Chapter Text
Friday October 1, morning
“Hi, welcome!” You call over your shoulder in a hurried frenzy. “I’ll be right with you.”
If there’s an answer, you can’t hear it over the cacophony of voices that are already swelling in the coffee shop. The Last Drip is always busy in the mornings because of its proximity to Zaun Community College, which is practically across the street. The moment you open at 6am, there are professors and students swarming through the doors for their morning buzz before a long day of classes.
You finish pouring steamed milk into a cup, and when you turn to face the counter you recognize your manager brooding behind it. “Your usual?”
“Better make it a quad,” Sevika grunts. “When it’s ready, bring it up to my office.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer, but strides towards the glass side door glaring at her phone. People automatically shuffle out of the way as she storms past.
Over the past two years you've learned that Sevika has a very narrow range of emotions in the morning: “Talk to me and you die” and “You better tell me what's going on right now or someone's gonna die”. The differences between the two are nuanced, but you've studied each mood carefully and understand how to recognize which one is which, so the two of you tend to get along just fine.
As you make your move to the espresso machine, a new hire, Issa, catches your eye from the back bar. She’s only half invested in prepping your cups.
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Not piss her off! She jumps down my throat if I even breathe her direction.”
“She’s a veteran of this place Issa,” Replies Connor in his bored Texas drawl. “She knows Sevika better than anyone, which is why you should be grateful that she's the shift lead and you're not. Hi y’all! What can I get ya today?”
You grab a fresh shot glass as he swaggers to the register to take an order, and Issa mutters in Spanish under her breath.
You pull a quad shot espresso, steam a bit of almond milk, and place a dab of foam on top.
"Connor, you've got bar. Issa, register."
"Yes boss," Connor salutes as they switch.
You push your way through the side door, moving a rope to climb the set of creaky stairs that takes you above the bathrooms. At the top is a narrow corridor, and you carefully make your way to Sevika’s office at the end of the hall. Through the open door you can see her waving her hand emphatically at whoever’s on the other end of the line.
“Silco wants those reports by Monday, no excuses! He’s got more than just your sorry ass on his plate right now with midterms around the corner, and the reno across town.”
You place the glass in the middle of her desk, your ears perking up at the mention of Silco. He owns The Last Drip, among many other shops in town, and is head of the board for ZCC.
You’ve only seen him once. Or rather seen a picture of him once, on the inside of a college pamphlet that had been left on one of the shop tables during orientation week.
He was unquestionably handsome. Though his right, icy blue eye had held a spark of disdain as it stared up from the glossy page, as if he was suffering the indignity of having his picture taken. His left eye had been hidden by an eye patch, scars spidering from behind it into a salt and pepper hairline. A few scars also puckered the corner of his thin lips, giving him the impression of a perpetual sneer.
The image had been more than enough to intrigue you, but there were plenty of stories that added to the mystery of his allure.
Like how he got his money by insider trading and bribed his way to the top of the board (Possible, but not likely).
That he'd blackmailed the president of ZCC to get his job (which wouldn't surprise you since the man had been suspected of siphoning funds from the college for years).
That he made a deal with Rumplestiltskin for a child in exchange for his eye (Conner’s helpful contribution to the discussion).
Or (and this one is your personal favorite) that he was a retired criminal mastermind turned aspiring academic after a botched heist destroyed his eye and gained him the responsibility of an orphaned, mentally unstable child.
They all seemed a little far fetched, but you enjoyed the pointless speculation.
You're turning to leave the office when Sevika ends her conversation and snaps to get your attention.
“I’ve got another order for you, and I need it sent over to the college asap.”
"Got it."
"And it has to be you, understand? The last thing I need is for Connor to make a smart ass comment to Smeech, or for a pissy board member to scare Issa into a nervous breakdown."
She pauses to throw back the quad, and it’s gone in less than three seconds. She shakes the empty glass at you and you take it.
"I’ll text you a picture of the list.”
