenager had never been anything close to patient, empathetic or understanding, even less so after the failed heist, or rather heists, and the current dire situation that he was sure had something to do with the group of clumsy trenchers, the irritation with his colleagues was so obvious that even his thick Piltovan accent started to slip from his permanently frowning lips as he pressed on the poor kid, his tail swinging left and right.
Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on the brat. Maybe not. Ah, who cares.
“It’s all my fault, all my fault… we—Vi, Mylo and Claggor were on a job and then…then... I’m so sorry Bartie…”
Sobbing and whimpering profusely like a little girl who had just totaled their mom’s precious heirloom mirror, Powder once again found the pavement to be a very interesting location to focus her eyes on.
She couldn’t even bring herself to talk back at the petulant interrogator, as she used to do whenever he was being too much of an asshole. Bartok could not help but shrug and roll his eyes at the not quite uncommon state of the little runt.
Truth be told she was clumsy and weak even for a girl her age. The only reason she had managed to survive so long was the family that sheltered her despite her glaring shortcomings.
“We’ll just get them back down in the Undercity. Come on now, hop on you little bugger. Just don’t squish Sticks too tight.”
“M’kay…” she mumbled timidly.
After sniffing a bunch of snot and collecting herself a bit, Powder brushed her short side braid behind her ear and jumped onto Bartok’s back as he knelt to let her get up.
He knew full well that the young girl wasn’t exactly an athlete when it came to doing a run downton across rooftops, pipes, cranes and all the obstacles that separated the Undercity from Piltover proper, both geological and artificial in nature.
“Wait! Mouser’s still there!” she chirped, pointing at her useless toy.
Of course. Can’t let blasted Mouser here all alone by himself can’t I now? Why does Vi even let her fiddle with nail bombs, anyway?
Blowing a frustrated sigh, he snatched the small grenade and passed it to Powder before disappearing from the alleway in a split second and heading towards one of the many hidden subterranean trails that bypassed both the bridges and the liminal zone of the contested Promenade ward on the other side of the river, leading directly to the Lanes below.
The girl clenched her arms tight around his neck, eyes still red and nose still runny. Bartok couldn’t dispel the uncomfortable hunch that it was going to be a long day of major efforts without payoff.
_________________________________________________________________________________
The broken, worn out clockwork tin soldier that sat abandoned atop of a trash pile, beside a drainage pipe, in the upper Undercity was smashed into a million pieces by the springy punch of a muscular, very much enraged and violent teenage girl with short reddish-pink hair.
Everything had been going so well until, for some unknown reason, the apartment they were burglarizing literally blew up, along with half the damned block.
Then it only went from bad to worse.
“Where the FUCK is Pow? We need to go back topside and get her RIGHT NOW!”
Vi’s proverbially short temper was already waning during their descent through the set of pipes that connected the two cities, and now that they were safe from the Enforcers she could finally let go of hours of pent up frustration — in her favorite way — by unleashing her brute force on guiltless objects in her immediate surroundings.
“She was ahead of us, she escaped! She’s not as fast as us but I’m confident she should arrive any minute now. Calm down, Vi!” As usual, Claggor was trying to smooth out Vi’s edge by being rational, though on such occasions, when Powder was in danger, it rarely worked.
“I told ya we shouldn’t have brought the kid with us! She’s just a little kid! She always screws up and you know it!” Mylo’s spiteful attitude was getting on Vi’s nerves more than usual and she seriously considered giving him a good wallop.
At least he’d shut up for a few seconds. Instead she stood there clenching her fists, gritting her teeth and making an effort in preventing another explosion of violence.
The three of them had somehow muddled through their escape from the Enforcers and dealt with the ambush set up by the Deckard’s gang along the way, in no small part to Vi’s fighting prowess. They were now waiting by their usual waiting point before the entrance of the inner Lanes, via one of the main elevators.
Only a couple of minutes later, spurred by an unquenchable agitation, Vi took the initiative again. “That’s it guys, we’re going UP!”
Once again Claggor attempted to talk some sense into her. “But Vi! The whole damn city is upside down, there are tons of Enforcer out there and—"
“You ladies looking for someone?”
