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Caitlyn will never get used to the sight of Piltover from the undercity. From the dirt-ridden cubby she and Vi are tucked into, the shimmering glass buildings and inspiring Hexgates rise above the clouds, an obscene display of modernity and progress.
Progress: the central ethic of Piltover’s existence. Only now is she beginning to question it for the first time—are the scientific advancements fostered by their universities still meaningful when they’re underscored by the suffering of the undercity? Seeing the effects of shimmer firsthand has knocked something loose in Caitlyn, and she has to wonder if progress is still progress when it’s drenched in blood that’s tinged purple.
Outside their cubby hole, blustering wind and rain whips in every direction as the storm’s grip tightens. Despite the nebulous storm clouds casting the whole city in darkness, somehow it still manages to shine. Caitlyn honestly doubts anything short of war could mar Piltover’s magnificence.
Vi is watching her. She whips her head around, suddenly defensive. Caitlyn hates the way her shoulders hunch under Vi’s judgemental gaze. “What?” she snaps. Despite her raised voice, the words are still almost swallowed up by the storm’s cacophony.
Vi shrugs, movements sluggish. She’s still recovering from her brutal fight with Sevika. “Nothing.” She fidgets with the strip of fabric covering the knuckles of her left hand, wrapping and unwrapping it. It’s like Vi always has to be moving, a vessel of pent-up energy. “Why?” she inquires. “What were you thinking?”
Caitlyn sighs, looking out through the rain over Piltover again. It’s easy enough to tell herself she’s admiring the view rather than avoiding Vi’s gaze. “Just…the city, I guess. I feel like my world is crashing down around me. Everything I thought I knew—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “I don’t know. The undercity is exactly what I thought it’d be, but at the same time it isn’t. All the suffering matches up: the drugs, the turmoil. But…”
“But what?” Vi presses. Her eye sockets are craters in the darkness. Her cheekbones are harshly-hewn rifts of stone, left there by the swinging battleaxe of some young god.
Caitlyn hesitates. “I thought the pain here was inherent, you know? That’s what they tell you as a kid. They press a rifle into your hand and tell you that joining the force is doing a service for the undercity—that without our ministrations, this place would fall apart.”
“And do you still think that?” Vi asks.
The immediate answer that Caitlyn wants to give is no . But she recognises the power of her soft inclinations towards Vi, and she has to remind herself that her newfound knowledge of the undercity is not enough to tear down the foundations of the biases against its people that have been drilled into Caitlyn since she was young enough to ask questions about the world. “I don’t know,” she whispers, finally gathering the courage to look Vi straight in the eye. She pauses. “Do you hate me for that?”
Vi’s head is tilted. It’s disconcerting how rarely Caitlyn can read her expressions. “How could I hate you, cupcake?” she smirks, but Caitlyn can tell she’s avoiding saying whatever’s on her mind.
She’s seized by a desire to know what Vi thinks of her. Placing a hand on the damp stone in front of her, she lets her body list forward: off balance, too close to Vi for comfort, entirely at her mercy should she choose to push Caitlyn off the edge and into the depths of the undercity. The sheer height of their cubby is enough to make her head whirl. “Come on,” she insists. “Tell me what you really think.”
Vi’s eyes narrow, taking her in. Thunder rumbles above them. Lightning flashes on the other side of Piltover in Caitlyn’s peripheral vision. “I think you’re more dangerous than you know,” she says at last. The words are an exhalation. “And I doubt you’ll ever really let go of Piltover’s honour or your old way of life. You’re a tool. Is that a fair assessment?”
It’s fair. More than fair. But, incensed by the storm and the heady sensation of brutal honesty, Caitlyn doesn’t care to stop herself from pushing Vi even further. “But that’s not all I am, is it?” she breathes. She doubts Vi even hears her over the storm.
The corner of Vi’s lip curls upward. “No, it’s not,” she admits. “You saved me. You traded away your gun for me.”
