Work Text:
This isn’t the first time Silco’s seen a corpse.
Fifteen years of life in the sump had offered him more than his fair share. He’s seen them in plague-ridden piles to be cast into the Pilt. Stepped over a few on the street. Felt the cold, hard hand of his own mother.
It is the first time he’s been the one directly responsible. Or in this case, partially. Vander was the one who broke his neck.
Quite the introduction.
Silco’s latest topside excursion had proven prosperous. Jewelry and a clockwork contraption he knew was worth something based on what Muji kept in his pawn shop. Muji was a creature of the night, and this late hour was prime time to come knocking. But a lone enforcer stopped him in his tracks, demanded he be searched. Silco would sooner lick filth of the street than oblige him, even if he possessed nothing on his person other than the rags he wore, but his haul was especially incriminating. It was a rare thing, for him to get stopped. Most everyone looked right past him—dirty, rail thin, stringy ink-black hair obscuring half his face. Silco was invisible, and invisible people made expert thieves.
But Vander saw him.
Squirming against the alley wall with a hand around his neck. Embarrassing. He easily could have outrun the enforcer but he tripped on a loose cobblestone. He’d fumbled for the knife in his boot, but a boot to the face left him stunned long enough for the enforcer to crack down with his baton, wrestle him to his feet, strangle him until the world went black around the edges.
“I should kill you right now. Nobody would notice. Nobody would care. The world would be down one sump rat and better off for it.”
“OI!” came a cry from a nearby stoop.
And the rest was history.
Vander spits blood at the corpse, wiping his face on his sleeve. “Serves him right. This one’s been prowling these streets alone for the past few months. Fits the description. Been taking advantage of women with nowhere to go.”
Silco shakes his head. At least he’d landed a solid stab to the leg. Brought him to his knees so Vander could land the killing blow. Vander looks to be about his age. Maybe older, given the sheer size of him. It was breathtaking to watch—those large fists cracking bone like wafer. The hulking mass of him towering above as punches rained down. The rage in his eyes.
And yet there was a kindness in them too.
“This your first?” Silco asks casually, nodding to the body.
“Enforcer? Yeah.”
Silco narrows his eyes. “But not your first.”
Vander goes quiet a moment, a haunted look flickering across his features. “No, not my first.”
Silco doesn’t press further.
The uniform is worth keeping, at the very least for repurposing. The suit as-is would be incriminating, but the fabric feels expensive. Sturdy. Durable. The gold trim alone would make it worth the risk of saving. Silco imagines it for a moment—trimmed with gold from head to toe. His current attire isn’t worthy of it, though he’d done a fairly stylish job with what he had.
The gas mask could fetch a pretty penny. Save a life. He offers it to Vander in exchange for the uniform. They split the coin pouch. Silco takes the boots. Vander takes the helmet.
Silco is folding up the trousers and shoving them in his canvas sack when he feels a hard lump in the pocket. Curious, he fishes it out. Keys dangle from his dirty finger, glinting in the lamplight. A beat passes between them, the air crackling with excitement—a wildness in Vander’s eyes, a grin growing across Silco’s face.
“Car’s in the alley just down that hill,” Silco murmurs.
And suddenly they’re off, bolting down the cobblestone into the grey, not a soul around. Sure enough, she’s sitting pretty in the alley; sleek and black, limned with purple neon from the sign above. The key fits.
“I’m driving,” Vander claims.
“You know how to drive?” Silco has half a mind to protest, to stake his claim for the wheel, but the other half knows better than to argue with the man who just saved his life.
Vander shoots a playful look as he ducks into the cab. “Absolutely not.”
The dashboard is a chaos of lights and switches. A voice crackles over the radio. “…Montgomery we’ve got a 10-96 on Price and 18th—over and copy.” Wild looks flash between the two of them.
Vander tests the pedals, scans the letters that frame the shift stick, flips some switches and flicks his wrist at the key in the ignition. Nothing but an empty click. He tries again, stomping the pedals, shifting the gears until the engine roars to life.
Cackles burst from their lips, and Vander triumphantly gets the vehicle rolling… straight into the brick wall behind them.
“I think the D means drive!” Silco exclaims, clutching his head as he points to the shift stick. He isn’t sure Vander can read.
At last, he finally manages, and they’re careening out into the street. Vander manhandles the steering wheel, stomping on the gas. The tires squeal in protest but soon they’re jolting up the hill from where they came, stopping with a lurch by the body. It fits into the trunk without a problem, once they figure out how to open it.
Vander seems to be getting the hang of it. He’s heavy on the gas, forceful with the break, but they jerk forward this time, and pretty soon they’re cruising right along, street lights and glowing windows whizzing by, fading in the rearview mirror. They have no need for maps. They’re intimate with Zaun. Know which roads lead to safety, which to danger.
Silco clutches the armrest, heart pounding as they peel around a corner. Vander clips the curb, sending a trash can tumbling into the street.
He shoots Silco a crazed look, hair falling wildly into his face. “How ‘bout we pay Old Hungry a visit?”
The streets of the sump are narrow and winding. Unaccommodating. Skewed by the ever-present grey that seeps from the sewer. But at last, they crest the top of a large hill toward the entresol and Zaun sprawls out before them.
Zaun—city of iron and glass. A menagerie of neon and graffiti, of smoke stacks and windows that glow like green fireflies. A crucible of culture and invention. A lawless playground.
Silco’s first love.
There’s a bright yellow switch on the dash. Silco’s fingers itch, and curiosity wins. The car jumps to life with a blare of sirens and flashing lights. People scatter in the streets like a parting sea.
Is this what power feels like? Swallowing the pavement, safe behind a fortress of steel and tinted black windows. Engine growling like a wild beast, challenging anyone who might oppose it.
Vander grabs the radio transmitter. “Officer Brownnose reporting for duty. We’ve got a code 404—stool on the loose.”
Silco howls, tossing his head back against the seat before composing himself enough to snatch the transmitter. “Over and copy. Officer Bootlick here, sending in backup trousers.”
They’re wheezing. Gasping. Veering off the road in a near collision with a fruit stand before Vander snaps the wheel back to attention. The Lanes are thick in both their voices, heard loud and clear by the enforcers on the line. Time is running out.
At last, Old Hungry smiles down with its glowing clock-face and Silco lowers the window, dipping out his head to offer a reverent salute. The wind catches his hair, and he swears the iron hands fall still for just a second.
There’s a pier not far from here, and they’re cruising straight for it. Silco senses Vander’s idea before he says a word. This stolen treasure is too big for them to keep. Better to offer it to the Pilt. To let it sink among the ruins of Shurima and the countless other treasures that were stolen from beneath them.
A cinder block to the gas pedal does the trick. With a resolute sigh they offer their good-riddance and sincere gratitude to their joyride before sending her off with a roar.
Silco reaches into his pocket and procures two cigarettes, offering one to his accomplice. “Officer Brownnose.”
Vander accepts, pinching it between two bloody fingers. “Officer Bootlick,” he says with a gracious nod.
They light up, blowing smoke toward a moonless sky as the roof of the car sinks below the fetid water. They’re a sore sight—stained and disheveled with dried blood beneath Silco’s nostrils, crusted along Vander’s swollen lip.
Suddenly Vander starts to chuckle; a bubbling, contagious thing that Silco catches instantly. It erupts into laughter, mad and breathless. Vander howls at the sky, Silco braces his knees, cigarette threatening to drop from his trembling fingers.
Zaun will always be Silco’s first love, but he swears he’s just found his second.