The trio of trencher kids turned their heads in surprise towards the well known, Piltie sounding voice as Bartok emerged undetected from a gloomy backstreet, carrying two shapes on his back, one considerably larger than his usual, embarrassingly colorful pet bird.
“Whatcha doing here, Prince Horny? Thought’ya had a fancy Piltie party to attend, with frills an’ shit,” Vi spat, as grouchy and pissed as ever, arms crossed as she blew a strand of hair off her face, glaring at her peer.
If there was something Vi could never tolerate about him, aside from his frankly abrasive personality and aloof disposition, was the fact that he was a one-hundred-percent born and raised topsider. And despite his more ‘unusual’ looks, Bartok surely acted like one.
While he may have directly had little to do with the suffering his people inflicted on hers on a daily basis, his attitude always remained that of an egotistical know-it-all who thought himself better than everyone else down here. Besides, his magical heritage gave her the creeps, even if her little sister Powder loved to see him perform his tricks on occasion.
Children.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Why does this absolute raging cunt have to be so pretty? May the Void take me now.
The two clearly did not rub along. Yet, ever since he met her for the first time a couple of years prior, Bartok developed a bit of a crush for her.
An irksome weakness, given how strained their relations were. Beautiful blue eyes encased in an usually scowling and fierce, but girlish visage peppered in freckles. Fairly short but built with sinewy muscles and shapely enough. Not at all his type, and yet…
Despite himself and his teenage hormones, he managed to keep his usual aloof tone. “Honestly, shrimp tart, I’m the one who should be asking questions around here. Also, I believe you dropped this sack of jittery bones out there.”
“Look who it is, got a good grub this time, lizard man?” Mylo ragged at him, undeterred by Claggor’s hand on his shoulder.
Without further ado Bartok released Powder — who had been hanging onto him all this time — from his back to her unsteady feet, and promptly ran into her sister’s arms crying like the little sniveler she was. The older sister squeezed her as hard as she could without hurting her and the two embraced for a bit, while the boys stared at each other awkwardly.
There was no denying that Vi loved Powder more than anyone else and that she’d do anything to protect her, of course as long as ‘anything’ didn’t involve not bringing her eleven year old sister with her to risk her life for a few washers.
“Ahem.”
The attention moved back to Bartok as he theatrically cleared his throat.
“I assume your esteemed excellencies are somehow connected to whatever went down in the Academy Quarter? I saw a building explode with my own eyes, right as my long planned heist went bust. I hope you won’t blame me if I put it on your tab, alright?”
Of course he knew that the only thing he would receive was a punch to his guts if he kept antagonizing his ‘comrades’, however not even a few years underground could change the principles his education had instilled in him.
Three pairs of eyes narrowed on him, Mylo snapped and drove his finger on Bartok's chest, who responded simply by mockingly baring his fangs.
“Listen here buddy , we don’t know what the crap happened and certainly it’s not MY fault if your skinny Piltie ass failed another job. At least we gained something out of this, right?” His hard gaze fell on Powder, still enveloped in her sister’s arms.
Once again at the center of attention, the mousy blue girl found it difficult to find the words, so sure that everyone would accuse her of being useless once again
“Ehrm… I’m so sorry... But one of Deckard’s was running at me and so… I lost it…. I lost it all! Bartie scared the bad guy away but it was too late…”
Vi threw a semi-thankful look at Bartok, who for once made himself useful by saving her beloved sister and bringing her to home safe and sound, albeit emotionally distressed.
“Aw, godsdammit! All that work for NOTHING! She jinxed us again!” barked the short spiky haired boy.
“Stop it Mylo, we don’t know what did it!” Was Claggor’s attempt at defusing the pointless argument.
“Mph. As if this makes it any better,” retorted the horned teen.
“Screw you! All that matters is that Powder is safe and with us, now zip it and let's go back home. And I’ll talk to Vander ‘bout all this.”
Not wanting to stir the angry trencher pot any further, Bartok threw his arms in the air in capitulation and gave her a sideways look.
“Lead on, tough girl.”
Powder waddled closer to the horned boy and wiggled her finger at the purple crow roosting on his shoulder.
“Bartie, can I hold her for a bit?”
