Chapter Text
Vertical map I made for this work, inspired by this post.
Year : 990
The suffocating smoke fills your lungs faster than the screams can reach your ears, after a certain point. A few children still manage to cry out despite the pain such an act inflicts upon them, but the absence of adults means no comfort can come to their aid immediately.
You wish so badly that you could help them. At least, if you were still capable of fully processing what you were hearing.
You had always dreamed of a world where you would never have to face suffering again. You had long known that such a thing was nothing more than a chimera, a denial you clung to in the form of hope. People from the undercity do not have the privilege of hoping for better.
Zaun’s polluted air had carried that greenish tint for years, yet until now you had never realized the privilege you had in simply being able to breathe it. A privilege… bitter irony in a buried world.
Trying in vain to fully open your eyes, you manage only to see your right hand in front of you, bloodied and darkened even further by the ground already far too ruined. Your left arm lies trapped beneath you, twisted backward in a position that is anything but natural. It certainly does not help the violent pain throbbing through the left side of your skull, the side upon which you are pathetically sprawled. Yet even that does not compare to the horrific sensation further worsening your inability to breathe properly. Your breath falters as you realize something has pierced the lower part of your back.
You are incapable of turning over or pushing your body in any direction, condemned to observe the scene at an angle. The world is not upside down, but tilted enough to intensify the nausea brought on by the shock. Your long skirt burns against your skin, as though it had fused itself to your flesh. Your lips rival the dryness of the worst periods when you went days without finding water, surviving only on stolen alcohol or food moist enough to keep you going a little longer.
As you manage to squint less and force your gaze toward the atrocious scene before you, you notice two things.
The first is a pair of boots whose pristine appearance seems untouched by the chaos. You immediately recognize the characteristic golden linear patterns that now appear to mock you, standing directly before you only inches away from your still-motionless hand. You still cannot move enough to see who owns the boots, but you understand easily enough that he is not there to help you. If he speaks to you, he does not bother leaning down so you can understand him. You would be incapable of it anyway, with the ringing tearing through your ears. The children’s screams are the only background noise you can still distinguish.
What does not escape your notice is the fall of a gleaming object landing directly in front of your face, narrowly missing your hand. The silver of the necklace cuts through the nauseating grayness of the smoke and seems to sneer at you. You recognize it instantly and can only let out a weak, pained groan.
You wish you could stand and fully grasp what passes before your eyes. Yet for the first time in a very long while, it is not to help. You would feel guilty for not thinking first of the safety of the little ones who surely need you at this very moment. That is how you are supposed to love, how you are supposed to live. But they do not even cross your mind. Only one wrong, only one thought manages to take shape in your head.
I want them dead.
Year: 982
In another life, you would have loved for your hangover to unfold in the peace any person after a night of drinking deserves. In a bed, curtains drawn shut, with someone generous enough — sexy, and silent too, among the non-exhaustive criteria — to bring you broth and enough water to fill a cistern.
Unfortunately, no sexy individual was waiting for you to wake up so they could hydrate you in bed, and you did not own curtains.
The sun was not a reliable way to tell what time of day it was, simply because you could not see it. On the other hand, the sound of parents yelling at their children outside translated well enough that it was not that late yet. At another hour, you would have heard fights, maybe even gunshots from weapons you had no desire to know the nature of.
You try to shake your head in an attempt to remember the end of your night — a terrible idea, as it only rewards you with acid rising in your throat and an even worse migraine. Still, you recognize beside you a faded pink sock you had been wearing yesterday. Widening your eyes, you also realize you are completely naked. That should not surprise you anymore by now; you have the unfortunate habit of undressing absolutely anywhere and any way you please whenever you come home drunk.
Finding your bra and panties would have to take priority over hydrating yourself.
Every day you discover another advantage to financial precariousness: the tiny size of the studio apartment greatly shortens the duration of a treasure hunt you have no desire to acknowledge. At least you are grateful you did not bring someone home this time. For once.
