Chapter Text
Who told you what was down here?
Come along if you wanted a peek
I’ve seen your face around here
Come alone, tell me under the table
What do you seek?
Welcome to the playground
The Lanes never sleep.
The sunken streets may lie beneath Piltover’s heavy shadow, and it's faults are numerous and deadly, but no one can claim that the Undercity is boring.
There is always colour to be found, if you know where to look.
It’s something you pride yourself on; the ability to see what others can’t. Some mistake it for simple optimism. But you know it’s more than that. It’s the thing that’s kept you alive this long, in more ways than one.
The bass-line is loud in the club. It beats through the concrete floor like a thunderous heart and vibrates through the thick rubber soles of your boots. The room lights up with strobing flashes; the kind meant to disorientate, to amplify the effects of alcohol and other such substances until you have no idea who or where you are; only that you’re still alive, and for now, at least, you feel good.
You’ve been working here, serving drinks at The Griffin’s Head, for a few months now. Though you’ve been a bartender much longer; since you were legally old enough to consume the drinks you pour. It’s a vocation you enjoy greatly, and you’re damn good at it too. It takes a lot more skill than people realise. There’s a science behind making a drink good enough to keep them coming back for more, and you have a knack for cracking even the toughest of customers with your easy banter. By now, you’ve worked half the bars in the Undercity, never stopping in one place for too long. It’s a bad habit of yours; giving in to the itch beneath your skin that’s constantly craving the next thing. Listening to every tug in your gut that insists something big is on the horizon. That if you keep moving forwards, one day, you might finally get close enough to reach out and touch it.
You flip the bottle of vodka up behind your back, allowing it to twirl in the air before catching it and pouring a line of shots along the counter in front of you without spilling a single drop. (The cheap spirit would likely strip the gloss off the wooden bar if you did – and that would come straight out of your wages). The party of six cheer and whoop, and you give them a playful little curtsy. They knock back the crystal liquid – clearer than the water down here – and the miniture glasses return to the counter with polyrhythmic thuds. You palm their coin, and turn to cash it safely in the till.
A new presence arrives behind you at the bar, and their energy gives you pause. It's distinctly different from anything you’ve encountered before, and like a tuning fork struck on the edge of a table, your very bones seem to vibrate with a sudden, deep certainty that the horizon you’ve been blindly seeking has just moved a little closer. That it lays not in front of you, but at your back.
You turn, and are greeted by a decidedly unexpected sight.
A blue-haired girl - perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old - sits at the bar, grinning at you like she’s known you her entire life. Two thick braids tumble down her back and disappear from view.
You raise an eyebrow, and lean your elbows on the countertop, “Aren’t you a little young to be in here?”
“Ehh,” she shrugs dramatically, rolling her neck all the way back and around to fix you with a sideways grin, her face half-covered by a triangular flop of hair. You cock your own head so that she's right-ways-up in your vision again, and grin back. You can’t help it. Her energy is infectious.
“I’m not serving you,” you chuckle good-naturedly.
“Didn’t ask ya to,” she counters playfully.
Her eyes are almost as blue as her hair, and there’s a sharpness in them that intrigues you. Her gaze darts over your face, assessing.
“Is there something else I can help you with?”
The constellation of freckles across the girl's nose and cheeks stretch as she cracks out another wide grin, “Yes, actually, there is!” She pushes off the counter, sending herself spinning several rotations on the twizzling barstool, before coming to an abrupt stop by slamming her hands back down on the bar. She fixes you with a businesslike glower, “I want you to come work for me.”
You snort a laugh and fold your arms, “That so?”
“Well, not me exactly, my dad.”
“Right,” you smirk, popping a hip as you rest your weight onto one leg. The bar isn’t overly crowded tonight, and there’s enough staff around to serve the other patrons whilst you indulge this kid for a few minutes. Besides, you’re quite enjoying yourself.
“He owns a club. It’s kinda like this one, but a lot better.”
“And your dad sent you here to offer me a job?”