“Huh? Sure, whatever. You know it’s a he right?” he pointed out, prickled by the insinuation.
“Yes, but he’s so cute and the pretty feathers make him look girly enough…” Much to Bartok’s dismay everyone else started giggling, but he still passed her his familiar.
“Just take the blasted thing and quit prattling, Pow. And don’t hold her upside down or she gets pissy. Him . Flip! ”
The earlier tension now lost to general hilarity, except for Vi who made an effort to keep the usual stoic facade while the little gangly girl buried her face into an overexcited Sticks’s plumage.
“When will you fit in that mutant brain of yours how to cuss like a normal person?” Mylo jeered.
“Pardon? Normal people? In this sodding heap of rubbish?” Bartok retorted, arms crossed in defiance of the general hostility.
Without so much of a mutter, Vi took Powder’s hand in hers and shouldered Bartok out of the way, who in response was only able to hide his blush as she impacted into him.
Forget it, idiot. She doesn’t even like men, doesn’t she?
With no additional taunts from either side, the mismatched group approached the nearest downward lift to the Lanes. For one reason or the other the mood was dour.
But all in all, no one was particularly enthusiastic to receive a sound lecture from the Hound.
_________________________________________________________________________________
The walk back to the Last Drop was a smooth one, though a far cry from a victory lap, considering they all had to go home empty handed and likely have to face the consequences of their blunder, regardless of how unintentionally it came to be.
Explaining what exactly had occurred above the surface was something they gladly left in Vi’s hands, as no one dared to disagree about her being their informal leader.
Working for the most influential political figure in the Undercity allowed Bartok to learn quickly about its labyrinthine layout.
Far from the repellent slums of the Sump, The Lanes, with their eclectic and chaotic architecture and neon lights dotting the ambient were by far the safest and most well off area of the Undercity, relatively close to the ground, air quality not as bad as other more polluted parts of the hive, it was home to the largest conglomeration of commerce and business, legit or not.
The Hound of the Underground always made sure that a guise of order and stability was in place, if not across the city at least in the area of the Lanes themselves. Gang violence was at its minimum, the last truly scary serial killer, a cannibalistic savage known as the Butcher of the Lanes, had disappeared years ago. A far cry from Piltover but still better than the anarchy that reigned before the bridge riots.
The inhabitants that dwelled in its perpetual, sunless gloam formed a rather tightly knit community considering the diverse ethnic and cultural background of the population, helped in no small part thanks to Vander himself and the exploitative policies of the Council concerning the Undercity, which had the undesired effect of banding together the rabble in their defiance against oppression.
Before being banished from his homeland, Bartok had already visited the place on some occasions, but it was only during his stay under the Hound that he really learned how it worked, how it didn’t, and how to operate in it.
Apart from working as a thief like the other orphan kids, mainly topside due to having excellent knowledge of the sunlit landscape above. In the dark, he also secretly provided Vander with information concerning potential threats and enemies from up and down, basically acting as a private spy.
This was also one of the reasons why the retired crime lord and rebel decided to enlist a Piltie in his service, about two years prior, something unheard of among the outlaws of the Undercity and which garnered him a noticeable amount of suspicion from his peers, former comrades in arms, suppliers and dealers alike.
From his part, Bartok hardly had any choice concerning his current arrangement, he certainly could not return to Piltover and had no meaningful connections outside the twin cities.
Thus, he had begrudgingly accepted his new role, despite the sting of having to serve under a trencher bandit. Without alternatives he soon started to take advantage of his comparatively privileged position. Not exactly how he’d imagined himself in the future as a kid, but one had to make due with what life rolled for him.
The main street was packed with merchant stalls, booths selling everything ranging from exotic food, second (more like third or fourth actually) hand clothes, various natural and unnatural remedies, all kinds of scrap and junk the local trash collectors could put their hands on. Races and cultures from all over Runeterra seemed to converge here, destitute immigrants, wanted criminals, mad prophets, exiled scientists, basically anyone with no other place to go.
The many different races living alongside one another had the side effect of making Bartok feel less ‘abnormal’, especially compared to his childhood spent in the relatively homogenous topsider society, where his peculiar physical attributes made him the object of unwanted public awareness and pointed fingers. Nonetheless, whenever it came down to culture and habits, he knew he would never fit in, not that he had ever wished so.