Leaving the apartment is only one of the first obstacles of your day, you can already tell. Dressed entirely in black except for your bright yellow boots, their edges browned by wear, the hood of your vest does nothing to hide your exhausted, morbid stare. Letting out a loud sigh, you cross your street, where a pump house stands. Supposedly meant to clean the surrounding polluted air, you think your liver is probably cleaner than your pores right now, which is nothing short of a miracle. It certainly is not going to improve, because tonight you have to descend even deeper.
You reach the elevator just before it leaves without you. The only elevator in the area, and you do not have the time to walk thirty minutes before finding the next one. Besides, throwing yourself dozens of meters downward while clinging to random pipes is not exactly a recommended activity while hungover.
Safety regulations are not a problem the people down below ever get the luxury of caring about. Not that the efforts of countless workers had not contributed: without them, the elevator would not even exist, and the degraded staircase — far too dangerous — is not an option for anyone. It would already have collapsed if that did not risk weakening the bridge on the level beneath it.
In the end, as so often, resilience was a far more important strength when it came to surviving in Zaun.
You ignore as much as possible the daily chatter of elderly women criticizing the taste of the latest food rations sent down from Piltover’s agricultural productions, along with the insistent stare of a chirean woman with bat-like ears standing to your right. One brief glance makes you swear the woman looks familiar, especially with that pronounced cleavage, but that is a problem reserved for the night. You have no interest in dealing with the mistakes you made after dark once daylight takes over.
Your hands shoved into the pockets of your vest, you quicken your pace to avoid any interaction with what may very well be a one-night stand standing beside you, and you cross almost at a run the immense central street of the deepest level of the city.
No matter the hour of the day, one thing is certain: activity never stops for those who can make money from it. Animal fights beneath makeshift cloth roofs stand beside food stalls where delicious — though visually questionable — meals are displayed by various vendors.
The green and blue tones shift to red as you arrive before the brothel. The building stands apart from the others through the rounded nature of its details. The steel walls go beyond mere functionality, twisting into sinuous, asymmetrical curves sometimes scattered with sharp protrusions, like roses frozen in time whose thorns can never fall away. The stained-glass windows depicting voluptuous women draped in fabric thin enough to suggest every curve seem to set the street itself ablaze with lust. They are extraordinarily well preserved, as though even the most desperate customer would never dare touch them for fear of destroying the captivating and unexpected beauty of the feminine figures within such a place. Men work there too, though they are decidedly fewer in number, more expensive — supply and demand oblige — and tend to be sent to clients more… financially capable, up in Piltover.
You are relieved not to encounter any… workers offering you their services. Considering the state of your face, the ones who might actually interest you would probably refuse you entry anyway. Not that you intended to go in, but you have no desire to waste your potential looking like a nauseated wreck.
You finally reach your destination. As the street begins splitting into two from this point onward, you find yourself facing the powerful yellow neon lights illuminating the building’s name.
The Last Drop.
The inside is lit much more dimly, soothing your eyes almost immediately. The few customers present are busy playing cards or arguing over which song should play next on the jukebox available to everyone.
At the far end of the room stands the counter, behind which a broad, powerful figure wipes clean pint glasses while whistling absentmindedly into the void.
“Hey, Vander.”
He lifts his head to look at you. “Still exhausted, I see. It’s the middle of the afternoon — you’re ahead of schedule.”
You sigh and climb onto one of the tall stools at the counter. You always have to brace yourself against the footrest just to sit properly; being smaller than most customers does not exactly encourage furniture to adapt to your size.
“I had nothing better to do, so I figured I’d come visit my favorite boss.”
His smile widens. Conversations with Vander are always pleasant, even when you are barely functioning. You are not the closest person to him. In truth, you have known him for six years, ever since the peak of his legitimacy during the revolt at the Bridge of Progress, the transitional bridge between Zaun and Piltover. Sometimes you wonder why he never chose to turn the respect he earned there into a form of power greater than his role as a happily content bartender, but you do not feel entitled to ask him.
You had only been sixteen the day the revolt broke out. You wanted to take part in it, but you simply had no idea what was happening, too busy taking care of—
Vander snaps his fingers in front of your face. “I’m starting to feel a little alone in this interaction.”
“Sorry! Rough night.”