She turns to her computer, and you take it as your dismissal. As you make your way back down the stairs you feel your phone buzz, and take it out of your apron to take a quick look. The order’s complicated, but you recognize all of the names and connect them to the faces you’d seen in the pamphlet that had featured Silco. There are four black coffees with a laundry list of cream and sugar requirements and a small decaf soy latte. The decaf is italicized along with a note (“I made Finn confirm twice that he wanted it decaf, and he swears he does, so don’t let the little shit give you any trouble about it”).
Then there’s the last two drinks: “The largest blended extra sweet caramel latte you can make with lots of whipped cream and caramel drizzle”, and a cappuccino with oat milk marked “FOR THE BOSS SO MAKE IT GOOD”.
You feel a surge of nervous anticipation.
It looks like after two years, you’re finally going to meet your boss Silco.
Zaun is beautiful in the fall.
The city rests on the outskirts of the sprawling county of Piltover, and retains the feeling of a small but bustling college town. The trees are ancient and gnarled, the shops are mostly family owned, and the houses are most definitely haunted by Victorian ghosts. You love how the people really get into the spirit of the season. As soon as it hits October 1st, the townspeople begin decorating their homes for Halloween. Much unlike those living in the high rises of Piltover proper, which you can just see shooting up into the clouded sky a couple of miles away.
Autumn is a big season for Zaunites. Over the summer a field of pumpkins had been growing, as well as several acres of corn, for the purpose of a fall festival and haunted maze. The vacant lot next door to the field had been steadily filling with questionable looking carnival rides and tents for the last month and a half, building anticipation.
You can just see the tip top of the carnival rides as you hurry towards campus juggling a to-go box of coffee, a drink carrier, and a bag full of cream and sugars.
Your breath comes out in a soft, puffing cloud as you smile.
You love everything about fall. You swear the air feels different: crisper and cooler, while the colors of the leaves turn warm and drop to the cracked pavement like gently falling stars. There's nothing you like better than cuddling up in your living room with comfy clothes, a warm drink in your hand, cinnamon scented candles burning on the hearth, and a steady diet of campy Halloween films.
You release a contented sigh and raise your head as you stroll onto campus, marveling at the changes that have been made in the last ten years. Modern buildings glisten above the damp, ancient classrooms you studied in when you went to ZCC.
Out with the old, in with the new.
After graduating you thought you’d move away and do exciting things in different parts of the country. Turns out the higher education that took you 6 years to achieve and mountains of debt to obtain only got you so far as Piltover, and the shiny career you pursued for the next three was so soul-sucking that you finally had to quit.
Which is when you stumbled into your old college fallback while you tried to regroup.
“Life’s a hell of a thing,” Sevika had grunted during your interview. “I always thought I’d be a middleweight boxer, and look at me now.”
You certainly never thought you’d be in your late twenties and working at a coffee shop. You’d kind of assumed that you’d have a set career, a clear purpose, and independence by this point in your life.
You’re almost grateful when a stray hair blows into your eye, and pulls your mind away from that all too uncomfortable line of thoughts.
You wipe your face and turn your attention instead to your quest across the sprawling campus. As your feet take you down familiar paths, you have to dodge students crowding narrow and uneven walkways. There’s construction fencing everywhere, and a strange collection of buildings pressing up against each other like mismatched books on a library shelf. On your left is a modern two story cafeteria which is rimmed by the squat, moss adorned art classrooms. To your right, square bricked math buildings have been encroached upon a pristine new STEM facility, complete with an observatory on the roof (reminiscent of a shining metal hat).
But by this point you've reached the older quadrant of ZCC, which is located on the slight rise of a hill. To take your mind off your burning calves, you turn your attention to the crows haunting the trees above you. They’re croaking and keeping a sharp eye on the trashcans and quick-stops, undoubtedly hoping for handouts. You pause to pull a broken pastry from your pocket and crumble it beneath a particularly murderous looking tree. You have the infinite satisfaction of watching one of the braver birds descend onto your offering as soon as you pass on.
Some people say crows are omens, though good or bad nobody seemed to be able to agree. You like the idea that they’re harbingers of change.
You could really use some of that right now. Life certainly looks as if it's going nowhere, and fast.