After all, he always strived to remain a proud Piltovan, albeit one cast out by his own people, the imprint given to him by his formal education always manifested itself in his posture, intonation and way of talking to people, and it made the locals wary of him if not entirely hostile. That included his own companions as well.
The party of misfits advanced rapidly towards their base with Vi at the front, followed by a tense and jittery Powder on her heels.
The trio of teen boys accompanied them a short distance behind, with Claggor frowning at Mylo in disapproval as he attempted to steal some fruit from a stall while Bartok ruined his efforts by casting a simple cantrip that lit up the air around his head with a rainbow of colorful lights, making him drop to the ground his snack, followed by an attempt to punch the cheeky culprit that ended up in a fumbling failure and the other two boy erupting in laughter.
The short moment of amusement was over quickly when they arrived at the Drop, and got in via the back entrance that led to the living space downstairs, where the Hound was surely waiting for them.
_________________________________________________________________________________
The big man known as The Hound of the Underground was being eaten alive by anxiety in the confines of his little fortress as he waited for his kids to be back.
Having learned of the huge commotion topside, his thoughts immediately went to Vi and her friends who were still out there in one place or another, still unaccounted for.
After an indefinite amount of time, the back entrance to the lower level of the Drop finally opened and his beloved girls and boys poured inside, accompanied by Bartok who maintained a composed, if not detached, distance. Surging relief momentarily filled his soul, made heavy by the foreboding gut feeling that told him things were going to get even worse from now on.
Today’s affair was not something that could easily be forgotten or fixed by letting the current events play out, hiding until the public opinion cooled off.
“Everyone alright?” he asked, concerned.
“Never better,” Mylo said casually, feigning an unfazed facade.
“Why am I hearing about an explosion, four children fleeing the scene, a chase with the Enforcers? What the hell were you thinking?” Badly concealed anger was leaking through Vander’s tone.
“Boss, I’ll tell you what, I don’t see why this has anything to do with me so…” The snotty vastaya clapped his hands and got ready to bail, not exactly subtle about his disinterest.
I expect better from you, boy.
“You stay here!”
The big man’s snarl made Bartok’s wagging tail freeze as he raised his arms in surrender, his tail plummeting to the ground in defeat. The argument between Vander and his daughter promptly resumed and everybody else sat in silence.
“We can handle a real job.” Vi surely wanted to give the impression of someone who knew what she was doing, even though the circumstances clearly showed otherwise.
“A real job? You blew up a building! Did you even think for a second what could have been the consequences? And where did you even get the tip?”
“Little man.” It was the first time Powder spoke, in her soft high-pitched voice and all present turned to her. Vander addressed Vi again.
“I told you the Academy quarter’s off limit,” he grumbled.
“Why? They’ve got plenty and we only got scraps. When did you get comfortable living in someone else’s shadow?” Hurt in his pride, by none other than his own daughter, the Hound was so close to losing it.
May Jannah help me with this one.
“Everyone else, out!” he barked furiously.
The girl was getting too old for these kinds of stunts. She had to learn, one way or the other.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Bartok knew that meant only one thing: a serious scolding session and some father-daughter business.
Only Vi remained in the room while the rest of the group made it through the door and sat in the corridor outside, brooding and moping. Slouched as he was with his head against the wall, Bartok’s sensitive ears let him hear fragments of the private discussion, lecture to be precise, that was going on in the other room.
“... do you trust him? … worked for the Council. He’s one of them . … always will….”
“I’m sorry … things I can’t tell you … when… blows over ... at the moment …have faith in me …”
Nothing new in the Fissures then.
It was the silly looking boy with a hedgehog for hair who broke the uncomfortable hush. “How come he lets you go in the rich quarters while we’re stuck on the Promenade at best?”
“Are you daft? It’s because I know those zones even better than the Enforcers. Besides, it doesn’t matter if I get caught, doesn’t it?” Bartok chided, hands entwined behind his nape.
“Stop talking like that, Bartie! It’s not—"
Powder’s screeching plea was fortuitously interrupted by the door opening once again, and Vander marched in with Vi in tow.
