Chapter Text
i.
no rain but a clear sky
five years after the death of jinx
—
Demacia falls on a Tuesday.
When the news breaks, she’s seated at the counter of a tavern in the outskirts of the Great City, mentally crunching through how many Demacian Marks she’s scrounged up for the journey out of the country.
At first, she finds it oddly fascinating—in an idle curiosity kind of sense, nothing morbid—the way the little messenger boy flutters into the lunch-hour inn, squeezing past grumbling patrons to whisper something in the innkeeper’s ear. In this past week she’s spent cooped up in the city, she has never seen the innkeeper—a burly and mute Vastaya named Zymin—give away more than a twitch of emotion, and today is no different. A twitch is the only indication of the Vastaya’s worry as he glides to the door with more grace than would be expected for someone of his size and physique, discreetly locks the door and draws down the shutters.
She intercepts the boy with a hand to the sleeve as he flits away from the counter.
“What’s happening out there?”
The boy fixes her with an unimpressed look as he frees himself from her grip.
“The King’s dead.”
With a click, the gramophone finishes its scratchy song.
“How?”
He doesn’t flinch at her slit of a smile, at her unnerving violet eyes. He’s a tough child. He has to be, because he’s working for Zymin, one of the former big shots in the Demacian criminal underbelly before the old Vastaya retired into “cleaner” work with his establishment. Even though none of his patrons would know it.
“You’ll have to ask the boss.”
And with that, he’s gone.
The woman has never seen a nation crumble from a bystander’s perspective. After all, the only point of comparison she has is Piltover’s former Council, and being the one to blow them up herself, she can’t exactly count herself as impartial in that instance.
Dead. The Demacian King. His Royal Majesty, His Glorious Eminence, the supreme pretentious prick to govern a nation of pretentious pricks. What was his name again? Jarvis, Jonah? Third of his name?
At least it’s not her fault this time.
Briefly, the woman wonders if she should be feeling alarmed. Horrified, even. That certainly would have been the reaction of any sane and decently moral person.
But the woman is twenty-three, now. No longer a little girl. She hasn’t cared for morals in a long long time, not once in the last five years and much less the preceding eight. Morals don’t put coins in her pockets, pay for the food on her plate or the bullets in her guns.
She can’t afford to think twice.
It doesn’t take long for the rumble of synchronized footsteps to reach the streets. Muffled through the walls, but thanks to her Shimmer-boosted senses she hears them regardless. Roughly two dozen soldiers from the sound of it. Charging onward mindlessly like half-decapitated chickens, armour creaking and clanking with so much rust in their hinges that she resists the urge to cringe.
They pass without stopping.
People chatter on, about love lives and stressful weeks and family drama. Someone burps. The floorboards creak. A mechanical arm grabs the spent vinyl disc, slots it to the side, retrieves another song from the shuffled music pile and slips it under the needle. In the corner, a bumbling man spills his drink onto the table: though it appears like an accident, she has been watching him for long enough to know it’s part of his ploy to cheat at cards.
Lunch, overcooked and lukewarm, is served. A bland stew of crudely-chopped vegetables mixed with some unidentifiable type of meat. With a crooked spoon, she prods at a solitary chunk of potato.
Kill a person in an empty alley, and no one will see them fall. Kill a person in a busy street, and everyone will pretend to have been struck blind.
Nations, it seems, fall on normal days.
Into the churning fireplace, on her way to the stairs, she tosses a handkerchief caked with crimson.
By mid-afternoon, the news of the King’s death has fully sunken in, and the atmosphere in the quarter is no longer so eerie as before. More precisely, the eeriness has been distributed among the cityfolk: returned home from work and whispering in snatches of gossip, grouped huddles on the sidewalk, at doorsteps, in twos and threes and secretive fives, glancing once every few words at the gleaming form of the Royal Palace across the Great City skyline.
A priest shows up. Calls himself an Illuminator, devoted servant of the godly-googly light or whatever he’s calling this particular package of preachy nonsense. Decked in glitzy armour that wouldn’t protect him from a tossed pebble, he installs himself in the middle of the street, opens a freshly-printed scroll and begins, in a pompous tenor, to read.