Making it to the sleek new admin building on time is your current, short term plan, and it sits at the very top of the largest hill like a perpetually shining lighthouse. You’re huffing and puffing by the time you make it up the final steps, and you pull up short as the door slides open and you’re assaulted by the chaos of screaming guitars and pounding drums.
“Hi! Welcome to the administration building!” A young voice shouts over the noise.
You blink as you take in the girl with her Doc Martens kicked up on top of the front desk. She’s about seventeen years old, her head bobbing along to the music as she considers a canvas on her lap. She's dressed like a pirate, her costume consisting of a rather expensive looking coat, striped pants, and a plastic eyepatch, though it’s been pushed up onto her forehead. There’s even a tricorn hat sitting atop a shock of braided blue hair, with a row of paint brushes sticking up next to the feather.
“That’s my caramel blended, right?”
“If you’re part of the order for Silco, then yes.”
“Did you make it extra sweet?”
“Absolutely.”
“Right on.” She drops her feet with a heavy thud, and sets the canvas against the computer monitor. You release an involuntary laugh when she vaults over the counter instead of walking around it, and snatches the drink from you with a grin.
“Dad’s in a meeting right now so you can stay down here with me while you wait. Say, you look like you have artistic vision, and I need advice on a piece I’m doing for my first show. Come here!”
She grabs your arm and drags you behind the desk.
“Okay, so what do you think? Too childish? Too cliche? This thing’s been driving me crazy all morning!”
An involuntary wow escapes you as you take in the canvas. It looks as though she’s taken a replicated painting and turned it into a piece of street art.
There’s bold, exaggerated splashes of color and spray painted words overlaid on the old stagnant landscape. What looks like magazine cut outs of various mountains have been pasted in the background, along with an assortment of zoo animals (Monkeys appear to be a favorite). There also seems to be some kind of free form poetry written in the upper right-hand corner.
“This is really cool.”
She takes a break from her loud slurping to squint at the piece. “You think so? What about this over here? You don’t think the imagery is too juvenile?”
“No, I think it's great."
"Are you sure? Because there's just something about it that's driving me nuts, and I can't put my finger on why!”
She’s practically bouncing on the balls of her feet as you give it a good once over, holding back a smile.
Her enthusiasm is endearing. It makes you remember how much you used to love painting, and you wonder why you stopped creating art in the first place.
Soul sucking job, three years a part of the walking dead.
Oh yeah, reality.
After a moment of consideration you point to one of the corners. “I think the imagery’s fine, but the reds and greens you used in this area are too similar in tone. It feels a lot like Christmas.”
"Okay... yeah, I see what you're saying. Hold this.”
She plops her drink back in the carrier and whips out a palette filled with messy glops of color. She pulls a paintbrush out of her hat and immediately dips into a traffic cone orange.
“That’s good. So now I just need a dab of yellow ochre here… some titanium white right there… and maybe a little more fuschia here…”
She bobs to the music as her brush works. Eventually she seems to forget you’re there, and you quietly watch her place her strokes with absolute confidence and precision. Then suddenly she frowns, mutters something under her breath, and swipes a bright swath of fuschia over an entirely different portion of the painting.
“There,” She steps back and nods decisively. “I don’t know how you did it toots, but you were right. There just weren’t nearly enough flowers over there.”
You don’t see any flowers, and you’re still getting over the shock of watching her paint over that corner like it cost her nothing, but you nod anyway.
Whatever she did, it somehow looks infinitely better.
“Now all I have to do is hit it with some spray paint detailing, sign it, et voila ! My pièce de résistance is complete!”
She throws an arm around your shoulders as you both admire the piece.
“It's wonderful. Where'd you get the idea for this one?”
“It started out as an assignment from my therapist when I was thirteen. I honestly b-s’d the whole thing when I turned it in, pretended the original picture represented the old me and my depression yata yata yata,” She rolls her eyes. “Of course she ate it up. But after a while I started using it as a tester for all my new ideas, and it kind of turned into its own animal.”
“Do you have any other finished pieces for your show?”
Her eyes light up. “Yeah. You wanna see ‘em?”
“Definitely.”
She grins and pulls out her phone. “A few are still a work in progress, but most of them are finis.”