“Mmmmmmmm,” she scrunches her face and makes a weighing gesture, “Not exactly. S'more like I’m taking initiative. He needs another pair of hands behind the bar, but he’s too busy to find those hands himself. So I’m finding ‘em.” Her cheeks balloon out as she suppresses a sudden, violent laugh. The result is a lewd snort.
“What’s so funny?”
“Something about pairs of hands – you wouldn’t get it yet. So d'ya wanna come work for me or what?”
“I already have a job,” you gesture vaguely around you.
“The one I’m offering is much better.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“How so?”
“How much ya make shakin' bottles here?”
You laugh out loud at the intrusive question. “Ten an hour.” Not a great wage, but definitely not the worst you’ve ever had.
“My dad’ll pay you twenty.”
You pause. That’s way overpaid for a bartender. You fold your arms on the countertop, narrowing your eyes at the girl. Her smile only widens.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. Business is booming and my dad pays fair."
“Why me?”
“I like the look of ya—” she leans right into your space, bringing her face a little too close for comfort, “—and I have a good feeling, in here.” She pokes her stomach. “Do you believe in that kinda thing?”
Your skin prickles, “Yeah, actually... I really do.”
She nods sagely, as though you’ve just said something deeply profound. But you can see the quiet triumph in her blue eyes and the slight upward tilt of her mouth; she knows she’s got you hooked.
“What bar was it you said your dad owns?” You ask warily.
“Oh just a lil' ol' joint called The Last Drop.”
Your blood turns to ice.
It's forced sluggishly through your veins only by the hard, erratic beat of your heart, which in turn replaces the pounding music in your ears. The girl watches your expression carefully. You peel your tongue from the roof of your suddenly bone-dry mouth.
“That’s Silco’s place.” Your voice is barely a whisper, yet the girl somehow hears you over the din of the club.
“Yup! That’s Pops.”
A small, hysterical laugh bursts from your lips, and you can’t help your paranoid glance around the room – half expecting to see a pair of glowing eyes peering out at you from the shadows. You were born and raised in the Lanes, and like every other gutter-baby you know exactly who Silco is. The Industrialist. The Eye of Zaun. Some of the more zealous down here refer to him as King of the Underground. You’ve heard every story there is, and then some.
You know he’d kill anyone who so much as breathed to his disliking.
“I’m Jinx, by the way. So can ya start tomorrow?”
“Absolutely not,” you choke.
She pouts, “How come?”
You battle the desire to grab the nearest bottle and start chugging.
“I serve drinks. I don’t want anything to do with anything else,” you snap, harsher than you mean to. Shit, this is Silco’s daughter you’re talking to. You need to remain pleasant, and end this conversation as quickly as possible.
Jinx either doesn’t notice your sudden change of tone, or chooses to ignore it, “And you won’t. Trust me – dad already has specific people working shimmer sales,” she drums an erratic rhythm against the wooden counter. “You’d be a barkeep, nothing more. Pretty please?”
She gazes at you with a painful amount of excitement. Her eyes sparkle, big and blue, and she gnaws at her lower lip as though she can barely contain herself.
Shit shit shittidy-shit.
Can you really say no? If you turn her down, you run the risk of incurring The Eye of Zaun’s wrath by disappointing his daughter who is, for whatever bizarre reason, evidently dead-set on you taking this job. If you say yes… you’ll be running the risk of incurring his wrath simply by being in his vicinity. In his employ.
…But at least you’d get paid twenty hexes an hour for it.
There’s also the matter of your gut – your stupid gut that’s seemingly intent on getting you killed. The impossible-to-ignore inner voice that's all but screaming at you to stick your hand into the fire. To grasp every opportunity this short, smog-filled life offers. To peer over the precipice and chase the rush of the fall.
And so, in a daze, you take the plunge.
“Alright then.”
Jinx whoops and does a little victory dance in her seat. Your adrenaline makes your head swim, and you find yourself laughing at the wiggling teenager despite your lingering trepidation.
“Perfect! So I’ll see you tomorrow…” she trails off and raises her eyebrows in question.
You offer your name, and she smiles.