The King—Jarvan III, she finally catches his name—was assassinated.
Culprits: supposedly a group of terrorist mages who broke out of prison then proceeded to attack the Palace. If spotted, do not engage. Inform the authorities immediately. Offered, for information on their whereabouts, a hefty bounty of one thousand Marks. Same price, dead or alive.
The Mageseekers—an elite unit of mages in service of Demacia—have been dispatched en masse across the country to hunt them down.
In the meantime, His Majesty’s only son, fourteen-year-old Jarvan IV has assumed the throne.
Extraordinary emergency powers have been bestowed by the Legislative Council to the military. Checkpoints have been established on all city exits, on all major highways.
Curfew will be implemented starting tonight. Patrols will be conducted throughout every major city. She spots one on her way back from the pawn shop, tearing down the cobblestone path like there’s no tomorrow. Clip, clop, a uniform pace, like the counting ticks of a dying clock.
Luckily, the hair that falls just to her shoulders has been dyed a nondescript auburn for years, and no one will bat an eye at her scarf, her worn gloves, her broad woolen hood, in the chilly autumn weather with yellow leaves spiralling in the breeze.
One soldier lingers behind. To nail up a series of ‘Wanted’ posters, and the woman watches on from the corner of her eye. Studies the crudely-drawn faces, the scrawled names and bounties.
A stony man, beard scraggly and gaze feral. Who knows how long that one’s been locked up for.
A sharp-faced girl with golden hair and mesmerizing azure eyes. Roughly her age, if the drawing is to be believed.
Momentarily, she imagines rifles instead of lances, gas masks in the place of steel helmets. Leaky pipes and neon lamps and the damp, musty, heavy Grey, sweeping away these edifices of time-bleached stone.
Then she blinks, and the vision dissipates back into the past.
The Illuminator’s final words come to mind. Unscripted, uttered with clasped hands and pure, unyielding faith.
“So may we unite in these dark times, oh children of Demacia. So shall Kayle the Righteous and Just share with us her strength, her blessed sight; grant to us our final victory against the devilry of magic, the cursed powers of the Arcane.”
The burble of fluids, the hiss of pistons and winking of lights. She can’t help but be impressed at what’s hidden in the inn’s basement.
“Will it be ready by tonight?”
The process cannot be rushed. The Vastaya’s hand signs are slow, unhurried. The chemicals you’ve requested are experimental in nature—incredibly difficult to stabilize and distill—
“I was told you’re the best, Zy-Zy, so I expected the best.”
A long-suffering sigh. She’s not sure who it came from first.
“Let me make this clear, shall I?”
The click of a pistol, the slipping on of an old, practiced mask. Almost imperceptibly, the Vastaya flinches.
“We both know things are about to get ugly in this country. Been going this way for years, way before today. You want out, and I was only ever passing by.”
She needs to leave, now. Silco used to insist that she rely on her nose, and she’s smelling an even greater danger awaiting down the line. It’s clogging up the air. Like the ozone before a thunderstorm, the silence before an Enforcer raid.
Leave before shit hits the vent shafts, as they would say in the Undercity.
Point being?
“Either you get me what I need by tonight, and I’ll sweeten the deal—double the original price, how does that sound?”
Or?
“Or we can do things the hard way.” A nod at the study door. “I’m sure those army pigs would love to hear about those magic suppressants you once sold to mages around here.”
To the woman’s surprise, the Vastaya squints at her. Unerringly searches her face for something only he knows to look for.
All of a sudden, quite inexplicably, his expression softens.
You could have just asked nicely.
“What?”
No matter. I’ll get it to you by tonight.
By midnight, he promises. Which leaves her with three hours to kill.
Following some hesitation, she ultimately chooses to grab the sash that contains her meagre collection of belongings, unclasp the window of her tiny room and clamber out, up the wall and onto the roof of the inn.
Scamper off the edge, over to the neighbouring building. Land silently on a third-storey terrace, dust-blown. Run her hand along the broken railing, let the rugged metal bite into the skin of her palm.
Things are falling apart here like anywhere else. A constant between nations, the march of time is. It reminds her of another night, another balcony in a life she’s almost forgotten was her own.
