Chapter Text
Present day: Piltover
Sheriff Grayson sat at her desk, tapping a calloused finger against the polished wood, her gaze fixed on the stack of paperwork in front of her. The file on the top of the stack baring the ominous designation 516 was of low priority but yet, ironically, had immense weight. The clock ticked loudly and Grayson knew that she was running seven minutes late. She had still not made a decision. She was not usually a woman who struggled with making difficult choices; she was actually known for her decisiveness and strength. Yet, here… she floundered. Grayson sighed and looked around her office, letting her eyes roam as her mind struggled.
The office around her was a testament to Piltover’s wealth— Cassandra Kiramman’s wealth. From the oak panelling to the brass fixtures – the station was funded almost exclusively by House Kiramman and … that influenced the decision significantly. Behind her, a collection of finely crafted rifles hung in neat display, each one a relic of past service, past choices. The oldest rifle one that was gifted by her first love when she was just eighteen. The same crest was carved into the barrel that was engraved into the walls of the building. In so many ways, she had been bought out.
Grayson grimaced and let her head tilt back against the chair’s headrest and sighed.
Outside her door, new recruit Caitlyn Kiramman waited.
Grayson could picture her now—sitting stiff-backed in her pristine Enforcer uniform. Her hands smoothing her immaculate jacket. She would have perfect posture and would be rehearsing scenarios in her mind. Caitlyn would be waiting without nerves or concern. She would be anticipating her first official posting, one she would embark on with confidence and determination. Caitlyn wanted to prove herself. She wanted to be more than the heir to House Kiramman.
Her rejection of her inherent station was something that infuriated Cassandra Kiramman. A wedge had been driven between the House matriarch and its only heir, one that Grayson feared might be impossible to heal. Cassandra was also furious with Grayson herself, for appointing Caitlyn as an Enforcer having given the Sheriff strict instructions to reject every application that hit her desk. Initially, Grayson had done just that. But then something changed…
And besides, after all the lies and betrayals… that girl deserved something for herself.
Grayson could give her that. Even if it meant that her mother cut all funding to the department. And all cuts to her.
Reaching over, she grabbed the top file and ran her fingers over the designation 516…
20 years prior to present day
Perched atop a rugged cliffside, where the wild expanse of nature meets the glittering lights of the vast city across the water, the Lodge stands as a bastion of wealth and Piltovian tradition. This grand estate, built from dark-stained timber and adorned with gilded accents, boasts sprawling terraces, roaring hearths, and vaulted halls lined with hunting tapestries and ancestral portraits. A haven for the elite, it offers exclusive training for gifted youth in the noble arts of equestrianism, marksmanship, and falconry. Grayson never cared for the prestige of the place, coming from – what was termed – a “middling house” of little reputation but of reasonable means. But she enjoyed shooting and now, as a newly appointed Sheriff, had membership and the dubious pleasure of presiding over the Rangers – a competitive club for gifted youngsters. Grayson oversaw marksmanship and – while the elite viewed the club as a way to brag about the accomplishments of their highly educated progeny – she saw it as fertile ground for eventual Enforcer recruitment.
The Lodge over the last few months had become a refuge for Grayson who spent most of her free time amongst the nature. Today was one such tranquil day. It was summer and the air was filled with the sound of gunfire and chatter; Grayson sat on the deck watching the new Enforcer recruits practicing their rifle skills before their official appointments in the Autumn.
One of her men approached gingerly and told her that Mr Kiramman had arrived and requested “an audience.” Grayson sighed deeply and glanced up at the sky, wondering if there was a deity what she had done to so displease her. Without much choice in the matter, Grayson directed the recruit to bring the man forward.
When Tobias approached the deck he was carrying a small girl, no older than a toddler. It seemed like an unnecessary indulgence and Grayson suppressed a smile as the girl squirmed and demanded to be put down. “Down now!”
“Please?”
“Please now.”
He put her down and the girl ran to the railings that fenced off the deck from the sprawling forest. “Is there bird?” She pressed her face against the railings so her head poked through. Strapped to her back was a gun that was almost as big as her, it was clearly custom built as her name was engraved in gold on the side.