“So what? It’s just a gun.”
“And you’re a soldier. A gun isn’t just a gun to you.”
“You’re reading me wrong.” It’s a lie and they both know it.
Vi laughs. “You want me to spell it out for you?”
Something selfish uncurls within Caitlyn. “Yes,” she breathes.
Vi is suddenly crouched in front of her, body wound up tight like a recoil spring. She laughs unassumingly. Again, Caitlyn can’t read her. It’s endlessly frustrating. “You care so much,” Vi says. “About your city. About injustice. About everything you hate that you can’t change.” She slowly traces a fingertip along the collar of Caitlyn’s uniform. “But mostly you just need to do something, don’t you? Sitting pretty makes you feel sick. I could see it on your face when you followed me into the Lanes.” Vi is right. Inaction has always curdled the blood in Caitlyn’s veins. It’s why she’s an overachiever, a perfect marksman, an eager enforcer who searches constantly for a new mystery to sink her teeth into.
Caitlyn is breathing fast. She always knew she was wretchedly transparent, but Vi sees her better than anyone. She sees through her, making her nerves sing and her limbs shudder with the burning sensation of being known. Setting her jaw, Caitlyn tries not to buckle under Vi’s piercing stare. She wants to fire something back at Vi, anything, just to make her feel even half as exposed as Caitlyn does right now.
Instead, she whispers, “The scar on your lip. I like it.” Right as she speaks, another fork of lighting comes crashing down. It’s closer this time, splitting apart the fabric of reality before disappearing. Caitlyn subconsciously counts the seconds between the light and the sound, finding that it’s only a few miles away.
Vi seems knocked off kilter. Something shifts behind her eyes. “You do?”
Caitlyn wants to laugh. How can Vi see every single one of her insecurities and her vices, yet not notice the way Caitlyn looks at her? “I like your tattoo, as well. Who came up with it?”
“Some girl in prison.”
“She tattooed you?”
“Yeah. Just that one, though.” Vi bites her lip, as though she’s about to say something else but can’t quite bring herself to.
A hundred questions without answers form on the tip of Caitlyn’s tongue. She wants to know who gave her the rest of her tattoos. If they mean anything, if they’re purely aesthetic, if she fucked the girl who etched the numerals on her face. But Caitlyn isn’t the type to ask anything without knowing the answer already. Instead, she touches the numerals on Vi's cheek. “Vi’s not your full name, is it?”
Vi shakes her head. She looks strung out and bottled up all at once. Her fists clench, then unclench, then clench again—unconsciously, like a cruel tick—and before Caitlyn can help herself she’s taking Vi’s hands and unfurling her spasming fingers gently. Instead of answering her question, Vi lets her head thump onto Caitlyn’s shoulder and whispers, “I lost to Sevika.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Vi spits. “I lost. If you weren’t there, she would’ve killed me.” Loud vulnerability reflects through her features, lit up briefly like a lighthouse.
“I would never have let that happen.”
Vi grinds her teeth. “That’s not what I said. If you weren’t—”
“But I was,” Caitlyn interrupts, tone steady. “I wouldn’t leave you. You’re alive. We’re alive, Vi.” She gently releases one of Vi’s hands to cup her pale face.
Caitlyn’s hands are painfully cold, and Vi’s skin is warm to the touch. To her surprise, Vi closes her eyes and presses her cheek into Caitlyn’s palm. “You’re not as bad as I thought,” she murmurs. “For an enforcer.” Her thumb has started tracing listless circles on the back of Caitlyn’s hand. Always moving.
Caitlyn doesn’t rise to the bait, choosing instead to bask in the temporary joy of another body orbiting closely to her own. Vi opens her eyes again, the vulnerability gone. “Don't forget what you've seen,” she says quietly. "Don't go back there."
“Not without you,” Caitlyn responds, the truth slipping out like sand through an hourglass. Vi hasn't moved. The turbulent winds have ceased, but the rain only grows more violent.