“See that gutter running along the canal? That's where Claggor got his foot stuck running from enforcers.”
Delivered in a flash, a glitch of iridescent colour. A tuft of bright pink hair, then a pair of scratchy goggles.
She shakes her head and sinks onto the balcony floor. The bag tinkles, pressing uncomfortably against her waist.
Empty it, item by item, as she does.
A pair of handcrafted pistols, shoddy yet sturdy. Two cases of ammo, one half-spent. Half a dozen unpainted grenades: most of them duds, too.
“And that sign? Mylo tripped over his own paint bucket and nearly fell off trying to draw a giant middle finger.”
Deeper she reaches.
Spent, hollow, a flare stained in flecks of blue. Blackened, a half-melted miner’s helmet, two glass lenses melded to the warped metal. A toy bunny, threadbare and discoloured.
She plucks them all out. Lays them gently on the floor.
A little tin box—a repurposed ammo container—she unclasps delicately, then slides the lid underneath, plopping the whole in her lap.
“When I was a kid, some guy took my favorite toy and threw it up there.”
Shrill yet dulled, the flicker of a second voice. Muffled. By the years, by the weight of new memories.
Inside her vest pocket she fishes. The newest letter fits snugly between her fingers, and even better on the top of the pile inside the tin box. Slipped under her door this morning, the latest in the neverending queue of them she’s received since Shurima, now in Demacia.
She doesn’t know how. She doesn’t question it. She’s learned never to use the word “impossible” wherever he’s concerned.
“I used to come out here at night and stare at it, hoping maybe the wind or a bird might knock it down.”
At least Vi doesn’t seem to know. Subtlety was never her sister’s forte: the woman who is sitting on the edge of the roof knows very well how her sister would tear a warpath across Valoran to get to her.
She should answer.
Although the first question that comes to mind, every meandering time she’s held this internal debate, is how she would even send the reply. There isn’t exactly a transoceanic mail service available in most of the places she goes.
But she’d be able to. If she put her mind to it. Someone once told her—maybe it was Silco, or was it Ekko?—that she has the talent to make miracles come to life.
Or jinxes. All depending on your point of view.
“We've all had bad days. But we learn. And we stick together.”
Maybe she should burn them instead. Anything but indecision. Anything but whatever she calls … this.
The day was sunny, so the night is clear. Stars bead like teardrops fallen onto a pitch-black cloth. Through the broken railing she dangles her feet, pressing her hands to the freezing marble for stability.
Under the sunlight the Great City is alien, perfect in an otherworldly sense, beautiful the way a geometric shape or a newly-carved statue is beautiful. In the darkness it’s still flawless but now makes her think of a tomb. The streets are empty, save for the occasional glow of handheld lamps, bobbing along the facades of distant buildings like bullseyes for the accompanying patrols. Right—patrols, the curfew. Echoes of the past. But she’s safe here, high above their heads.
After all, in Demacia, no one’s ever learned to look up.
It’s too chilly, though, even with the hood drawn around her torso. She should head back inside.
“You're stronger than you think. And one day … this city's gonna respect us.”
She’s back on the roof when the blast of light halts her.
“Bluebird’s been off-grid for over a year.”
“Meanin'?”
“It’s time we seriously consider the possibility that she’s—gone, for good.”
“Are ya sayin' she’s deserted us? The greatest bounty hunter t' grace the Blue Flame Isles? Ya know what they call 'er—the Wraith of Valoran, Janna's Fury—the one who never puts down 'er gun until she’s caught her quarry or she drops dead—”
“Not a single person in Valoran knows her face. A past client could stumble into her on the street and be none the wiser. With her skillset, it would be laughably easy for her to start a new life.”
“Still. Ya don't become the most successful hunter on both sides of the Narrow Sea just t' get cold feet durin' a routine mission.”
“There’s always a possibility she’s dead. In our world, life and death are decided every morning by the spin of a coin.”
“But?”
“But she is the luckiest bastard I’ve ever known. Odds are, she’s left us and she’s not coming back.”
“Damn. After everything we’ve done fer her?”
“She’s always been a fickle one. Wings never to be tied down. Ever flying, never stopping.”