You set everything down on the counter as she hands you her phone. She starts scooping the whipped cream off the top of her drink with her straw as you scroll through her camera roll.
“They’re all so different.” You swipe from a 6 foot canvas covered in spray paint to a charcoal portrait. It’s fairly illustrative, but you can tell it’s supposed to be her. Her hands are covering her eyes, and ghostly faces float faintly in the background.
“What was the inspiration for this one?”
“At 3:21am I think a lot of thoughts.”
“Hm.”
You look at the other pieces, and start to notice a pattern running through them. Haunting images, bold pops of color, strong emotions. Several of them are named different variations of “thinking lots of thoughts”, though one’s colorfully notated as “My effing brain at 4:06 for no effing reason”, which is just a crudely drawn sketch of two boys sitting on a couch, surrounded by litter. One of them has on a pair of swim goggles and the other has hair like yu-gi-oh, but both have vibrant gel pen x’s scratched where their eyes should be, and large toothy grins.
It looks like the pencil marks have been pressed so deep into the page, it ripped paper in a few places.
It makes you wonder what, exactly, this girl has gone through in her short life.
You hand her phone back with a strange tightness in your chest. “They’re stunning.”
“You really think so?”
“Yes.”
“Well I guess you were right after all, Dad,” Suddenly the music shuts off. “She thinks they’re great too!”
“No need to sound so surprised. You know I would never lie to you.”
When you turn to face the owner of the silken voice, you’re thrown for a loop.
Silco is standing only a few feet behind you, hands folded neatly behind his back. He's wearing a dark, expensive looking suit and an unreadable expression.
You blush and hurriedly push your stray, frizzy hairs behind your ear, though it probably doesn't matter. You get the distinct impression he’s been standing behind you for quite some time.
“You seem to have an eye for art,” He says.
You feel skewered by his gaze.
“Um yes, I um... I used to paint and draw when I was her age. But I mostly just admire it now. Your daughter is an excellent artist.”
“She is, isn’t she?”
He strolls forward, bringing with him the scent of cloves and pine. He’s taller than you imagined, about five foot ten. You feel every molecule in your body tingle as he leans forward to get a closer look at her painting.
After a moment of careful inspection, he nods slowly. “It’s perfect.”
The girl is positively beaming.
“But it’s after seven, Jinx. Shouldn’t you be heading to class?”
“Oh, right!”
She throws everything on the desk into her purse, and shoves the palette into a giant plastic bag before pushing the painting into his hand. “Put this in the office to dry, will you pops? And thanks again for your help, uh-”
You give her your name.
She repeats it in a sing-song voice. “This was fun! You should definitely come over to my studio sometime! We can drink hot chocolate, watch Halloween movies, cry about our childhood traumas and paint our feelings. Costumes are required.”
“Sounds like a good time to me.”
“Yay! I’ll text you soon so we can nail down all the deets,” She plants a quick peck on her father’s cheek, then runs for the door. “Laters!”
You don’t even have time to remind her that she doesn’t have your number before she's out the door in a flash of blue hair.
The silence that swells in her wake is almost deafening, and you’re suddenly very aware that not only are you alone with your boss, but you are very, very late with his coffee.
You face him to launch into your apology.
“I’m so sorry I’m late sir. Jinx told me to wait downstairs, then I let myself get distracted by her painting and I guess I just lost track of time...”
He raises a hand, and your words catch in your throat.
“You’re not late. The meeting went over time, as they tend to do. We've only just gone on break."
"Oh, okay. Well I’d be happy to take these upstairs for you now. If you’d like.”
He nods and spreads his free hand towards the elevator. It's completely mirrored, and you spend the entire ride to the top floor trying not to stare at his jawline as he leans against the back wall, eye closed and frown firmly in place.
You bite your lip.
He really is more handsome in person.
When you reach the top floor you fight to maintain a cool expression before he opens his eye and leads you towards a room walled in by opaque glass. He holds the door open for you, and you dip your head to avoid meeting his eye. Five people immediately turn your direction.
“There you are, old man. I was beginning to wonder if you’d gotten lost.”
This rather inappropriate comment comes from Finn, the youngest board member currently lounging at the head of the table. He looks like he’s dressed for a club, not a business meeting, with gaudy gold rings dotting his fingers and diamond encrusted chains hanging around his neck.
