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It’s a busy night at the end of the work week. People flood the Lanes, looking to spend their hard earned coin on what little can bring them enjoyment until the next payday. Jericho’s is packed to the brim, while there would be a line forming outside Babette’s if it weren’t for the bouncers shooing folks away.
Tonight would make any purveyor of booze and low lighting a fortune. And tonight, for the first time in years, The Last Drop is closed.
Inside, the dull roar of the crowd outside seems a hundred miles away. All the lights have been turned off, save those at the bar. Vander sits alone, nursing his third full glass of whiskey. He wouldn’t say it helps but it keeps him from shaking. At heart he wishes the whiskey would take away the all too present memories of the day. But it isn’t that strong.
Grayson had come personally to get him. Said there had been an “incident” and that he should come quickly. The look in her eye had caused the man to abandon the bar without a thought.
Mylo and Claggor had run to him, arms wrapping about his torso as they pressed their faces into his jacket. Mylo’s cry was jerky, intermixed with hiccups. Claggor’s was barely perceptible but strong, like a silent scream.
Powder hadn’t run to him. She was still weeping beside her sister.
Vi had looked inconceivably tiny, covered in that white cloth. Despite her drive and force of will, she had still been a child. And now, with that drive and force of will gone, Vander was looking at a child’s corpse.
It was all a blur after that. Conversations half-heard and half-answered. There was talk of an explosion and dangerous technology. Talk of having arrested the owner of the workshop and of an impending trial and investigation. Vander had just nodded but said nothing, holding Powder to him as she weakly shuddered, her tears soaking his shirt.
And then he had noticed the faces looking at them. Sad faces, with downcast eyes and pale complexions. Some were looking at him and Powder, while others looked at the small body under the sheet. One girl with dark blue hair, who could not have been much older than Vi, stared in horror at the only exposed part of the corpse, Vi’s hand, limp and lifeless. All these people, folk of Piltover, who seven years before had happily crushed Zaun’s attempt to better itself, now wept for one of its lost children.
A fury had risen in Vander then, like a beast trapped within a cage of civility. He wanted to rip off the sheet and yell at them to look. That the price for their comfort and wealth was the life of his daughter and they should all pay it and take it all in.
But he hadn’t, instead he had simply told Grayson where they could bring the body and left with his children.
And now he sits alone, the children in their beds, Powder in Vi’s, burying herself in what little remains of her sister in the scent on the pillows and blankets. And Vander feels the unrelenting desire to fix everything, to pick up the pieces like he did after the Bridge. But one of the pieces is gone forever, and she’s left a hole that would not and should not be filled. And it is killing him.
He’s halfway through his fourth glass when he hears the door open behind him. He swears he had locked it, but then again, he has been drinking. “We’re closed,” he bellows, desiring solitude more than anything, “Didn’t you read the bloody sign? Get out!”
“Not very hospitable,” comes a low silky voice, “It seems the customer service here has fallen dramatically since I last visited…”
The voice brings back memories, some good, some bad, but all kept tight to his heart. Vander turns around and there is Silco, half hidden in the shadows of the empty bar, like a ghost of his past made all too real. He takes a step closer to the light, illuminating his scarred face and dead eye. His expression is unreadable, a neutrality that verges on unsettling.
Vander is quick to look around for goons, weapons, anything Silco might use to enact his revenge. And a very small part of him wonders if it would be for the best, just so Vi wouldn’t be alone.
“Silco,” Vander manages to rasp out, his throat still burning from the liquor. “Are you here to kill me?”
There is a silence for a moment as the question hangs in the air before Silco responds, “Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t?”
“No.”
“Well there you have it,” Silco gestures vaguely with his hand, “But no, Vander, I’m not here to kill you, regardless if you believe me or not.”
Vander doesn’t believe it. Doesn’t believe this man doesn’t desire to kill him, to slice at his eye and hold him under murky waters till he stops moving. He doesn’t believe him because he knows he deserves Silco’s ire, and wrath.
The wrath doesn’t come. Instead, Silco slowly approaches Vander with a casual stride before reaching into the breast pocket of his vest and pulling out a piece of paper. It is dusty and yellowed, pinned between Silco’s middle and forefingers. He gently slaps it against Vander’s chest, as though serving him a bill.
He says nothing and it is up to Vander to open it.
Silco, I’ve looked everywhere but-
Vander doesn’t need to read any more. He knows this letter, written in his own uneven hand. He looks up at Silco. Into that one black dead eye, and the other, a clear greenish-blue like a tropical sea. And he doesn’t see hatred, or vengeance. Just… he doesn’t know.
Silco is the first to look away, putting his hands on his hips as he wanders a few steps off. “I hated you, you know?” he starts, still holding some venom in that sentence, “That you, the man I looked up to, the man I followed, the man I loved all those years… That you would do this to me…” He gestures vaguely to the scarred side of his face. “In truth… I think I still hate you.”
“I hate myself,” Vander sighs, “Doing that to you… I’ve regretted it every day.”
“It wasn’t just me though,” Silco spins, fury on his face, “It’s that you gave up the cause. Started playing nice with Piltover. It wasn’t what you did to me that made me hate you most, it was what you did to yourself. Selling it all away to them.”
Vander frowns, standing up, “It kept Enforcers out of the Lanes. We policed ourselves, made peace ourselves, they stayed there and we stayed here.”