He dismisses your apology with a wave of his hand and gives you the few tasks you have to handle throughout the evening.
For two years now you have been bouncing between odd jobs here and there, The Last Drop being the most stable one and the only place guaranteed to pay you on time. Changing kegs, serving beers, and occasionally dealing with customers whose wandering hands usually stopped the moment a well-placed headbutt came their way. Repeat. You knew this life. You were used to it.
And besides, some company was not always a bad thing to have.
A few glasses of water later, your body feels less fragile. The evening is already well underway and the bar is busy, which means you barely have time to stop working. Vander was supposed to be here tonight, but he left you in charge of the place until he returns.
“Important business. I’ll be back before you finish.”
He had spoken those words with anger in his voice, though it wasn’t directed at you, right after you saw four small heads trying to sneak discreetly into the basement. He followed them and you quickly understood. You didn’t try to learn more, honestly just hoping to earn a bigger paycheck for doing a two-person job alone.
From what you gathered, his kids were a real pain in the ass. You didn’t know Mylo and Powder, the two youngest of the group, very well. The first was all talk, constantly trying to prove he knew better than everyone else. Despite some talent with lockpicking, he still hadn’t managed to steal the whiskey stash Vander guarded so carefully.
His obvious insecurity often makes him lash out at Powder, the youngest. Always glued to her older sister, she keeps stealing tools or experimenting with chaotic new inventions.
You stay patient, but cleaning clothes after a glitter bomb exploded near the beer pumps was not an experience you were eager to repeat.
Still, you’re used to seeing Violet, nicknamed Vi, strutting around the bar whenever Vander wasn’t watching them. She’s clever, rougher than her sister, and a little too impulsive for your taste when it comes to throwing out an obnoxious customer and dealing with her anger issues. But you don’t judge her. You understand what a big sister is willing to become to protect her family.
As for the last one, Claggor, you’d grown somewhat attached to him after he repeatedly crashed into the bar floor whenever he failed to adjust his glasses properly.
Bigger than the other three, he wasn’t the most talkative. Still, he always greeted you first whenever he came back from whatever expedition the group had gone on. He even remembered to bring you leftovers from their meals at Jericho’s, a stand famous for its authentic street food. He’s a good kid, one who’ll probably end up better than you can even imagine for him.
At least, he’ll have a better future than the idiot who’s been trying to flirt with you at the counter for the last thirty minutes.
“I like boobs as much as you do, sweetheart. This isn’t gonna work out.”
He doesn’t seem to understand the politest rejection possible.
“Incredible! That means we’ve got something in common!”
You sigh. Men never stop being complete idiots. This one isn’t mean, just lost enough that you’ve managed to clean the counter three times without him leaving you alone. Sometimes you wish you could throw the contents of their drink in their face. But apparently, that’s not very professional.
Instead, you spend an unnecessarily long time staring at the alcohol bottles, wondering which one you’d smash over his head if you had the chance. Judging by the piercings all over his face, you figure you could probably magnetize him to the nearest wall and pray he’d leave you alone for the rest of the night.
“You planning on moving out of the way, or do I have to handle it?”
The voice makes you turn around immediately.
The guy slumped at the bar seems to understand the situation, because he disappears just as quickly. The woman taking his place lets out a small breath before meeting your eyes. Your stomach flips, but you can’t stop the huge smile spreading across your face when you see her.
“Sevika!”
“The one and only.”
Without even thinking, you grab a lowball glass and fill it with the whiskey your newly arrived customer prefers. Before she can pay, you stop her with a wave of your hand.
“Vander’s dealing with his kids right now, this one’s on the house!”
Sevika gives you a nod of appreciation and smiles slightly in return.
“You know, if you want people to recognize you faster, maybe you should wear brighter colors above the waist, not on your feet.” Her eyes flick toward your bright yellow boots.
“You say that like you didn’t already know where to find me.”
The warmth suddenly rushing to your head definitely isn’t from the ambient heat. The woman in front of you makes you dizzy. Her black hair cascading over her shoulders makes you want to run your hand through it, just to see if it’s as soft as it looks.
