Chapter Text
Vi’s quads are sore. She trained legs three days ago and she can still feel the hint of a weary ache weighing them down as she walks through the doors of the Last Drop.
This and the giant banner hung from the balcony above the bar are incontrovertible evidence of the fact that today is her 40th birthday.
Which, well, it could be worse. It used to be not many people in Zaun got to make it this far. She remembers Vander turning 40, how ancient that seemed when she was 16. They had celebrated him in this very bar, teased him for being over the hill. Sevika called him ‘old man’ to his face. “Better than the alternative,” he had replied, jocular and content, surrounded by the fruit of his labor: his business, successful. His neighborhood, finally beginning to thrive. His family, safe. Vi, out of prison.
Vi could feel the power just starting to bloom in her fists at that time, as the power in his began to wilt. How impossible it had felt to try to imagine that contentment in decline. How impossible it had felt to imagine anything but hunger and rage.
What she has got now isn’t quite contentment. But on her easiest days it isn’t too far off. Being exhausted helps.
So here Vi is, officially entering middle age. As far as she knows, it is better than the alternative.
Still, it looks quite different than she had hoped.
“You’re early,” her sister says, by way of hello. It takes Vi a moment to locate her figure in the daytime darkness of the building. Her eyes finally adjust to find Powder carrying a flat of glassware to the bar, holding it tight against her body and resting it atop her protruding stomach.
“This is why,” Vi says shortly, and strides over to fetch the glasses from her sister. “I’m here to help.”
Powder grimaces at her, but releases her grip on the flat. “I don’t want you to help, sis. It’s your birthday.”
“But you’re pregnant,” Vi protests.
“I’m not pregnant, and I also don’t want you helping,” comes Ekko's voice from behind her, carrying two stacked boxes of liquor. His face peeking out over the boxes wears a warm but vexed expression. “Vi, seriously, it’s your birthday. Come on.”
She can all but hear his unspoken question: Don’t you have anything better to do?
And no, she doesn’t. That’s the entire problem.
How did Vander do it? There are fruits of Vi’s labors, to be sure – she has things to show for herself. She is a retired welterweight champion who still holds the women’s career knockout record ten years after her retirement. Her training gym naturally became the after school hangout for troubled girls. Soon enough women weren’t just bringing their daughters to Vi for lessons in self-defense and self-discipline; they were coming to Vi for help with conflict mediation, for help with groceries, for help getting their husbands out of jail. Almost despite herself, Vi found that she was good at this, good at solving people’s problems, and once Sevika became Councilor and took Vi under her wing, money began to trickle down from Piltover. After not too long what had been her training gym became a funded community hub and Vi was learning about grants and scholarships, pro bono lawyers, fundraisers.
Not too long after that, and quite recently, Sevika resigned in disgrace and Vi was appointed Zaun’s next Councilor to Piltover.
And she’s proud of that. She’s proud of all of that. She’s proud of her athletic accomplishments, she’s proud of how she’s served her community and her family, and she’s proud of the prestige of her new position.
But in all that time of never having a partner, she never heard Vander complain about it once.
And for her, there is not a day that goes by where she doesn’t think about it.
Even Mylo has a girlfriend, for God’s sake.
“Here you are,” Powder says with annoyance as he enters the bar, Claggor tailing behind him. “Forget the way now that you don’t live upstairs anymore?”
“My fault,” Claggor says sheepishly, in that way he has of taking responsibility for everything. “We got into solving an implementation problem over breakfast and I lost track of time.”
“Can Mylo not tell time?”
“I can tell time,” Mylo says defensively, sounding for all the world like a 14 year old boy instead of a 37 year old man. “What’s the rush? We’re here now.”
“Vi’s trying to help,” Ekko replies, nodding his head at her behind the bar.
“Nope,” Claggor responds instantly, setting down his bag on a nearby table and coming to gently place his hands on her shoulders. She finds herself steered away from the bar and into a chair, the weight of his hands pressing down on her shoulders until she remains seated there. “Happy 40th birthday,” he says, and leans down to hug her from behind, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she grumbles. “Your turn next. Let’s see how you handle doing nothing.”
“Can’t you just rest on your laurels for one second?” he asks. “Out there making us proud. Councilor.”
It certainly does something to her to hear it. At no point over the past two weeks has it felt true, exactly, and it’ll be another two days before she has to do anything about it, but –
To go from Stillwater’s most legendary juvenile delinquent to the appointed political representative of Zaun in the Council of Piltover is quite a leap. It makes something within her soar the same way that recklessly hurtling through the Lanes used to when she was young. The demands of physical reality, of architecture, of the layout of the city, created an obstacle course that gave her great glee to both utilize and overcome.