Silco ignores him as he points you to a sideboard, where you start to set everything out in order. You're acutely aware of all his movements as he heads to the back of the room to deposit the painting.
“What took you so long girl?” An older woman with dyed orange hair demands. “Where’s the cream and sugar?”
“I’ve brought a variety of milks and an assortment of sugars. I believe you specified you wanted two stevia and nonfat, Ms. Renni.”
She sniffs.
After setting everything out you hand Silco his cappuccino, which he takes silently, and you take the time to walk over to Finn to hand him his latte.
He’s quick to take a sip, and you resist the strong urge to roll your eyes when his face screws up in disgust.
“What the hell is this?”
“A decaf soy latte.”
“I know what a soy latte tastes like, and this is not it.”
“I’m sorry, but I know for a fact that it’s a decaf soy latte because I made it myself.”
“Decaf? No wonder it tastes like shit. I didn’t ask for decaf.”
His condescending tone makes you want to scream, but you work in customer service, and killing people with kindness is a skill you’ve perfected over these last several years. You paste on a polite smile, and make sure you sound at least mildly apologetic.
“I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding. Sevika was sure you’d asked specifically for decaf, but I’ll let her know she was mistaken. I’m sure she’ll be happy to leave the office to remake it. She might even deliver the order in person, to make sure it was remade to your satisfaction.”
He visibly pales. “No, no it’s fine.”
“Are you sure? I can text her right now, I know she won’t mind…”
You feel a sense of smug satisfaction at the panic that fills his eyes as you pull out your phone.
“Stop! Honestly girl, it’s not a big deal. I’ll drink it. But next time, make sure there’s a note somewhere to remind people that I don’t do decaf.”
“Of course Finn, I’d be happy to.”
A small smile escapes you as you turn away. It freezes on your face when you realize Silco’s watching you from across the room. After a few painful seconds being pinned under his gaze, you note that a smile is tugging at the corner of his lips.
Your shoulders relax, and you offer him one fleeting grin before you turn your attention back to the task at hand.
It takes you several minutes to prepare the other board members' coffee orders, and you're careful to refer to them all by name. If there’s one thing you’ve learned it's that people like to feel important, and important people like to feel known.
When you've handed out the last cup, you sneak a peek at your phone. You have one missed call and three texts from Sevika.
“Did you find the admin building?”
“What the hell happened to you? Did you get sucked into Oz?”
“If you don’t get back here in the next ten minutes I might actually kill these two, and their blood will be on your hands.”
She sent that one five minutes ago.
You type out a hasty reply.
“Sorry, I got caught up. The meeting went long but I’m delivering the drinks now. I'll text when I'm on my way back.”
“Are you tired of our company already?” Silco asks from over your shoulder.
It's unsettling, how quietly he walks.
“Well they do call these board rooms for a reason.”
It’s a bad joke, but he releases a snort of air through his nose, which is as good as a laugh. It gives you a giddy sense of accomplishment.
You wiggle your phone. “It’s actually just Sevika. She’s wondering what's taking me so long. I should definitely get back before she kills the rest of the team.”
“That sounds wise.”
You take a few steps backward. “Good-bye sir. And again, I’m very sorry for the wait.”
“Consider it forgotten.”
"Alright, I will."
This reply seems to mildly amuse him.
You head out the door, feeling on top of the world.
You check your notifications on your way down the hall.
“get-jinxed is now following you on Instagram”
“get-jinxed has liked your photo”
“get-jinxed has liked your photo”
“get-jinxed has commented on your photo: @Crocs.n.Jorts omg I’m so jealous!! I’ve always wanted a cat but…”
The account is private, but the profile picture is a vague blur of a human being with blue hair, which can't be a coincidence.
You send her a follow request.
That girl doesn’t waste any time.
You marvel at the morning you’ve had so far. It's not like anything exceptional happened really, but it certainly was interesting, and a nice change from the ordinary.
You smile to yourself as you emerge into the dappled sunshine, then whistle a jaunty tune as you begin your journey back to The Last Drip.