Sevika has always had that effect on you, ever since the day you met. Under the glow of industrial lights, her gray eyes looked like they devoured the sun and left behind nothing but an endless moon. If Zaun’s lack of light was caused by a gaze like that, you could almost live with it.
“Yeah, well...” She lightly swirls her glass in her left hand, watching the liquid move. “If I didn’t sometimes find you more wasted than the customers, maybe you’d be easier to locate.”
Your eyes widen at the remark, heat climbing into your cheeks.
“I stay professional when I’m getting paid, Sevika!”
She chuckles softly.
“So you’d refuse a drink with me if I offered right now?”
“For once, yeah. I’m trying to recover from yesterday, I went a little overboard.”
“That explains the corpse look.”
“Oh, fuck you!”
But only your shared laughter answers the insult. Over the years, Sevika had built a pretty terrible reputation among certain people. Morally speaking, she wasn’t the worst, but most people had better things to do than provoke her. Ever since you’d known her, she had decided to express her rebellion against Piltover through sheer physical force. She was already tall, and her broad build earned respect quickly. Still, she’d had to accept that certain looks had grown more intense over time. She is a threat, and that has become obvious.
But to you, she was just Sevika. A friend forged by the violence of the Undercity, whose arms had been forged by—
“...and if he could’ve, he would’ve apologized in three different languages, he was that terrified.”
What a terrible bartender you are, not listening to your favorite customer’s stories! You quickly jump back into the conversation, pretending nothing happened.
Conversations with Sevika often revolved around the same things. She loved telling you about the latest fights she’d gotten into after some enforcer caused trouble again. Your concerns for her safety were just details to her: as long as they’re scared, they don’t dare abuse their power anymore.
And whenever she got tired of talking about herself, she’d pull out a cigarette or roll one, patiently waiting for you to tell her about your day.
That daily comfort, even scattered with violence, kept you moving forward.
Sometimes, you wish you could get closer to peace. Failing that, you think about getting closer to her lips. And every time you want to finally make a move—
“Sevika, I wanted to ask if you wanted to—”
“Three pints and a shot of the cheapest liquor.”
Life reminding you that it could absolutely go fuck itself.
Under your friend’s amused gaze, you harshly serve the customer who can barely stand upright already and giggles stupidly. Charity is Vander’s job; you have no desire to manage anyone else’s drunken state. You just hope he’ll be back to handle things if it gets ugly.
Customers keep coming, and eventually you barely get to speak to Sevika anymore, though she stays by your side regardless. If you didn’t know her, you’d think she enjoyed watching you run around everywhere.
“Apparently something blew up upstairs. An explosion in a workshop. Kiramman family, one of those important rich degenerates, from what I heard.”
The conversation of two customers sitting on the other side of the counter catches both your attention. You exchange a glance with Sevika, who clearly heard it too. Equally interested, the two of you listen in.
“They say the people responsible came from down here. A robbery gone wrong.”
“I heard it was attempted murder! There were four people fleeing the scene. Huge guys, built like this—” the woman gestures wildly with her arms.
“You’re talking nonsense, they were five, and there was a kid with them.”
“The Pilties would only be getting what they deserve anyway!”
And just as you’re about to continue your little investigation, a door slamming behind you reveals a breathless Claggor, panic practically written across his face. You try to get his attention by calling out to him, but the boy has already rushed downstairs into the basement.
Sevika pulls your attention back as she stands up.
“You can finish your sentence later, but just so you know, my answer’s already yes. I’ve got the evening free. Come find me when your shift’s over.”
She throws you a brief smile before slipping through the crowd, probably toward the card table she usually plays at.
Your stomach tightens at her delayed response, and you mutter a few frustrated words to yourself as you watch her leave. When you can’t see the face you find so irresistible anymore, you realize her outfits are always pragmatic. Pants tight enough not to hinder her movements in a fight, but loose enough not to restrain her. Her short, fitted jacket leaves her waist exposed. Why wear clothes so perfectly suited for combat if it’s only to ruin it all by leaving her stomach vulnerable? You realize you would make a pathetic opponent, far too busy staring at her skin instead of her movements.
That doesn’t stop your attention from drifting to her defined hips and muscular thighs. You realize you're salivating a little too much.