“No Caitlyn, not “is there”, you mean “are there”. Are there birds,” he corrected his daughter, stressing the plural s for birds.
Her father sat down next to Grayson, his presence seemed heavy and immediately suffocating. He wore a dark suit with strong cologne and spread his legs with a confidence and presence that came with entitlement and wealth. “Congratulations on the appointment, I am pleased to know that Piltover is in such reliable hands, Sheriff.”
Grayson nodded, accepting the praise without word.
“I understand this afternoon there will be trials for the Rangers…we were thinking of having little Caitlyn try.”
It was then that Grayson twisted so she could look at the man. “Tobias,” she said (using his first name because she couldn’t stomach the designation Mr Kiramman), “that simply isn’t possible.”
“She has her own gun and is quite capable. Caitlyn,” he called, “come here and show our new Sheriff how you load your gun.”
The child, little more than a toddler, skipped over, and loaded a bullet her father handed her with ease. She completed the action with a beaming smile and a little “Ta da!”.
Smoothly, Grayson reached out and immediately disarmed the weapon and handed the shot back to the man to her left. “She’s a little… young.”
Grayson glanced down at the girl, who looked back up at her with familiar wide blue eyes and her mother’s furrowed brow. “I’m three,” the child said boldly, her voice carrying a confidence that should have surprised the new sheriff but didn’t.
“We take eligible children from the age of seven,” Grayson said, looking away from the girl to the man before her who looked flustered at the rebuff.
“We, I… Cass…Mrs Kiramman, believed you might be able to make an exception…” he tried.
Grayson tried to school her features to prevent a look of irritation from fluttering across her expression. “Caitlyn might be a Kiramman but…”
Tobais shook his head, “If I may, Sheriff, I think you misunderstand, please do not assume the request is one of entitlement… it’s just that Caitlyn is very gifted and she requires challenge and mentoring…” he gestured to the shooting range where the Enforcers were practicing. “If I may demonstrate?”
And so Grayson found herself surrounded by her recruits watching Tobias Kiramman gently cajole his wayward daughter to stop twirling around in a circle and take the rifle.
“If that kid hits the target, I’ll give you fifty,” one Enforcer whispered to another. A young man by the name of Marcus replied, “Deal.”
They all watched as Tobias guided the girl by her slender shoulders and shuffled her to the firing line and pointed to the target. “Take a shot, darling.”
She lowered the gun, “Candy?”
Anxiously eyeing the crowd, Tobias whispered back, “Candy yes. Shoot the target and you can have whatever you want.”
Caitlyn pointed the gun, which was twice the length of her little forearm, towards the target, closed one eye, and patiently aimed. Her index finger hovered over the trigger and just as her aiming eye narrowed she squeezed the trigger. The clap of the shot sounded and Grayson’s attention snapped to the target. Off center and clipped at the corner but a hit nonetheless. A hit many of her recruits didn’t make first attempt.
Grayson tore her eyes away from the bullseye and glanced down at Cassandra’s child with astonishment. The girl looked up and said, “Bang!”
“Fifty my good fellow,” Grayson heard Marcus demand of his friend as the other Enforcers clapped and whistled their surprise.
Tobias clapped his hands and congratulated his daughter, but Grayson gave him no attention. She heard him ask her if she had ever seen anyone so promising so young… Caitlyn, he said, is a marvel.
She was. But then, Grayson expected she would be.
Kneeling down, the Sheriff looked into Caitlyn’s eyes and gave her a little smile which the girl returned brightly. “Well done. Miss Kiramman,” Grayson said gently, “do you like shooting?”
“Yes,” the girl said quickly, with a giddy grin.
“Why?” Grayson asked, “Why do you like to shoot?”
Caitlyn frowned and looked up at her father who furrowed his own brow in reply. Then the child looked back at the Sheriff; her top teeth bit her bottom lip in thought. She had a little gap between her teeth, like her mother. Grayson waited, her eyes studying the tiny girl. Then, after a beat, the girl shrugged. “Candy now…” she demanded and then added a quick, “please,” but it sounded more like ‘pease.’
Grayson stood. “She’s too young,” the Sheriff said with finality.