In her twenty-three years of life, the Bluebird can say she’s acquired quite the library of odours.
First, during her childhood, sneaking about the forgotten recesses of the Undercity; then later, at Silco’s urging, as she dredged up said recesses with explosives and hefty doses of lead; and lastly, these past five years on the road. Sweat and urine with a hint of chemical spice, the stink of every Trencher adult and child. Charbroiled flesh, salty with a slight tang, from the remains of those unfortunate souls who ran into her grenades.
For the Hexgem, iron and chipped ice and kerosene fire. After working on Fishbones, the cavern that once served as her hideout reeked of it for weeks and forced her to fix the ventilation that she’d never bothered about for the previous seven years.
So she knows, better than most in the world, what magic smells like.
Especially when mixed with burning human.
This alley she’s found reeks of it. Dug into the old port of the Great City, exhaling a viscous, scratchy smoke like an Ixtalian marsh beast. Or an air vent spewing Grey right before an Enforcer attack.
Why is she here again?
—lights, sparks, powdery rubble, far too many flecks of blood like a paint bomb gone wrong, her sister leaving her at the feet of her dead family, the souls of the living and the dead washed away in the rain—
Grit her teeth. Pound herself once, twice on the side of the head, the only reprieve she allows herself. Slip one grenade into her right hand, thread her left fingers around her gun. A muffled clink as her prosthetic presses against the grip.
Advance, step by step, into the choking smoke. Sweep left and right. Eyes and ears alert. Block out the smell, shut down the heart.
One body, to the left. Head blasted clean off, helmet disintegrated into fat drops of molten metal that sizzle their way through the remnants of the skull.
Four paces down, a cadaver with a gaping hole where its shoulder, the left side of its chest should be. Like someone took an eraser to a pencil sketch and scrubbed away half the picture. Mouth stretched in a stiff line, the right side of the face hidden by a once-ivory mask now drenched in soot.
Gruesome deaths, yes. But fast, and very likely painless.
A mage attack, from the looks of it, and a vicious one at that. Victims: a Mageseeker and her guard. Caught in an ambush, slaughtered before they had any idea what was happening.
The same repeated, endless story. Force someone to their knees and as soon as you turn your back, you’ll be the one bleeding out on the ground. Topside and Bottom. Macie and its mages.
“Killing is a cycle.”
Isn’t this what Silco taught her, in the end?
There’s no rain but a clear sky, there’s smoke but no fire. In spite of the violence of the act, she’s caught not a single footstep in the vicinity. Whether that speaks more to her superhuman speed or to the utter incompetence of the Demacian city guard, is a question she’s not really interested in answering.
Because they can’t be so far behind. That blast of light must have been visible in every corner of the city. Better to retrace her steps, leave this sight in this moment alone and move on.
Zymin must have finished her order by now. If not, he’ll need another round of persuasion. She needs to plan her own escape. There’s nothing to be gained from gawking at another pair of corpses, two against the myriad that already indelibly stain her hands.
Besides, the mage must still be close by.
“Mama?”
She should get out. Stay away. Because Powder didn’t stay away, and so Powder picked up the Hexgems and ran off after her sister and exploded her whole family. Because Jinx didn’t stay away, and so Jinx dragged another child into her hell of an existence and found her father again and watched as they blew each other to smithereens.
All for her. Only ever for her.
“I’m sorry—I, I didn’t mean to—”
Luck never favours her. After shedding two dead girls worth of masks, two lives worth of failures, she thought experience would have taught her better.
“You feel it? That buzzing behind your eyes? Because you know, in a moment, it could all go poof?”
About her age, the mage is, or perhaps a few years younger, but the voice is pure like a flute, naive and childish and heart-wrenchingly open, and she can do nothing more but stand frozen to the spot, transfixed, as the girl limps forward, golden hair stained with ash, gaze pointed at nothing and everything, hands clasped to the red splotch on her thigh.
Hands awash with a scalding glow. Rainbow, like oil on water, fading away as soap is added to the washbucket.
The girl lets out a cry. Trips and tumbles over.
—there’s no rain but a clear sky, there’s smoke but no fire, and she could just walk away—
On cue, the Bluebird holds out her hands and stops the fall.