Just two more hours, and you’ll get to spend the rest of the night with her. Platonically, of course.
If that’s what she wants.
Your shift is over and you’re finally free to go back to being a customer. Just as promised, Vander has returned. His expression is closed off, and the polite thanks he gives you for your work does nothing to soften the coldness in his voice. No matter the context, it’s obvious that trying to talk won’t improve the situation. You thank him and make a quick escape, hoping to find Sevika soon.
The moment you lose your bartender status, the little respect you were previously granted disappears immediately, and you find yourself struggling through the swaying crowd packed into the center of the room.
Resilient as ever, you manage to reach your goal, though not in the best way possible.
She’s sitting at her usual table, clearly focused on her cards. She doesn’t seem to notice your arrival, but she also doesn’t seem to reject the insistent physical contact from the woman sitting beside her. You can’t lie—she’s gorgeous, and you wouldn’t have refused either if you were in Sevika’s place. Her curly green hair stands out brightly against the dark fabric of Sevika’s clothes, and her golden eyes seem to comment on every move she makes during the game.
If you had decided to use your one remaining brain cell, you would have realized that Sevika was only nudging her away with her shoulder as gently as possible so she could keep her eyes on her cards without letting her opponents take advantage. But your brain cell is off duty, and the moment feels terribly chosen for what you had in mind.
The excitement that had been making your heart race twists into bitterness mixed with embarrassment, and you decide not to draw attention to yourself tonight. Regaining your courage is a battle you’ll save for another time. You’re weak today, and the hangover you thought had disappeared seems to slam back into your skull, deepening the exhaustion weighing down your shoulders.
At the foot of the staircase to the right of the counter, you notice a particularly miserable-looking Claggor. Sitting on one of the steps, he seems completely lost. Since your dream clearly isn’t happening tonight, you figure a little emotional support won’t kill anyone and head over to him.
“So, big boy, what’s wrong?”
Claggor briefly darts his eyes toward you, surprised to hear a voice he wouldn’t exactly call unwelcome… but definitely not the least annoying one either.
Standing in front of him with a forced smile, you eventually drop down beside him without much grace, practically collapsing onto the step. A bottle of beer in hand—some old blonde brew that clearly hadn’t aged well—you nearly spill it on the floor. Taking a sip without looking at the boy beside you, you continue:
“I heard you guys screwed up pretty badly upstairs.”
He sighs.
“Relax, I’m not gonna yell at you. You already seem to have someone competent enough handling that.”
You hand him the bottle without really thinking about it. He stares at you in complete disbelief, pulling his head back while forgetting the rest of his body should probably follow. His eyes—brown, or maybe blue-green, hard to tell behind the thick lenses of his glasses—look utterly perplexed.
“I’m fifteen!”
“Fifteen and already a pyromaniac. Don’t tell me I’d be your first bad influence? Powder, I get. But you? Vi? Oh, stop the act for two seconds!”
He doesn’t dare answer, taking a sip that nearly goes down the wrong pipe. Muttering about the bitter taste—apparently that beer hadn’t originally been meant to taste like this—a few seconds of silence pass. Brows furrowed, eyes fixed somewhere far away, he asks:
“How do you get a girl?”
The question catches you off guard, your mouth parting slightly. The first answer that comes to mind disappears immediately. Is there even anything meaningful to say about that? You see Claggor squirm slightly beside you, and you finally decide to follow his gaze. Near the bar stand a few women. No—girls, barely older than him. You smile faintly before looking back at the boy, whose cheeks are flushed red.
“Which one?” you ask with a soft smile—not mocking, just kind.
“…Pink glasses.”
You turn your attention toward her: red-haired, not very tall, curvy, looking a little out of place, as if she probably wouldn’t have come here without her friends pressuring her into it. Claggor interrupts your thoughts:
“Look… I don’t know how you do it, but every time there’s a party here, I see you talking to girls, and they always seem attracted to you. I… I need advice!”
You sniff lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you think.
“When I was eight, I loved running around the streets, especially the main alley in front of Benzo’s shop. Even with how shitty the air was there, I felt safer there than in any dark alley you could imagine. It was like the gangs or their barons didn’t exist anymore, like I was free.”