“But…” Tobias tried, “she’s gifted…” but Grayson was already striding away.
“And she’s too young. We take children for the Rangers from the age of 7. No exceptions. Take her home. Let her play.”
The next day Grayson received a personalized letter from Cassandra on familiar stationary, with just a hint of lavender scenting the envelope. She didn’t read it.
No exceptions.
16 years prior to present day
It was cold and Grayson’s breath danced white before her, her fingers clutched a warm mug of black coffee as she sat on the deck. Her rifle was in pieces next to her, mid clean. The Lodge was closed for visitors this time of year and so she sat alone in complete silence letting her mind drift like autumn leaves on the wind. Today was a difficult day. An anniversary of sorts. She liked to spend it alone.
The loud sound of a door closing heavily in the distance, made Grayson close her weary eyes and sigh deeply. It wasn’t unexpected but it was… unwanted. Unhelpful.
She waited and sipped her coffee, her ears listening to two footsteps approach with speed and confidence. When she door to the deck opened, she knew to expect Cassandra Kiramman… she would be able to sense that woman’s presence if blind, deaf and lost in a cave.
“The Lodge is closed,” Grayson said in greeting without looking round.
“I own the land,” came the predictable reply. “I’ve brought Caitlyn with me…”
Of course, the Sheriff knew this… she had heard the softer footsteps and could sense the shuffling presence in the doorway. Grayson turned then and looked not at Cassandra Kiramman but at the child standing just behind her. She wore customized shooting clothes bearing the Kiramman crest; her hair was pulled back into a low ponytail and, in a little flair of character, she wore a blue bow in her hair. Caitlyn looked like a clone of her mother and Grayson inwardly wondered if Tobias’ genetics had just been beaten away by Cassandra’s overbearing X chromosomes. The girl’s midnight blue hair was the only sign that House Kiramman bothered with sperm at all.
“Happy birthday, young Kiramman,” Grayson greeted the girl with a smile. Although she avoided looking at Cassandra, she could feel the woman’s penetrating gaze upon her.
“Thank you, Sheriff. I am…”
Interrupting, Mrs Kiramman said firmly, “She’s seven today, Marie.”
At the use of the Sheriff's first name by her mother, Caitlyn looked up sharply. No-one ever used Grayson’s first name. Caitlyn didn’t even know it! The girl didn’t miss the way the Sheriff hardened her features in response to the informal designation.
“I am aware, Cassandra. I was there the day she was born after all.”
Caitlyn’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth to ask for details when her mother, stony faced, placed a hand on her shoulder, a silent gesture honed over the years to mean not now.
“She’s here to enroll.”
“She’ll need to be assessed like any other during the summer trials…”
Cassandra scoffed, “A formality. The girl was exceptional at three, as you well know. Yet you seemed fit to squander four crucial developmental years. Fortunately, she’s had excellent tutors. Rusha Halaqae,” the woman smirked, “I trust you have heard of them?”
Ignoring the brag, Grayson replied, “The Lodge is closed. We hold tryouts for the Rangers in the Summer…”
“Today.”
Folding her arms, Grayson shook her head. “As I told your husband, no exceptions.”
Gently, Cassandra tugged Caitlyn away and gestured for her to the firing range, “Go practice, Caitlyn.”
The child looked between the two women curiously, sensing the tension between them, before nodding. As the girl walked away she heard her mother admonish the Sheriff in a low, displeased tone, “Do not punish my daughter for my actions, Marie…”
“I’m doing no such a thing…”
Caitlyn left the deck and wandered towards the target range. The girl plucked the gun from her back and loaded it swiftly with assured fingers. She aimed at the first target as crisp mountain air swirled around her. Her sharp eyes never wavered, her breath controlled, her hands unshaken. Crack—clink. Each shot rang out, the bullet striking dead center before the echo of the last had even faded. Target after target fell in flawless succession, her movements fluid, practiced—almost instinctive. She waited for the targets to reset and then reloaded her rifle with quiet efficiency. She practiced until she ran out of bullets. She glanced over her shoulder to see that her mother and Grayson were still engaged in conversation. Her mother looked tense, her arms were folded and Caitlyn could tell by the expression on her face that her words were clipped. Grayson looked calm and collected but Caitlyn noticed the way her foot tapped on the floor and the way her back straightened when taking a deep breath – the sort of breath one took when steeling themselves, or their temper. Caitlyn’s eyes narrowed watching the display and understood, even at such a young age, that their quarrel was not about Lodge membership and more about…something else… something else that Caitlyn could not yet decipher.