Succeeding on the Council works in much the same way, or so Sevika has told her. She simply has to use the existing configuration of all the obstacles to allow herself the maximum freedom to operate.
Sevika herself has never been especially good at accommodating the positions of others, which is how Vi got into this situation in the first place.
The short of it is, Vi doesn’t know what to do when she’s not helping. She’s reached the age where working out more frequently is having diminishing returns. She’s always enjoyed a good book, but nothing has captured her interest lately. She’s never traveled – she’s never had the resources to waste, and the thought of being without her people and aimlessly talking to strangers without a task to accomplish or role to play makes her listless. She has heard that in the Freljord people train big furry dogs to rescue stray hikers from the cold, that they load the dogs down with alcohol and provisions in a set of panniers, essentially giving the dog a rescue backpack. The dogs are frantic and distractible without a task to do; they are not especially good leisure companions. Vi is like this: a dog who needs a backpack.
“There she is, the woman of the hour,” comes a warm booming voice from the balcony, and there’s the man who made her this way. Vander, the Hound of the Underground, off-and-on erstwhile proprietor of the Last Drop. His gentle amble down to the ground level makes Vi’s breath catch a little – at 65, how long will he be able to continue living upstairs? He is in remarkably good condition for the life he has led, just regular wear and tear making his joints stiff and knees creaky. She always feels like she is home in his presence and though that is colored by some concern about his wellbeing, today is no exception.
Even with his movements slowed and more careful, his hug continues to feel like the safest place in the world.
Is it not ungrateful to constantly long for more when she is already loved like this?
“Vander,” she says gratefully, allowing herself to be enveloped in his arms. “Remember when we were doing this for you?”
“I sure do, kiddo. Been thinking about it all morning.”
Vander had just used the entirety of his clout to get her out of Stillwater. That is what he said. That it took ‘everything he had.’ The queasy euphoria of her freedom shot through the atmosphere of the day, it unofficially also serving as her welcome home party. He never shamed her, never insulted her or yelled at her. He simply invited her to step into her purpose, to use her energy to contribute to making life better for others instead of lashing out recklessly.
Does it count as being scared straight if you actually served time?
She can see all of this in the twinkle in his eyes, read the story in the crinkle of the skin around them. She can feel the pride in the weight of his arms, the solidness of his chest as he clutches her against it.
“Happy birthday, Vi.”
“Thanks, Vander.”
She’s very glad they’re having this moment before she has started drinking, because she already knows she’s likely to be crying today and it is too soon to start.
“All right, Vander,” Ekko says, bottles of liquor pouring out from between his splayed fingers as he prepares party punch in a massive bucket. “No helping from you, either.”
“But I own the place!”
“All the more reason,” Claggor responds, huffing, as he and Mylo lift a table and move it to the periphery. “This is grunt work.”
“I’m not too good for grunt work,” Vander protests.
“Yes, you are,” Powder responds easily, placing a soothing hand on one arm and handing him a piece of paper with the other. “Here. If you’re so intent on being useful, take Vi and pick up the food.”
“Bring the wagons,” Ekko adds.
The stroll helps Vi kick the cobwebs out of her legs. “Can’t believe we made it this far,” Vi marvels, looking around the thriving marketplace. In the late morning light, at certain angles, the place could be described as clean. Friendly. Lively. “Could’ve gone a lot of ways.”
Vander nods solemnly. “It’s been hard work to make this a place where a person can live a good life.”
“Lotta work left to do,” Vi says. Her posture changes, gets more upright and vigilant as her eyes rest upon an off-brand Enforcer. “Keeping it ours.”
“Sharks,” Vander agrees, his tone acid.
The off-brand Enforcers – private military police – wear black, and instead of metal breastplates they wear some sort of fabric vest that supposedly stops bullets. They carry long rifles that they tend to hold across their bodies to make their silhouette more menacing, turning their heads back and forth attentively as though searching for prey. They wear the same jackboots as regulation Enforcers.
Their aura is absolutely rancid.
“More of them lately,” Vi mutters, stuffing her free hand in her pocket forcefully. The sight of them fills her fists with fury and so she keeps one tucked away for safekeeping, the other occupied with the handle of the wagon, just letting the feeling of it rest in her stomach. She has a lot of practice now letting it be there, letting it inform her instead of control her. “Bad news.”
“Aye,” Vander agrees in a low voice. “It never ends.”