“From now on, you’re all laying low. I’m going to Benzo’s.”
“We’re coming with you,” Vi promised, eagerly wanting to restore her father’s trust.
“Brilliant. Suit yourselves. Try not to lose any more pieces this time around,” Bartok said absently, nodding at an oblivious Powder who was still caressing the damn purple bird.
All he got in response was Vi flipping him the bird in his face while a disheartened Vander shook his head in quiet disapproval of the two vitriolic youngsters.
Powder waved her goodbye and dropped the crow, who replied simply by nibbling at her fingertips and swiftly hopped back to his owner. One after the other they all left the room. Peace at last.
Before leaving, Vander gave Bartok an imperceptible nod and a gesture to discreetly signal him his intentions. The two had developed a way to secretly communicate basic information whenever the former crime boss wanted to either send him on an errand or let him know of a particular course of action without alerting everyone else. It came to no surprise that the big man had way more secrets than it seemed.
To him it wasn’t a mystery that the situation wasn’t going to settle on its own, blood had been spilled, buildings blew up, however involuntarily, and topsiders needed, no, had to bring someone in to make an example. That was how things worked regardless of how illogical it was, Bartok couldn’t even see anything wrong with it given his upbringing.
What really mattered was that Bartok understood perfectly the intentions of his boss: he was going to meet with a liaison from the other side, that is the head of the Enforcers herself, Sheriff Grayson. There was no doubt that if anyone uncovered the highly clandestine deal between the two leaders Vander’s position as the chief of the Underground would be compromised.
Bartok was aware of the necessity of this pact in order to keep the two sides away from involving themselves in an escalation of reciprocal violence as it happened before the Bridge Riots. The fact that Vander had told him about it long ago was proof of his confidence in him, as far as he knew Benzo, the revolutionary turned trader, was the only other person aware of the agreement.
There was nothing else to do at the moment, after watching the group exit the door he decided it was time to get himself something to chug upstairs. Truth be told, he did not worry one bit about what exactly transpired in that apartment.
_________________________________________________________________________________
The reception Bartok received as he strode into the common room of the Last Drop was as cold as ever. The interior was warm, with suffused lights and the rustic atmosphere created by the cozy timber furniture and detailing accompanied by an amiable background music performed by a live band, who was anything but professional. Likely a bunch of passionate musicians doing what they loved for little to no financial gain.
As if anyone had extra money to spend on entertainment. The arrangement was supposed to be pleasant for the many guests of the establishment, and it would have been so if not for the fact that the Piltovan guest knew he would never be accepted there, regardless of Vander’s personal opinion.
“And here comes our favorite little Piltie goblin, another botched job, I’ve heard?” Sevika addressed the crowd of patrons with the usual intent of provoking Bartok into a direct confrontation, taking advantage of her strong reputation among the locals and a much more imposing presence.
It was not surprising that the bystanders erupted in laughter at her command. Rolling his eyes, Bartok plopped his butt on a stool and slumped on the bar’s counter.
“My, my Lady Sevika, you look dashing this evening, care for a drink? Hey barman, give me a double Noxian brandy!” He had no reason to act so flippant, but the gods knew how tired he was and soon cheap alcohol would free him from today's worries.
A few hours of artificially induced fun would be good enough, even among these societal rejects.
He deposited Sticks on the table, prompting him to start rapping on the sturdy wooden panel, leaving a trail of indentations. Wasting his hard earned cogs on booze was the least he could do to offset the dread of his unfortunate condition, right?
I should probably eat something first, shouldn’t I?
The Ogre, as her less friendly acquaintances called the tall, muscular, dark skinned woman from behind her back, chuckled coarsely and went to sit on the spot beside him. “As if you’re old enough to drink. Or built sturdy enough to keep the booze inside your fancy gut.”
Bartok retorted dryly “Piss off. You donkeys don’t even have a drinking age. And I thought you fissure folk were the hardy ones, are you trying to disappoint me Sevi? ”
A harsh laughter was all he received, unsurprisingly it was followed by a new order for some obscure liquor brewed in the least contaminated areas of the Sump. She nodded at his drink.
“I thought our little pet voidspawn hated Noxians.”