“9pm sharp, don’t be late,” she says sternly, rapping her knuckles on the bar, before spinning on her heel and bouncing away with a full-bellied cackle. Her thigh length braids and pink-striped legs disappear quickly into the undulating crowd.
You blink at the newly empty stool and try to comprehend what has just happened. One of the other bar staff jostles you as they pass to reach for a bottle, and your brain clicks back into gear. You need to find your manager and hand in your notice. Not that there’s much notice to give. You’re pretty sure your contract specifies two weeks, but once he hears who your new boss is you’re certain he’ll be eager to be shot of you.
The Last Drop.
Ho-ly shit. Your blood thrums with terror. But also… exhilaration.
You try to focus on the latter.
Maybe the stories you’ve heard about Silco are exaggerated for effect… I mean, he’s raised such an effervescent kid…
Really, how bad can the guy be?
You stare in horror at the broken man being roughly thrown out the side door of The Last Drop.
His face is covered in blood – a coating so thick that his features are barely distinguishable beneath. Silco’s enforcers leave the man crumpled in a puddle of muck on the corner. The only signs that he’s alive are his quiet sobs. Your throat tightens.
You’ve made an awful mistake.
And there’s no way to back out now.
You’ve accepted the job and you’re expected for your shift. A no-show would drastically increase the likelihood of ending up just like this poor bastard. You trample down the human part of you that wants to offer aid. You know better than to help someone who’s clearly pissed off the bigwigs - it would be a one way ticket to the gutter with a knife between your ribs.
You avert your gaze – especially when you notice him clutching a freely bleeding stump where a thumb ought to be - and instead look up at the sign above the entrance: The Last Drop. The roundel is encased in vivid neon green. Long jagged bulbs depicting a giant eye - blazing, ever-watchful, down the main strip of the Lanes. A reminder to all who dwell here that there is no shadowy corner dark enough to escape Silco’s gaze.
You summon all your Undercity-born bravado, - cultivated from years of experience and survival - and make for the entrance with your chin held high. Jinx must have given the doormen a heads-up, because they step wordlessly aside, granting entry despite the club not being open to the public for another hour. 9pm – early by Underworld standards, practically lunchtime for you. Your days are always like this, due to the nature of your profession. You sleep while the sun is up, and work beneath the neon glow of the city signage. You’re not missing out on much. The sunlight never really reaches down here anyway, and at least the night is colourful.
You have an hour to get acquainted with the place before the beautiful and damaged creatures of the city come out to play. Every bar is different, but you already have an idea of what clientele to expect here: There will be those for whom dancing so close to the devil holds a particular thrill: Others who will be scantily dressed and looking for company: Some who will be utilising the loud, relentless pump of the music to conceal their discussions from prying ears. It's nothing new.
But you also know there will be those with purpled veins, desperate eyes, and a wildness about them that is equal parts terrifying and alluring. You’ve never tried Shimmer yourself, and have no desire to. But a part of you watches the effects with a morbid curiosity. The slight physical enhancement, the confidence, the glow, the euphoric state it bestows upon the user. It’s only when the addiction takes over that things become ugly. The in-between holds a disgusting, fascinating kind of beauty.
“Hey newbie!” A whizz of blue latches onto your arm and drags you further into the club, away from the door by which you’d been lingering.
“Hey Jinx,” you greet a little breathlessly as you’re swept along.
You take a good look around. The furnishings are dark, and almost everything is edged in brass. It’s an odd mix of sophistication and grit, and you have to admit the effect is impressive. It feels like you’ve entered somewhere exclusive. You wonder how it will all look once the houselights are cut and the club is illuminated only by the flashing bulbs you spot fitted throughout.
She brings you straight to the bar and rounds the counter, tugging you towards a bulky, heavily tattooed man sporting an acid green mullet.
“Ta-da!” Jinx presents you to him with a little flourish.
He gives you a bored once-over, “Seriously, Jinx? Another one?”
You frown, “Another what?”
He ignores your question. Jinx only shrugs, before plastering on another one of her infectious smiles.