By the time the quarreling ended, Caitlyn was sitting cross-legged on the grass reassembling her cleaned gun. Caitlyn looked up with a smile as Grayson approached, noting that in her peripheral vision her mother stood at the lodge door.
“I see you made easy work of our intermediate targets, well done.”
Caitlyn grinned, “It’s easy to me, Rusha has me on moving targets.”
“Well, you’ll find that joining the Rangers is not just about hitting targets it’s learning about the discipline of shooting, the philosophy, and the theory.”
Nodding, Caitlyn placed her gun down. “I read The Marksman’s Paradox, it’s about the moral weight of pulling the trigger.”
“I know it well,” Grayson said, smiling. “Do you remember us talking last time you were here?”
Unsurprisingly, Caitlyn shook her head. “Apologies, Sheriff.”
“No matter, you were only tiny. I asked you a question then, that I shall ask you again now.”
Caitlyn’s eyes brightened. “Why do I shoot?” she predicted. Grayson’s eyebrows rose in surprise and then she frowned when Caitlyn added, “I have been practicing the answer, I’m sure you’ll be happy. You wish to ask me, what am I shooting for?” She recited a prepared speech in a flat, overly rehearsed tone. “Shooting is to master precision, control, and discipline, seeking perfection in technique while grappling with the responsibility of power. My answer was inspired by the Philosophy of the Shot by Dermona Lebrange, specifically her argument that precision means power.” Caitlyn’s words were tight, clipped, and delivered perfectly.
Caitlyn’s smile dropped slightly when she saw that Grayson was not as impressed as she had predicted. Usually her parents and Rusha applauded. Grayson did not.
“A very well-rehearsed response, Miss Kiramman. One day,” Grayson said, “I’ll ask you again and when I do, I want to hear what you think. Not what you have been told…or what you have read.”
Caitlyn absorbed the words and slowly nodded. “But, can I join? My mother will be cross with me if not…”
Grayson patted the girl’s shoulders, “She’ll be cross with me also.”
They shared a conspiratorial smile. Then Grayson gave her a little circle pin badge with a rifle in the middle. “Welcome to the Rangers, Caitlyn Kiramman– our youngest member.”
Caitlyn grinned and then seriously said, “I shall give thought to your question, Sheriff.”
“See that you do.” Over her shoulder Grayson gave Cassandra a look and the woman nodded tightly in response. That was as close as she would get to a thank you.
2 years prior to present day
Marcus placed the stack of short-listed applicants on the desk and stood to attention before the Sherrif. “All outstanding candidates, ranked in order of grade. Kiramman scored the highest, a 95 overall.”
Grayson leaned back in her chair, her eyes sparkling, “What did she drop 5 points on?”
“Obedience,” Marcus said with a tone of exasperation. “She questioned the trainer on three occasions, claimed the Noxian Dilemna Test was unfairly biased, and called candidate Huxworth a bigot when he suggested organized crime is a Zaunite problem.”
Grayson smirked. “Well she’s right on the last two counts,” Grayson noted. Grayson opened the file and dragged her eyes over the score sheets, she plucked the essay entrance test from the papers and skimmed the perfect handwriting. The piece was entitled, “Rehabilitation for Reform: Why Imprisonment Fails Young-Adults with Criminal Records. By C. Kiramman.”
Well, Grayson thought sighing, that was targeted and predictable.
“She scored highly and has officer potential; but, she’ll be a challenging recruit,” Marcus noted.
“Yes,” Grayson said distractedly, “she would have made a fine Enforcer,” Grayson lamented.
“You’re rejecting her?”
“Not my call,” Grayson said, as she slid the file into the bin and turned in her chair to look at the rifle display behind her desk.
“On what grounds? What reason should I offer?”