Their mood brightens considerably when they reach Jericho’s and fill the wagons with pan after pan of meats, sauces, and sides. “Birthday?” Jericho grunts cheerfully, his expressive posture flowing fully upright in an exclamation point.
“Vi’s 40 today,” Vander says, putting his big hands on her shoulders.
“Birthday!” Jericho says cheerfully, and tugs her in for an unexpected hug.
She did not have a hug from Jericho on her bingo card for today, but it’s early, he’s not sweaty yet, and it turns out his skin is kind of soft.
“Thank you,” she says, and then turns to go. A light groan slips out in the effort of getting the laden wagon moving.
“No kidding,” Vander replies, digging into the balls of his feet with each step as they get going. “We’re gonna be feeding the whole neighborhood.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she says in satisfaction.
He nods. “And it won’t be the last.”
When they return the party preparation is complete and the bar has begun to fill up with guests, all of whom give a friendly cheer at her arrival. She hands the food off and now she says hello to them one after the other: the shopkeeper on the corner, the nurse who keeps office hours in the building next door to the gym, the fellow who runs the frame shop. She inquires about their kids, about the projects they are working on, their upcoming deadlines. Yes, she’s excited about serving in Piltover. Yes, she’s going to be quite a shock to them after Sevika. Yes, it’s going to be quite a change in wardrobe!
It’s not as though she’s uncomfortable with attention, exactly, but receiving it, making the other person feel welcome and appreciated for giving it, is also a kind of labor; the labor of politics. There is a reason why Vi was appointed Councilor, after all – people feel good with her. And now that she is councilor, it is important that people feel good with her, no matter how she might be feeling at any given time.
How is she feeling?
She does maybe about an hour of this work before she feels yet another warm palm on her shoulder.
“C’mere, kid,” comes a gruff but velvety voice into her ear, and she looks up into grey eyes shining between a blunt, brown bob. “Take a seat with the old people.” Once again she is steered towards a chair and sat down, only now Sevika sits down next to her and spreads her legs into all of the available space. “Cigar?”
Vi is torn. Sevika has never offered her a cigar before, but she also definitely doesn’t want to smoke one.
“I’m honored,” she says, but holds up her hand and shakes her head, hoping that splits the difference. “Guess I’m ‘old people’ now.”
“Nah,” Sevika says, lighting her cigar, shaking her head as she blows out the initial puff, spreading smoke in a cloud around her. “You’re not old. You’re just officially no longer young.”
“Depends on who you ask.”
“I’m telling you right now.”
“Okay.” One of the lessons of old age is that Vi knows better than to argue with Sevika.
Sevika takes another puff, looks around thoughtfully. “Nice to see another sumprat make it to 40. How’s it feel?”
Vi takes a deep breath as if to investigate, blows it out with a noncommittal noise. “Not like too much. I can’t stay up too late or it hurts. I can’t sleep in ‘cause my body won’t let me. It takes me three days to recover from hard exertion. But otherwise I’m pretty much the same.”
Sevika is wearing the ghost of a smile, savoring the satisfaction of shared complaints about aging. She sits further back in her seat, regards Vi frankly. “Except for that you know what you’re doing.”
“Well –” Vi laughs shortly. “That’s nice of you to say. But I’m about to be thrown into a pit of vipers, so we’ll see how long you think so.”
“Yeah,” Sevika says ruefully, drawing the word out into a sigh, and then laughs. She looks the younger woman up and down, nodding in confirmation at what she sees. “You’re a little softer around the middle, too.”
“Thanks,” Vi says dryly. “It’s all the recovery.”
“It’s for the best. The newfound humility looks good on you. A little more thinking and a little less punching also has its charms.”
“You’re one to talk.” Vi’s left eyebrow, the one with the notch, jumps suggestively. She fixes the older woman with a look. “Where’s your girlfriend?”
“Ah,” Sevika responds, not without humor. “Here we go.”
“What?”
“Be honest, Vi. What are you trying to say?”
“I’ve just noticed that a tendency towards impulsive behavior seems to be a trait shared by the Zaunite Councilors.”
Sevika’s slight smile grows into a more wolfish one. Her eyes sparkle as she says, “You’ll do just fine in politics. Hear how diplomatic that was?”
What Vi means is: you thinking with your dick is how we got into this situation to begin with.
So perhaps Sevika is right; Vi is getting quite good at politics.