“Plenty of experience – a real whizz. Just point at the bottles and watch her go,” Jinx promises, shooting finger guns at the colourful array of liquors lining the shelves behind the bar. Then, between one blink and the next, she’s gone, and you’re left with who you assume is the manager.
“Jasper,” he grunts by way of greeting. You offer your own name and he jerks his chin in a nod.
“Guess I’d better give you the tour then.”
Your first week at The Last Drop flies by.
And the reason is impossible to deny.
It’s fun.
There’s a vitality to the place - a spark in the atmosphere that you simply cannot describe - the source of that unnamable thing that defines the Lanes. It would be cliché and inaccurate to call The Last Drop the ‘heart’ of the Undercity. It feels more like the nervous system; the centre from which all things are connected by innumerable threads and veins that stretch and weave farther than you could ever hope to comprehend.
And the best part is that you haven’t encountered a single dead or otherwise maimed body yet, which has really helped to put you more at ease.
Despite crossing paths with one of his victims on your first day, it seems that Silco runs a tight ship, and keeps his kingpin business away from the day-to-day workings of the club. It allows you to compartmentalise and pretend that you don’t work for a murderous Chem-Baron.
You haven’t seen him. Or at least you don’t think you have. You don't actually know what he looks like, but you’re pretty sure you’d be certain if you did. Though, you do wonder at the shadow which sometimes slinks across the balcony encircling the second level of the bar, and the prickle in the air that seems to accompany it. But you’re never quick enough to catch a glimpse, before it disappears up the narrow stairway in the far upper corner that you know leads up to Silco’s domain.
Jinx pops by every so often to chat. You seriously like the kid. And true to her word, you’re only ever asked to serve drinks. The music blasting through the speakers is always good, and you’re getting on pretty well with the other bar staff. Even Jasper has warmed to you somewhat. Surprisingly few fights break out on the dance floor, and those that do are swiftly dealt with by people that aren’t you.
Yes. By the end of your first week, you’re able to tentatively admit that things are going well.
Until a surprising new aspect of your job arises from nowhere.
It’s around 3.30am and the club is now closed for the night. The music has been switched off, and the lights raised to uncover any spillages that need tending to. You’re just finishing up your shift, giving the bar one final wipe down, when Jasper places a bottle in front of you, halting the sweep of your rag across the brass countertop.
“What’s this?”
“For the boss.”
Your heart jumps into your throat, and you make a confused, strangled noise. Jasper laughs.
“Once a week. A fresh bottle for his office.”
“Why me?” You splutter.
“Because I sure as hell ain’t doing it,” he says, already turning away, “The newbie shovels the shit. It’s tradition. Better hurry,” he speaks the last two words in the same way you might try to freak out a kid with tales of the boogie-man.
You fight the urge to flip him off, and instead snatch the bottle off the bar and drag your feet up the stairs to the balcony. You examine the bottle in your hands. Bourbon. Expensive bourbon. The cap is sealed with black wax, and the label is printed on thick cream paper with gold font. The amber liquid within is so deep and vibrant that, in the low light, it could be mistaken for watered-down blood.
You arrive at the ominous, guarded stairwell. The hulking bouncer registers the expensive bottle in your hand and steps wordlessly aside. You pause, a little lost.
“You’ll know which one,” the man offers gruffly.
You nod. With every step upwards you curse Jinx for ever having found you in the first place. Of all the damn bartenders in this damn city she just had to pick you. Inhale. Exhale. You gotta bury your fear away fast, or he’ll smell it on you. It’s a dog eat dog world down here, and animal instincts apply.
When you reach the top you’re met with a hallway lined with closed doors. You exhale humourlessly. Yup – you know which one. At the very end of the hall is a black, lacquered door with a shining brass handle. The wall alongside it is decorated with plenty of dents and scrapes that might be caused when trying to force a reluctant visitor in or out of the room. Or by the slam of a doorknob when the occupier is pissed.
It’s surprisingly quiet up here. You make your way forwards, listening for any sounds that might indicate someone’s presence inside. You hear nothing but silence, and the pulsing gush of your own blood in your ears.