Grayson glanced at the Kiramman crest engraved on her rifle and said, “The essay, was ... to subjective.”
Marcus frowned but gave a compliant nod.
*** same day ***
After work, Sheriff Grayson stood in the dense hunting woods, the crisp scent of pine and damp earth surrounding her as she levelled her rifle at a distant target. The rhythmic crack of gunfire echoed through the trees, but she barely needed to concentrate—her focus was split between her practice and the presence she could feel closing in behind her. Caitlyn was tracking her, moving carefully but not carefully enough to go unnoticed. The girl was angry; Grayson could sense it in the way the usually careful girl was giving her position away. Still, Grayson remained composed, steadying herself for the inevitable confrontation. Whatever Caitlyn wanted—answers, a confrontation, or both—Grayson would face it head-on.
Grayson paused to reload, sliding fresh rounds into her rifle with practiced ease, when a rustle to her right signaled Caitlyn’s arrival. The girl emerged from the trees; she wasn’t trying to hide anymore. Grayson turned her head slightly, acknowledging her without speaking, her posture calm but guarded. The tension between them thickened in the cool forest air, stretching taut like a bowstring. Caitlyn’s breathing was sharp, uneven, and her gaze burned with unspoken demands. Grayson exhaled slowly, snapping the rifle shut with a sharp click before finally meeting Caitlyn’s eyes. "
“Am I your prey, Miss Kiramman?”
“If you were, you would be dead now,” came the dry reply which made the Sheriff smirk.
Caitlyn slid her gun into the holster at her back, the motion deliberate and controlled. She folded her arms across her chest, her posture steady, but the heat rolling off her wasn’t just anger—it was something deeper, something raw. Betrayal. Her jaw tightened as she stared at Grayson, searching her face, as if looking for a crack in the sheriff’s calm exterior. The silence between them stretched, heavy with all the things neither had yet said.
“You rejected my application,” she said flatly, “I can assume as to why, but I would rather hear from you how you were paid off by my mother.”
Ignoring the accusation, Grayson turned her attention to the target ahead. “Why do you want to be an Enforcer? Take the council seat, make a difference there. Politics is…”
“You know why,” Caitlyn bit out, moving to stand next to her former mentor. She raised her gun and aimed.
“Look, Kiramman, I’m sorry for what happened to your friend…”
“Her name was Vi.”
Caitlyn fired and the shot pierced the center of the target – a better shot than Grayson herself. Eyeing the target with satisfaction, Caitlyn then turned to the woman next to her, “She wasn’t just a friend. And you’re not sorry…”
Grayson steeled her gazed at her tutee, “You overstep.”
Cailyn collapsed her gun and slung it back over her shoulder. “Do I? I’m not your subordinate. I, after all, was denied entry into the Enforcers. Despite being the better shot, I might add. You’re the Sheriff, but not my Sheriff. Furthermore, you are on - what is technically - my land and here I outrank even you. Therefore, I shall speak freely.”
“There is more to being an Enforcer than shooting, Caitlyn.”
Caitlyn turned to her then, her eyes hard. “For those who cannot. For those who have no power. For those who have no voice. For those who have no means. That’s what I shoot for, in answer to your question. I shoot for them. Or at least, I wish to. Unfortunately, powers conspire against me. But if I could, I would shoot for them. I want to be of service to the cities – both of them.”
As Caitlyn spoke, her words cut through the cold forest air, sinking into Grayson’s chest with a weight she couldn’t ignore. She listened, truly listened, not just to the anger but to the pain woven beneath it—the same pain she carried herself. They were kindred spirits, bound by the same burdens, the same relentless need to set things right, to carve out something better from a world that fought against it at every turn. Grayson had always known Caitlyn was strong, but now she saw something more—she saw herself, the fire of responsibility and defiance burning just as fiercely. And for the briefest moment, she saw Caitlyn’s mother too. The resemblance, in spirit more than in face, struck her like a blade, and an old, familiar ache surfaced in her chest. The betrayal, the hurt in Caitlyn’s eyes, twisted something deep inside her. Grayson couldn’t regret what she’d done—it had been the right choice at the time—but standing here now, she regretted the pain it had caused.