“Indeed. Decent booze, though. Ionians and Demacians as well, all barbaric and brutish lesser civilizations who ought to be put in check. Nevertheless, still not as bad as you dysgenic rats. How was it? Trencher, trencher try to run, you won’t escape the Enforcer’s gun , ” he snickered to himself while sipping that slightly acidic, stomach churning liquid.
Sevika dropped the facade of her smile and glared at him with a glance that could penetrate reinforced concrete “You know why I haven’t gutted you yet, kid?”
“Because of my smashing looks? Is it the tail? Enlighten me dear,” he said with a mockingly deadpan expression while sipping his spirit. It would have been wise to have more than one if he wanted to go through the night.
“Because the man who I admire the most really doesn’t want you dead for some bullshit reason.” Sevika chugged her obscenely strong liquor as if it was pure water from a Freljordian glacier.
“A hardly unique motivation, half the Undercity would love to dismember a former serviceman, the other half would gladly watch.” His professional past wasn’t really a mystery. Parts of it at least.
“Soldier, Enforcer, Councilor, barrel maker, doesn’t matter as long as you’re one of them .”
It was now Bartok’s turn to empty his own glass. “Indeed, I’ll always be one of them, thankfully, so if you want to act please do something about it, but don’t make me wait. I hate waiting.” He had very little reason to act though, considering that the woman could easily break his pencil neck single handedly.
His admittedly limited magical abilities could do little against that. On days such as this he really felt like he had nothing to lose. Maybe he never really did, not since his arrival in the Undercity. The two of them spent a while at the bar guzzling down liquor and exchanging not-so-veiled threats of physical violence, mostly from Sevika.
Hearing her hoarse cackle a couple more times meant that it was going well right? Maybe? Not?
The music was getting louder and the alcohol in his vein really started to intrude and jumble up his usually rational train of thought as well slurring his utterances. He was well aware that his singular racial traits had no positive effect on his capacity to withstand hangovers, while he had no idea whether or not they incentivized his inner ramblings.
Gods I wish SHE was here. No you idiot, she likes girls! Well, you’re not quite the manliest man around are you? I’m not even a huMAN. I still have a di-
“You really need to get laid, kid,” Sevika asserted gravely, agitating her drink.
He snorted a few drops of booze from his nostrils.
“That doesn’t sound much like a proposal, and you won’t see me cavorting with hookers anytime soon, so…” He started rolling his pinky in a lock of his hair.
“Just letting you know, a picky mutant and a limited selection don’t go hand in hand.” She chuckled. “Unless… don’t tell me it’s our Vi you’re lusting after?”
“...”
Bartok’s knife-shaped ears twitched, then he slumped forward, meekly gazing at the bottom of his glass.
Her boisterous laugh alerted every neighboring table and as if it wasn’t enough she exuberantly shoved his elbow, causing him to spill half his brandy. “One: you’re a Piltie. Two: you’re a guy, barely. Three: you’re an insufferable, nasty little creep that she’d hate even if you were the hottest big tittied bombshell of the Sump. ”
All ruefully true. Although he wouldn’t have relinquished his beloved, distinguishing traits for any amount of female company, even Vi’s. Still, though…
It took him a few more minutes of thorough roasting for Bartok to realize that a very familiar melody was playing on the stage. He found himself with his face planted on top of a glass like a complete idiot. By now Sticks had carved a sizable chunk out of the table. Sevika had already disappeared from his mind.
“Hey, I love that song!” he exclaimed, dusting himself off.
He didn’t remember why exactly came to hold a microphone in his hand, only that somehow he was holding it. Was that even the first time? The only thing he loved as much as practicing his magic was music, more precisely singing. And acting. And… The occasions in which he practiced this rather atypical hobby were limited only to when his mind was altered enough to let him forgo any — justified — embarrassment.
The crowd started howling and cheering, as he found his bearing and settled among the band and other accidental vocalists. Drinking did indeed make his life easier, even if just by proxy, by making the local clientele less likely to throw mugs and chairs at him.
“YEAH BRING IT ON PILTIE!”
He was feeling high enough to at least have a go at it. If only she was here. No, not Vi. Her . Maybe then they could dance again, frolic and tumble like in the good old days…
For the first time in a long while a genuine smile appeared on his lips.