“Listen kid,” Sevika says, taking a no-nonsense tone. “I’m sick of this shit. Banging my head against the brick wall of these assholes’ self-regard. You think it’s fun to listen to Salo talk until he’s too tired to keep going on? Fucking Hoskel? Do you think I’ve ever wanted to have a conversation with Heimerdinger in my entire trencher life? Do you think these jerkoffs give a shit about what I have to say when they know Kiramman is going to talk next? I’m done. I’m glad I’m out. It’ll be good for Zaun to get some fresh blood in there. Maybe you’ve got what it takes to get something done. I tried my best to do it there, but there’s no denying I’m not a good fit.”
Vi hears what is unspoken beneath the words. “Mel was the only one who listened to you.”
Sevika nods. “More or less.”
To her own surprise, Vi hears herself let out a soft sigh. “It must have been intoxicating.”
Sevika squints at her just a bit. “Yeah,” she says, a little defensively.
Vi doesn’t know how to reply just yet because she doesn’t understand her own response. Her sigh tapped into a vulnerable yearning channel in her that she doesn’t have a lot of space to manage today. What Powder would have called her sadboy loverbutch tendencies, before enough unfulfilled years went by to make it simply hurtful to tease Vi for her longing. Sometimes even acknowledging it wakes it up with a shock, sending up a wave that takes hours to move through her. But sometimes not acknowledging it means the wave comes in sideways, and it overcomes her before she can even see it.
This would be a bad day for that to happen.
“Sounds nice,” Vi says, and it hurts her to say it, but in a way that feels mostly manageable.
“Yeah,” Sevika agrees gruffly, the word her own display of diplomacy. Acknowledging that longtime loneliness as another thing the councilors shared in common until Sevika's entanglement with Mel evolved into the relationship that ended her political career. “Undercity hates it though.”
“Sure does,” Vi says, and manages to laugh.
Maybe Mel Medarda is different from other topsiders, maybe she isn’t. Sevika thinks she is; her constituents don’t agree. When the papers got hold of their affair, the uproar was intense and instantaneous – how could Sevika sell out their interests to the wealthiest woman in Piltover? It was degrading to them to have Sevika become her lapdog. Perhaps this was why so little was being accomplished up there. Perhaps this is why private police had gained such a foothold in the Undercity – Sevika couldn’t be bothered to oppose her girlfriend’s mother’s interests.
Sevika’s take? She’s just one person, not especially well-suited to the demands of politics, and not especially well-respected by her so-called peers.
Has she asked Mel the tough questions, or is she too blinded by pussy to see clearly?
In her position, Vi suspects she’d be vulnerable to the exact same forces: an impressive and extremely hot woman was nice to her and made her feel heard. What sort of defense is there against that for people like them?
Sevika shakes her head, at what Vi is not exactly sure. “There’s a lot I couldn’t manage to do up there. I’m not made for subtlety or pleasantries. I couldn’t make them listen to me. I usually couldn’t figure out what they wanted and even when I could I didn’t want to give it to them; I didn't think they deserved it. I just couldn’t get out of my own way enough to get the job done, I was too furious with everyone. And with what’s coming … it’s not a good time to have a hammer up there, Vi. A hammer can beat down nails, but it’s not going to demolish Stillwater.”
Vi nods. “Saw the vultures out today on the way to pick up food.”
“Exactly. More rent-a-cops, more arrests on petty charges … bail reform isn’t going to cut it. Topsiders don’t like Stillwater operating at reduced capacity. Those people …” Sevika’s lip curls. “They want the dungeons reopened. And when you’re forced to be in the room with them, they’ll tell you to your face.”
“I can’t imagine someone having the guts to say that to your face.”
Sevika grimaces. “They get a lot of mileage out of knowing I can’t hit ‘em.”
It makes Vi laugh a little bit to imagine how much smoother politics might work for Sevika if she could hit people.
“They have no idea how it is down here, do they?”
“They still think the Undercity is the same shithole it was 25 years ago. They make jokes about needing a gun to come down here! They spend their entire lives less than an hour away, never once even considering stepping foot here, and then try to dictate how we live our lives? Stillwater has been neutered for ten years and the community is thriving – we shouldn’t be talking about reopening it, we should be talking about shutting it down completely and tearing it apart.”
“Here, here!” comes a voice from the room, as the volume of Sevika’s voice has gradually escalated.
Sevika smiles darkly at Vi, and beats her metal paw into the other meaty one. “I’ve had my fill of politics. I’m ready for some more direct action.”
Vi’s eyebrow raises again, of its own accord this time. “Direct action … like punching?”
“No!” Sevika responds incredulously, laughing. “No Vi, I’m 55 years old. I’m talking restorative justice, public schools, school lunches, free community clinics, pro bono lawyers, that kind of shit.”
“Oh! Okay, well … the dramatic punching threw me for a second.”