Maybe he’s out. Maybe you can just slip in, leave the bottle and go. That would be ideal.
You take a moment to breathe, and to try convince yourself that he’s not at home, before raising your fist and knocking twice.
Your entire body seizes at the deep, smooth voice that responds.
“Come in.”
Something cold and electric walks its way up your spine. Your hand is frozen in place. An age seems to pass. The voice doesn’t speak again, but you can feel his irritation at your delay seeping through the wooden door.
Your brain snaps back into gear. You fumble the handle and enter.
Silco.
The Industrialist. Eye of Zaun. King of the Underworld.
You don’t know what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. A distinguished, middle-aged man. Striking, really. Dark hair styled neatly back with silvering strands at his temples, and a silk tie perfectly knotted at his slender throat. His deep crimson shirt is crisp, with intricate cuffs at the wrists, and his waistcoat looks expensive; exquisitely tailored and edged with golden details.
If you didn’t know any better, you might think he was part of the Piltovian gentry.
He sits behind a grand, mahogany desk in a quilted high-backed chair – well placed in front of a sweeping halo of glass and iron that make up the expansive windows at his back. They frame him, casting the sharp angles of his face with imposing shadows, and bathing the office with an ominous green glow from the neon bulbs just outside.
The only thing about his appearance that matches perfectly with the stories you’ve been told are his eyes. One of sea-foam green, that you’re certain under different lighting could also be considered blue. The other of deepest, burning orange; an inferno, set within endless obsidian black.
And both of which are currently honed on you.
Silco regards you in silence, and his face could be hewn from marble in its impassivity, which only makes him all the more terrifying. Your feet are rooted to the spot, and you try your best to remember to keep breathing.
After what feels like forever, his gaze drops briefly to the bottle in your hand. He reaches forward and taps a spot on his desk with two long fingers, before going back to the paperwork in front of him.
Huh.
You move tentatively forwards, and place the bottle down exactly where indicated. He doesn’t pause in what he’s doing, or spare you even another glance.
He doesn’t fling a knife into your back as you turn.
And none of his enforcers leap from the shadows to brain you with a crowbar as you exit.
You make it back down the stairs safely, and let out a long, shaky breath, leaning on the balcony railing as your knees wobble and you try not to throw up. You hear the quiet laughter of the bouncer behind you. You head back down into the club, grab your coat, and scarper home as quickly as possible.
Suddenly the streets of Zaun don’t feel as threatening to you. Not now that you’ve faced the most dangerous thing down here and lived to tell the tale.
You visit Silco’s office several more times in the coming weeks.
A fresh bottle of bourbon for His Majesty every Friday at the end of your shift. After the first time, he no longer bothers to look up from his work when he bids you entry. Neither does he bother to indicate where to leave the bottle.
Even so, it only becomes marginally less terrifying each time you’re sent up.
Other than having to endure this weekly nightmare, you find yourself falling deeper and deeper under the spell of The Last Drop.
You avert your gaze at every pink vial that passes between palms. You focus on your work, on the bass-heavy music, on the pulsing lights and the electrically charged atmosphere. The selection of drinks on offer here is vast, with imported liquors available to those with the coin. It allows you to be creative with your concoctions; a freedom you haven’t been granted in many of the other bars you’ve worked at. You begin to make a name for yourself as a mixologist, and to build rapport with the regulars. You learn names and faces and the usual drinks orders that accompany them.
The social aspect of bartending has always been something you’re good at. You have a particular talent for reading people, which comes in handy in this line of work.
Although there are some that like to imagine themselves difficult to decipher – such as the tall, dark haired woman who you’d come to learn pretty quickly is Silco’s second in command, and the butt of Jinx’s secret ‘pair of hands’ joke.
You remember your first interaction with Sevika vividly. It had happened only a few shifts in – she’d approached the bar, her poncho offering only occasional flashes of her metallic limb. She’d glowered silently at you, as if in some sort of challenge.