Caitlyn’s tone gained greater ire, her voice heated, and her eyes ablaze, “Yet I am to remain a decoration. My worth reduced to a uterine cavity and what might grow there. To be a wife…”
Another slice of a blade, right through her heart. “Yes," Grayson said flatly, "I heard about your engagement.”
Caitlyn faltered at the remark and was flustered for a moment, “Engaged to be engaged. I want more,” Caitlyn’s voice faltered for a second and the hardness evaporated, her next words were beseeching, “I want my life to mean something. Especially after what happened to Violet.”
Caitlyn’s emotion struck a chord in Grayson who reached out to touch her arm. Hearing no promises, Caitlyn jolted back and hardened her expression once more. “Expect an application every year, and I want a proper reason for each rejection otherwise I shall formally appeal. I have my own legal council.”
“Threats are beneath you, Caitlyn.”
“I’m not threatening. I’m telling you,” came the tart response, before Caitlyn jogged away further into the forest.
*** same day ***
“What’ll it be? You look like you could use something stronger than the usual,” Vander mused, wiping down the bar with a rag. “Long day?”
The Last Drop was a dimly lit, smoke-stained relic of long nights and hard conversations, its wooden floors sticky with years of spilled whiskey and stomped-out cigarettes. The air was thick with the lingering scent of old beer and cigars. Past closing time now, only a few remained: Grayson and the last of the regulars, slumped in their usual seats. Sevika played cards in the corner and gave Grayson an unreadable expression as she cut the deck and dealt cards to her companions. The place was worn, rough around the edges, but a cornerstone of Zaun. A far cry from Piltover and that’s what she needed right now – a break from the convoluted politics of Topside.
“Long day,” Grayson confirmed, and pointed to the whiskey, “double.”
Vander chuckled, “Definitely a long day.”
Grayson downed the drink in one burning gulp. “Where are your young ones?”
“No clue about the boys, hopefully keeping their noses clean. Powder and Ekko are on a date, can you believe it?”
Grayson chuckled dryly at Vander’s expression, “She’s growing up.”
“Fast, too fast,” he said.
“Ekko is a good kid, a fine young man,” Grayson commented.
“That he is,” Vander agreed. Not a stupid man, Vander quickly got to the root of Grayson’s consternation, “You wanna know about Vi?" The question was rhetorical, they both knew that. "I visited last month, she's... holding up.”
“Not long now,” Grayson said.
“Counting the days.”
After a brief pause, Grayson asked, “Do you think we did the right thing?”
“We did what was necessary,” Vander said eventually, surprised by Grayson’s introspective mood. “Vi will be out soon and can start afresh… I understand that Caitlyn is doing well… engaged I heard?”
Grayson didn’t comment but gestured to the whisky bottle, “One more for the road.”
“You got it.”
Maybe it was the drink. Maybe it was the weight of Caitlyn’s anger. Maybe it was the fate of Violet – Prisoner 516. But, Grayson returned to her office at 2.56 AM and approved Caitlyn Kirramann’s application.
She did it knowing that one day the newly appointed detective would discover the truth of what they had all done.
It was inevitable.
Present day: Piltover
Grayson exhaled, rolling her shoulders as she considered the warrant for arrest in front of her.
She could play it safe. Keep Caitlyn behind a desk, let her shuffle reports and run logistics until Cassandra finally wore her down and pulled her back into the family’s fold. It would be the easy choice.
Or—
Grayson’s gaze drifted to the wall, to a particular rifle among the collection. The oldest of them. The one that hadn’t been fired in decades.
She could do something significant. Something that would make Cassandra Kiramman livid and put into jeopardy the delicate peace between Piltover and Zaun. But something that would right a wrong.
Clearing her throat, Grayson called out to the Enforcer outside. “Kiramman, come.”
The door opened and Cassandra’s only child stood in the doorway, bearing her same features but with a smile that was uniquely hers. Sweet and unburdened. Honest and kind.
It was time to correct the crimes of the past.
“Kiramman, I have a case for you.”
Caitlyn sat in the chair opposite Grayson, her sprawling and cluttered desk between them.
“Thank you for the opportunity.”
Grayson said nothing in response but passed across the table the folder she held and then sat back and waited.