“As good as it feels … we both know punching only gets you so far.”
The words come to Vi’s lips unbidden, the slogan of years of joint effort seemingly always at the ready. “Not just something to fight against …”
“... but something to fight for. Exactly.” Sevika nods, real satisfaction and pleasure on her face. “Happy birthday, kid. I couldn’t be happier sending you up there as my replacement. Now let’s talk logistics.”
“Oh?”
“Here’s the deal. Each one of these people has something they want. If you can give them what they want, then they’re likelier to give you what you want. Generally what they want is going to be in opposition to what you want, unless they want you to like them. This is where I faltered, see, ‘cause nobody believed for a second that I was ever going to like them.”
Vi snorts. “So what do they want?”
“Salo and Hoskel? Pure self-interest. They want money and status and luxury. Anything that increases their standing. They’re the easy ones. Shoola’s a bit harder to read. She’s interested in progress, but she’s more interested in the social status quo than you might expect. Mostly she wants things to go on the way they already are, but every so often she’ll surprise you. Heimerdinger is the same. He’s been around 300 years and he’s suspicious of anything new. Hardheaded, sure he’s right about everything. Makes him incredibly hard to work with.”
“Mel?”
“She’s interested in prosperity, primarily. For both cities when possible. Has a bit of a social justice streak that tugs her in surprising directions. But extremely good at playing the game. She’ll always be ahead of you. She’s been there for fifteen years. You’ll do best just getting her to like you – try to appeal to her soft-hearted nature. It may take a while to find, but it’s in there.”
“And Kiramman?”
“Former Sheriff. Legacy seat – inherited it from her mom when she passed. Kirammans are Piltover royalty, their crest is emblazoned over half the city. Couldn’t be more entrenched in systemic power.”
“Fuck. So what’s she like, then?”
“Stern. Kind of humorless. Very intense, but shockingly idealistic. She’s completely unpredictable, Vi. You can’t guess what she’ll do based on being the Sheriff or being insanely rich – she’ll happily go against what you think her own interests might be if she thinks it’s the right thing to do.”
“So she’s a wild card.”
“She takes things so seriously. There’s no influencing her. She’ll do whatever she wants, and all you can do is hope it serves your concerns.”
Vi takes a bracing deep breath. “Okay,” she says, and nods. “Six of them, one of me. They’ve all known each other for decades; I’m from a different place entirely. I don’t even believe they should be governing my city, but I still want there to be a voice at the table, and it’s fallen to me.” She lets out a sharp laugh. “What could go wrong?”
Sevika fixes her with an intent look. “Worry less about the voices at the table and more about the whispers in the back rooms. It’s all about your relationships with these people; this is why you’ll do better than me. I know your charisma, kid – so go in there and give them that razzle dazzle.”
Vi shakes her head. Smiling softly, she lets out a little sigh. “I used to have that. I wonder where it’s gone.”
Sevika shrugs. “You still got it. It’s in there. You just gotta find something to wake it up.”
As Vi sits there contemplating, settling under the weight of her new task and the weight of her new age, a perky middle-aged blonde with long wild hair strides by and gives her a wink.
She feels Sevika’s look before she sees it. “Look at that,” Sevika says gruffly. “I don’t think you’ve even bothered with some strange in years.”
“It’s Zaun, Sevika,” Vi says impatiently. “There is no strange. That’s Phoebe, Genevieve’s mom. We dated for three months five years ago.”
“You’ve dated every single mom in this town for three months.”
“Don’t I know it,” Vi murmurs.
“Why do you think they don’t ever stick?”
“Well,” Vi says, patting her thighs before standing up. “Lots of people to talk to. Catch up with you in a bit.”
She can feel the tide of her melancholy rising threateningly. She puts in another hour of glad handing before her family brings out the cake and the entire bar sings her a raucous rendition of the birthday song. When she blows out the candles, mercifully just the two numerals, she doesn’t even know what to wish for without hurting herself. A successful term as Councilor? To at least appear as though she knows what she is doing? She knows better than to wish for the other thing that crosses her mind, how it highlights its absence.
She has Powder and Ekko, Mylo and Claggor and Vander. Somehow, she seems to firmly have Sevika in her corner – seems to have earned the brusque woman’s respect. She has the admiration of her community, a meaningful purpose, and a body that is pretty much holding up despite decades of hard wear. She has enough money to look after herself and her loved ones. Things are good. They are! So why can’t she seem to feel it?
Heroically, she lasts another two hours before she heads home, feeling soggy with loneliness up to her solar plexus. The rest of the day spans out before her, threateningly vast.
She is very eager to begin her work.