You take another sip of beer before continuing.
“Though that was before I ended up brushing against an enforcer’s precious leg while running around without watching where I was going.”
(You scratch the tip of your nose.)
“I still remember the grip he used to yank my head up and slam it against the wall. Trust me, metal at that age leaves one hell of a memory. My nose was bleeding so much my shirt went from gray to dark brown in a couple of minutes.”
Claggor watches you calmly, curious. You continue, a little embarrassed to have said so much—or maybe it’s just the topic itself making you tense up.
“Anyway, all that to say… You know, big boy, I’m not the prettiest or the smartest. I’m not the strongest, not the most graceful either, I walk like a disaster, I’ve got a broken nose and—and promise you won’t tell anyone—but apparently I snore.”
He can’t hold back a quiet laugh, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.
“Your sister told me that when I was hanging around the basement. I think she’s in denial, but let’s pretend she’s telling the truth.”
You offer him the bottle again, and this time he doesn’t resist nearly as much, taking a longer sip—still too strong for him, judging by the way he tenses slightly afterward. He tries to continue speaking without giving the beer back, gripping the neck of the bottle like it’s giving him courage.
“You know…”
He clears his throat before continuing.
“I kinda like her. Actually, shit, I like her a lot.”
He hides the lower half of his face behind his hands, never taking his eyes off her.
“What do you like about her?”
He blushes, but you give him an encouraging look. You’d be cursed if you crushed a kid’s confidence.
“She’s nice, funny… and her freckles show more whenever she comes back from the city—her parents take her to work at the market every month, so she actually gets sunlight.”
He smiles faintly.
“She gave me an antique last time. A little wooden airplane, nothing valuable. She said it reminded her of my glasses… said she could picture me riding it.”
His face reddens further.
“No one’s ever treated me like that before.”
You look at him, softened by the sincerity of it all. Sometimes, you almost miss the gentleness of that age. You nudge his shoulder lightly so he looks back at you.
“I don’t know how those Pilties handle this mess, Claggor, but girls down here don’t mainly care about what you’ve got physically. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t brush your teeth, though.”
You smirk slightly.
“But worrying about your face first? That’s kid stuff. You’re cute, you could probably ditch the glasses, and honestly? I’m completely sure you’re gonna grow into a handsome guy. What matters is that no matter what you want out of someone, the respect you deserve gets reflected back onto her too. It’s not always easy, but there’s a fine line between pretending to be confident and coming off arrogant or unbearable. Look at Mylo—and do the exact opposite.”
He lets out a more genuine laugh this time. His breathing slows, as if he’d been unconsciously holding it in since the beginning, suffocating little by little. He hands the bottle back, and you keep drinking from it without restraint.
“And when… you go talk to a girl you like…”
He hesitates.
“If she says no, what do you do?”
You suddenly stop drinking, the beer still hovering near your lips. Your gaze can’t help but drift toward a certain corner of the room, where a certain person might be sitting. Thankfully, from where you’re both seated, your view doesn’t get very far, blocked by the backs of drunken friends and couples dancing—or trying to cling to each other without looking like slugs crushed under the weight of alcohol.
Gray eyes come to mind anyway, as though you could summon her into existence just by thinking hard enough. You let out a soft breath before continuing:
“You accept it. Whatever the reason, she doesn’t owe you anything.”
(He looks at you, slightly dejected, but doesn’t try to argue.)
“And if she shuts the conversation down when you thought things were going well, come find me again. I’ve got an emergency beer ready just in case. I know how to bury disappointment.”
“Damn, that’s optimistic.”
“Just realistic, kid. You always have to expect things might not go your way. But that’s not a reason not to try tonight.”
You bump his shoulder and shove him lightly with your free hand, forcing him to stand up. Either suddenly energized—or completely numbed by the foamy drink whose effects he’s only just discovered—he clenches his fists, straightens his shoulders, and nods toward the red-haired girl. You watch him walk away with amusement, the beer almost empty in your hand, the fingers of your right hand nervously rubbing against your palm. You’re not entirely sure whether you’re anxious about the boy’s first possible rejection… or whether the conversation hit you just as hard.