Caitlyn accepted the folder with an eager smile while Grayson sat rigid, her breath slow and measured, as she waited for realization to hit her former mentee. Each second tightened around her like a noose as she watched Caitlyn’s eyes read the name on the front. The Enforcer’s smile slipped and - although her face exposed no emotion - Grayson noted that her fingers trembled slightly as they brushed over the words printed on the front.
Violet, daughter of Vander of Zaun: 516.
Caitlyn opened the folder and read the first page of the file.
Grayson watched silently as Caitlyn processed the information before her; the sheriff noted how the trembling of her fingers increased with every turned page, the pulse in her neck increasing.
“She’s been in Stillwater? This whole time?”
Grayson stared back at the girl, allowing Caitlyn to piece the puzzle together. Caitlyn ripped free the outstanding arrest warrant, dated that very same day. She held the warrant up like the damning evidence it was. Blue eyes, hard and filled with anger, flicked up and bore hotly into Grayson’s. “You told me she was dead, that she died in prison.”
Grayson nodded once and revealed a secret that had festered within her for years, “I lied.”
We lied.
Present day: Zaun
Sevika grabbed the woman by her badly died black hair and pulled her face up from the mud. The woman was filthy, covered in blood, sweat, alcohol and vomit. Her oily hair dripped black dye down her face and the red roots of her natural hair shone like blood under the flickering streetlamp. A bruise purpled her cheek and blended with her smudged black eye makeup. One eye was swollen and fused shut.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Vi. You’ve been out less than a year. You’re on probation you stupid cunt.”
Drunk and concussed, Vi slurred, “Fuck you,” up at the woman and attempted to swing her blooded and cut fist at her, missing by a long shot.
Sevika let go of her fistful of hair and let the body slump back into the mud. “Fuck you, kid.” She snarled. “5000 kriks on your head. You break probation and we’re all in the shit. One arrest and we’re fucked. You, me, Vander… Powder. Selfish cunt.”
Vi gave her the finger, a gesture that was comically pathetic as her battered and bloodied hands barely allowed her to fully erect the digit. Sevika rolled her eyes. She reached down and grabbed Vi’s arm and started to drag her out of the alley and down the street towards The Last Drop. Vi groaned as her beaten body was hauled along. Sevika tossed her a disgusted look over her shoulder, “Pit fights? Fucking stupid shit.” Sevika scoffed, “What are you fighting for anyway?”
When Vi didn’t reply, Sevika huffed and continued to drag the body along behind her.
Vi closed her swollen eyes; she feared what she would see in her broken kaleidoscopic vision. But in the darkness of her mind she was haunted still.
Hallucinations with blue hair and cerulean eyes.
Always her.
“I chose wrong…Caitlyn…” she mumbled, her words frothy with bloody spittle.
Sevika paused, midstep. The words bled between them and for a moment Sevika opened her mouth to say something. After a beat, she changed her mind, shook her head, and continued to drag the woman through the muck and grime of Zaun.
“There are no choices, kid, just ways to survive,” she muttered. Reaching The Last Drop, she pounded on the door and dumped Vi in the doorway. It was afterhours and the place was locked up.
When Powder answered the door, Vi fell into her and landed at her feet. The blue haired girl gasped and reached down for her sister, pulling her into her lap.
Sevika glanced down at the pair, “Tell Vander I’m getting sick of picking up the trash. This is the last time.”
“She’s … prison was hard,” Powder defended. Her hurt eyes watered looking down at the broken form of her older sister. “She won’t talk to me, won’t let any of us in. I… I don’t know how to save her.”
With a heavy sigh Sevika delivered a line that finally made Powder’s tears fall: “There’s no saving some people, Pow.”
“I won’t give up on her, she wouldn’t give up on me.”
With a shrug, Sevika started to walk away. She knew a lost cause when she saw it.
“Did she say anything to you?” Powder called out.
Without pausing, Sevika threw her parting words over her shoulder before disappearing into an alleyway that would take her to Babette’s, “Just a name.”
“What name?”
Darkness swallowed the older woman as she disappeared from view, but the name lingered in the air: “Caitlyn.”