“GIVE US A GOOD ONE TOPSIDE GOBLIN!” an unidentified patron yelled from below.
And so he sang, trying his best to keep up with the band and everyone else trailing along in drunken glee. He didn’t see Sevika bellowing like a madwoman, or little Powder looking at him with curious interest from the top of the staircase, under Vi’s strict supervision.
Poor, all my life I've always been poor
I keep asking the gods what I'm for
And they tell me, "Gee, I'm not sure..."
"Steal that purse, kid!"
Oh, I started life as an orphan, a child of the street
Downtown
He took me in gave me shelter, a bed, crusts of bread and a job
Treats me like dirt, calls me a slob, which I am
So I live
Downtown
That's your home address, you live
Downtown
When your life's a mess, you live
Downtown
Where depression's just status quo
Down in the Lanes
Someone show me a way to get outta here
'Cause I constantly pray I'll get outta here
Please, won't somebody say I'll get outta here?
Someone gimme my shot or I'll rot here
Show me how and I will, I'll get outta here
I'll start climbing topside and get outta here
Someone tell me I still could get outta here
Someone tell lady Jannah that I'm stuck here
Gee, it sure would be swell to get outta here
Bid the gutter farewell and get outta here
I'd move heaven and hell to get outta here
I'd do I don't know what to get outta here
But a hell of a lot to get outta here
People tell me there's not a way outta here
But believe me, I gotta get outta downtown
_________________________________________________________________________________
Oh crap. What time is it? Where am I? Cam-Cam? Brother? Cousin Dalton was right. Why didn’t I try to be a performer? ….Right, bloody father, that’s why.
When he woke up it was already late. People had started leaving the bar a while ago, it was almost empty now. Only a couple of servers cleaning the tables and ejecting other hammered customers from the establishment. Sevika was nowhere to be seen, as she had probably gone to pay a visit to the pleasure ward, as she often did on such merry nights.
Maybe I should join her.
Aaahh stop thinking about it for goodness’ sake.
The cleaners shooed him out from where he was lounging, on a table with his face on a dirty plate, an empty glass stuck on one of his horns and Sticks comfortably sitting on his head. Getting up on his unsteady legs felt horrible. Headache and nausea overtook his lean, gracile body, he definitely was not built to sustain this kind of biological stress.
By now, Vander must have come back from his undisclosed meeting with the Sheriff. He guessed tomorrow he’d call for him in case something had to be done about… whatever was going on out there. At the present, he had to get out and breathe some real fresh air, too bad he was stuck in one of the worst places on the whole Runeterra concerning air quality.
Nonetheless, he decided to wander to somewhere high up and windy. The rooftop would have been nice. On his way, he picked up a cigarette that was lying abandoned on a deserted table and finally headed outside, trying to ignore the throbbing pain between his eyebrows.
_________________________________________________________________________________
“What are they?” Vi inquired, taking a good look at the blueish round stones in the hand of the little sister.
“I don’t know… Should we show Vander?” she murmured fearfully.
“No.” Vi clasped Powder’s hand closed, keeping the small treasure a secret.
“I think I may know… hic … a couple of… three things about those shinies.”
The slurred voice came from a ledge above the rooftop where the sisters were standing. They both turned around to see Bartok landing on a pair wobbly legs and almost falling off the building if it wasn’t for Vi’s quick reflexes and grabby hands, dragging him to safety. He was clearly inebriated, puffing on a cigarette miraculously hanging off his relaxed lips.
“Damn Prince, you stink of booze and sweat. And drop that shit when you’re near Powder, jackass.” With a rapid sweep of her hand she slapped Bartok’s smoke from his mouth, earning an indecipherable Piltie curse.
Groaning, he motioned towards Powder who was still clutching her precious catch.
“May I?”
Vi simply nodded at her little sister’s questioning glance.
Bartok took one of the spheres from Powder’s hands and examined it between his claws. “These were in the apartment topside? The one in the Academy District?”
“Yes. Ya know ‘em?” Vi prodded.