But you don’t get much time to wallow in your own situation, because the redhead’s warm laughter with the boy answers his silent question well enough.
You need air.
Ordering another beer at the counter—“In a bottle, not on tap, please”—you ask for it unopened, and Vander seems distracted enough not to investigate your state for once.
You thank him with an awkward smile and, seeing that the front entrance is hopelessly blocked by drunken customers, you wait until the bartender has to move to deal with one of them, who’s gotten a little too aggressive for a night where his kids are around. You slip back into the winding hallways behind the bar and cross paths with no one, satisfied you won’t have to invent some childish excuse to escape the party. Vander may like you, but he definitely wouldn’t appreciate just anyone learning their way around the areas closed to the public.
The cold air hits your face, and you shiver slightly while adjusting to it. The chill makes you feel almost sober again, and you focus on your destination. Heading toward the streets near Benzo’s shop, you turn right and keep walking for another twenty minutes until you reach yet another deserted, sketchy alley—especially at this hour. Fortunately, tonight you don’t have to worry about stumbling into a fight or an ambush.
Almost automatically, you head toward a pile of ripped-open garbage bags. The smell alone probably explains why the only creatures you usually run into here at this time of night are rats. Still, after a few awkward kicks through the trash—and despite a moment of disgust when you forget to hold your breath—you uncover a ladder. Rusted and completely unsafe, but it’s far from the first or last time you’ve climbed it. Still, the effort quickly reminds you that the sobriety you thought you felt isn’t quite as real as you imagined, your arms struggling to support your weight.
After a bit of effort and several curses thrown into the wind, you finally make it onto the roof. The sight immediately brings a strange sense of comfort. It’s not really a roof at all—the building is just a massive metal rectangle whose sheeted top had once served as a hideout for you and your beer for the night. An old industrial site turned squat for the determined—or the desperate—the inside hasn’t been officially accessible, or even remotely desirable, in years after a chemical fire ravaged it.
And yet, the place still comforts you. As if it were some untapped potential waiting to be unlocked. But that dream can wait for another night. Right now, the polluted starless sky and your drink take priority. You sit on the edge opposite the ladder and enjoy the view. Sheet-metal buildings stand before you, where architectural standards depended entirely on whatever scraps some Zaunite managed to salvage from an industrial complex. From this height, you can admire the panorama of the city—your city, your home. Prying the cap off with the handle of your knife, a small pocketknife you always carry just in case, you fall back into the familiar habit and drink.
Unfortunately for you, no matter what you try to imagine to forget your pathetic romantic frustration, everything brings you back to her. Neon lights replace the stars in the sky, and even the polluted air feels thinner from up here. How could you hate the clouds when they constantly remind you of the eyes of the woman twisting your stomach into knots? Maybe it’s the warning you’ve spent too long ignoring: at this point, the storm is the only possible ending to what you feel.
Time passes—you’re not even sure how much anymore—but your bottle is empty, and the sky remains just as dark. You hear people passing through the streets below: drunk friends, couples giggling while fumbling clumsily over each other. The sadness hasn’t left your chest, but it feels easier to bear beneath layers of alcohol. Eventually, you lie down, your legs dangling over the edge of the roof, your back flat against the metal and your arms spread wide.
As sleep drags you under, you don’t notice the empty bottle slipping from your hand. You also don’t notice the person below barely avoiding getting hit by the evidence of your miserable evening, stepping back in shock as glass shatters at her feet. Nor do you notice that the stranger—who isn’t really a stranger at all—recognizes the bright yellow shoes of a certain friend she lost track of during the party before muttering a carefully chosen insult under her breath.
Sevika frowns, wondering how the hell you even got up there, seeing no ladder on that side of the building. After all, who would willingly climb up there?
She would never admit out loud that she wants to know how you’re doing. How you can possibly be so carefree.
She exhales softly and, in the dead hours of the night you’re both lost inside, continues on her way with the faintest smile tugging at her lips, pleased to have uncovered the existence of a secret she fully intends to explore later.