You’d assessed her wordlessly, and without breaking eye contact had reached slowly back for the vodka. The corner of her mouth had tightened, almost imperceptibly. Your fingers had danced along to the tequila instead, and her mouth had loosened. You’d pulled the bottle from the shelf and poured two fingers worth into a salt-rimmed glass. No ice, no lime.
She’d taken the drink with a smirk, “Impressive. Maybe you’ll last longer than the others."
You’d decided not to question that statement at the time, as she’d knocked back the drink and left you with the empty glass.
You do, however, decide to question Jinx on it today, when she comes bouncing up to the bar.
“Thirsty,” she says by way of greeting.
“What can I get you?”
“Surprise me.”
Jinx hasn’t requested any drink from you in the month and a bit you’ve been working here, but she’s an easy book to read. You grab a clean glass, sugar the rim, and load it with a handful of maraschino cherries – the kind that live in a jar and are more syrup than fruit. You add a splash of grenadine, and then top it off with soda water. You stick a straw in for good measure.
Jinx looks ecstatic.
“The last one was so stingy with the cherries. I knew I was right to hire you.”
“And why did you hire me,” you ask, leaning your elbows on the bar.
“Told ya,” Jinx replies after taking a long slurp of her pink drink, “Had a good feeling.”
“What did Jasper mean by, ‘not another one’?”
Jinx shrugs.
“And Sevika said I might ‘last longer than the rest’. Who are the rest and why didn’t they last long?”
“Old bar staff,” Jinx says dismissively, “They all moved on before too long. I didn’t pick ‘em right.”
“What do you mean?”
The girl is clearly avoiding sharing some vital piece of information, and there’s a wicked glint in her eye that even you can’t decipher for all your talent.
“Gotta dash,” she says, skipping away with her drink.
“Bring that glass back when you’re done,” you call after her.
You sink into the flow of your work, but at the end of your shift you’re brought crashing back to reality by the thump of the bourbon bottle in front of you.
You groan at Jasper.
“Isn’t it someone else’s turn yet?”
“Do you see any other new hires?”
He snorts at the look you give him as you grab the bottle and head for the stairs. In and out, just like always. It really isn’t so bad – it’s the anticipation that’s the worst bit. The walk up the stairs, the eerie hallway, Silco’s disarmingly velvet voice.
It plays out exactly as it always does.
You knock.
He bids you entry.
He doesn’t look at you, merely continues to read through the papers in front of him.
You move forward and place the bottle on his desk.
And, God damn it, you pause.
Because something in your gut whispers to you again – the same tug that brought you to the lion’s den in the first place. You can’t help but notice the lock of hair that has escaped his careful styling, and rests against his forehead. You can’t help but notice the tense set of his shoulders beneath his dress shirt. The way his mouth is pulled just a little tighter than usual.
Silco senses you lingering, your fingers resting on the neck of the bottle, and he slowly raises his gaze. Fire and ice settle on you with a sharpness that could cut.
“You’re stressed,” you say simply.
He doesn’t respond.
What the hell are you doing? You’re practically signing your death warrant. If you listen to your gut, you’re gonna get stabbed in it – that’s what your dad had always said… before he’d been mugged and stabbed in the gut.
“Do you always drink alone?” You tap the bottle of bourbon, the delicate clinking of your nail on the glass fills the deafening silence of the office.
His expression hasn’t shifted an inch, and you start to wonder if you’ve just made the biggest (and last) mistake of your life. You’re about to turn and bolt when he responds in that rich, smooth voice.
“I find there to be a distinct lack of decent drinking partners in Zaun these days.”
Your heart beats a little faster. Your gut whispers a little louder. And like an idiot, you take another insane risk.
“And what constitutes a decent drinking partner?”
He stares long and hard at you. Just like Sevika, you sense the challenge, and you don’t back down. You hold his gaze, and keep your expression as cool as possible, despite the panic raging beneath your skin.
To your credit, you do not flinch when he finally moves – opening a desk drawer and pulling out two heavy crystal tumblers. He places them on the desk.
“Let’s see if you can remind me, shall we?”