“Hex- hic -crystals. Brackern crystals, to be precise. Stones imbued with the arcane power, they can enhance spellcasting or be used to craft a variety of tools like staves or wands and such. No idea what a Piltover Academy bookworm might want to do with them, considering they’re illegal due to Ethos restrictions on magical items and other bollocks.”
“And I assume you learned that from your famous mentor? The same guy who died in the accident all those years ago?” Vi asked, warily, with her arms crossed.
“Quite right. These crystals can be dangerous objects in the wrong hands, they’re not toys, kid.” He glanced sideways at the little one.
“...I’m not a kid! I can help you guys! Seriously!” Powder lashed out, if there was something she hated more than being treated like a kid was being treated as a useless dead weight.
She reminded Bartok of himself many years ago. In hindsight, he was much more grating and troublesome than her at her age. In the end, events forced him to change, but not really for the better.
Bartok was still holding the crystal in his fingers and decided to give the girls a little show of his magic. Drawing from his own innate well of arcane power he concentrated the flow of energy from the tips of his claws directly into the small sphere, which in turn began flashing from blue to bright purple and pink, the signature colors that pervaded all his sorceries.
A transparent, pinkish shape in the form of a graceful winged insect, a moth, appeared from thin air and floated against the sleeping Sticks still nestled on top of Bartok, who woke up in fright and started tussling with the newfound rival. Powder couldn’t help but marvel at the small miracle, smiling and laughing as the two creatures fluttered around in a circular, futile chase.
The trivial spectacle was interrupted by a bothered Vi. “Give it back”.
As if alarmed by the rowdy girl, the transient creature vanished into thin air. Bartok contemplated the stone for one more second before giving it to the smaller sister with a sigh, as she put all her crystals back in her pocket.
Ah, what’s the worst she could do? She has no affinity for the arcane.
The three of them stood awkwardly for a while before Powder once again interrupted the moment of reverie.
“Bartie, why do you look like that?” At those words Vi shifted uncomfortably on her legs. As for him, it was just an innocent question from a curious child who had seen very little of the outside world.
“What do you — hic — mean?”
“She’s asking why, Drunken Prince, you look like one of those deformed monsters they put on temple walls.” It was weird that she still called him with that mocking title, especially taking into account that by all means she was the daughter of the current undisputed leader of the Undercity while he was nothing but a disowned exile, much less a heir to anything, anymore.
Bartok snorted a vague reply. “Well, it seems that someone up in my family tree decided it would be a good thing to f—ahem… mate with a demon. You know those adorable creatures that live in the plane of eternal badness and evil? Voidspawn heritage. Recessive traits and all that. My parents were actually — hic — normal. Perfectly human. Lucky me to inherit the reward of my progenitors’ sins.”
“Oh… it’s strange though. You’re not evil.” At that, Vi and Bartok exchanged a perplexed glance.
“Don’t you think “Pilties” are evil?” Bartok leaned to peer into her blue eyes with his yellow globes.
“I… ehm.. Yes! I mean… they always do bad things to us. The Enforcers too. It’s good if they die I think? But you’re one of us now, family, so it’s all good! Right?” It was rather disturbing to hear such a young girl talking about people dying being a good thing.
Honestly, Bartok wasn’t sure if he really valued other people’s lives as much as he thought he did, given his past history as hardly an upstanding citizen.
The opposite, in fact.
He had no inkling on whether or not his moral code was any different, or if he even had one. Had he ever cared about the plight of the trenchers? Did he, right now? Needless to say he didn’t. He sided with them because there was no other possible route for him to take. Did he actually care for Vander and his unlikely companions or were they just useful tools?
He wondered what Powder could, would do if her traps and bombs actually worked and if she wasn’t such a fearful chicken. That was a very, very concerning notion that he chose to keep it for another day.
“Pearl of wisdom from brother Bartok! Books are usually just as boring as their cover!” Vi scowled at him for the stupid quip.
Sighing, Bartok turned his sight to the panorama of the Undercity in front of them.
“I don’t know, Powder. I stopped wondering about these matters a long time ago. Perhaps in time you’ll be able to figure out your own answer.”
That was all he could say without straight up lying, before he moved to go back inside and left the sisters alone.
He didn’t have to turn around to know that Vi’s gaze was trained on his back, her big blue eyes squeezed into thin slits.