“ Down here you mean,” Silco bites back, “An easy deal to make when they have nothing to lose and we have everything. The Nation of Zaun wasn’t just about moving along without being noticed. It was about dignity, respect! To be seen as equals not as servants!”
“Damn it Silco,” Vander’s voice is strained, “The cost would have been too high! Ideals are one thing but lives are another! How many of our people would you sacrifice to get that dream? A hundred? A thousand?”
Silco’s lip curls up in a sneer, “No price is so high, as long as the survivors are given what they are owed!”
“And the ones who don’t survive? What about them, eh? What do they get?”
“They get to be heroes!” Silco’s voice rises, “Fallen heroes of the cause! They will have their names memorized and revered by those who come after, their likenesses chiseled in statues and memorials to last for all time!”
Vander just shakes his head, “You can’t love stone, Silco. That’s the problem. Stone doesn’t hug you and tell you its fears and desires. It doesn’t carry the memories, only the name. What is the point of an ideal world where the ones you built it for aren’t there? I learned that when we lost Felicia.”
Silco’s voice grows sinister, “Do not act as though I didn’t care. But if we stop fighting, what meaning does her death have? What was the point if you are still willing to bow and scrape to the ones who did it to her?”
“Sometimes…” Vander sighs, “Sometimes death has no meaning. It’s just death. It’s what we do to preserve what we have that matters.”
“And look how well it worked out for you. All your subservience and denigration and still you lose one of your charges.”
The words stab Vander like a dagger. For half a moment he had been back in the hideout with Silco, debating. And now he’s here again. And she’s dead. That little girl who was so strong, who looked up to him, who followed his lead. Is dead.
Vander cannot be strong any longer. He slumps forward in the barstool, his whiskey glass tumbling from his hands as they lift to cover his eyes. Bitter tears run down his cheeks and he holds his sobs back as best he can, but they choke and throttle him out of cruel vengeance.
Silco just stands there, silent. He was unsure of what he would see when he picked the front door’s lock but this… He has never seen Vander cry. Not once. This strong man, this force of charisma who could band the Undercity together, not once has he broken. Not in front of Silco. Not in front of everyone.
And Silco, who thinks of every possibility, plans for ever contingency, developing moves and countermoves, is genuinely at a loss. His mouth hangs half open in shock as Vander’s weeping grows louder and more forlorn. And for a moment, just a moment, Silco forgets that night in the river.
He takes a step. Then another. And in no time he is embracing his old friend. His arms are small and they cannot meet about the mass of Vander, but he covers him, as though hiding his weakness from all the world. A secret only they might share.
“It’s okay,” he speaks softly, softer than he has spoken in years. “It’s alright. Release it. Let it out.”
“I-It’s my fault,” Vander chokes through his sobs. “I-I encouraged her too much, told her she was a leader… I-I never told her she was just a kid… She was just a kid Silco… and I had her grow up too fast…” His words jumble after that. A cavalcade of regrets, sins, and memories.
And Silco listens to it all. He says nothing. Makes no judgements, casts no aspersions. He stands there, shielding his friend from the eyes of the world, the man he had truly loved, and wonders if he loves him still.
In the end, he helps Vander up the stairs to his room and lays him down on an old couch. By then Vander is insensible, red lines running down his cheeks, drunken mutterings and sorrows falling from his mouth as though his body has yet to know his mind now sleeps.
Silco watches him for half a second, and finally cups his cheek with his hand. Vander nuzzles unconsciously into it and his words slow and cease, now falling into an untouched dream.
“You did best by her,” Silco whispers softly to him. In truth he does not know the girl all that well, but he knows Vander. He knows that for all that he hates him for, he would not have raised a child so poorly. “It’s not your fault…”
With that he stands and leaves the room, silent as a ghost.
He’s not alone when he reaches the bar. Felicia’s other girl is standing there. The younger one. Powder. Her eyes are blurry with sleep or sorrow, Silco cannot tell. She clutches a stuffed rabbit to her, as though it were a part of herself.
When she sees him she takes a step back, fear crossing her face. And he is painfully reminded that to many children he must look like a villain from every fairytale they’ve been told.
“Wh-Where’s V-Vander?” she stammers out.
And Silco is at a loss for the second time that night. How does he talk to children again? “He’s resting,” he speaks in his gentlest voice, “He had a bad day.”
“Oh,” is all she says as she looks at him. “Who are you?”
“I’m an old friend,” he says, truthfully enough, “I wanted to check in on him and see how he was doing. My name is Silco, and yours?”
“P-Powder.”
He gives a genuine small smile, “Lovely to meet you Powder. What is it that you needed?”
She sniffles and rubs her nose, uneasily but she speaks up, “I-I was thirsty and wanted to see if Vander could make me my special drink…”
“I see,” Silco says, looking to the bar, “Well let me see what I can do. It has been some years since I was behind here…”
Behind the bar, he finds everything is as it once was, and when she reaches over to pull out a dull gray cup, covered in colorful doodles, he knows exactly the drink. He reaches for the bottle and pours out the amber liquid, sweet and sticky, into the cup. He even remembers the straw.
And it’s here, late in the night, watching Felicia’s daughter drink Felicia’s drink out of Felicia’s cup, that he thinks he understands Vander better now. Children are their parent’s memorials, carrying their memories and their names. He and his generation may sacrifice for a better Zaun, but it is these children who will inherit it, not him.
Silco ponders if this means he forgives Vander. He doesn’t think so. But he now knows he wants to try.