#arcane netlfix

[gravegoer]

i fear if sevika threw me like this i would THANK HER !!

[hel-unleashed]

Arctober 9 - Rivalry

[immortalbumblebee]

Chapter 21: The Metallic Taste of Blood

Don't mind this 7k word chapter I wrote instead of studying for finals...I'm on that grind, it's fine.

Major warning for violence and minor character death!!!

Masterlist

The sounds of clattering dishes and sizzling oil blend with the rhythmic hum of tinkering metal as Jericho and your mother work in sync behind the counter of the restaurant. The air is filled with the scents of fried fish and garlic, the chaos of the kitchen, yet your focus is solely on the disassembled Glock in front of you.

As she finished handing out the last of the change to a customer, your mother–never one to let a moment of stillness slip by–pulls a cigarette from behind her ear. She watches you for a moment, and then, with a casual flick of her wrist, lights it using the flip-top from her apron. The soft hiss of the flame catches your attention, but your hands never stop their movements as the pieces in front of you move and twist, seemingly on their own accord. Wordlessly, she offers another cigarette from the same pocket, which you take with a quiet nod.

Once she’s got hers lit, you float the lighter toward you with a flick of your fingers, lighting your own without taking your eyes off the intricate mechanics of the gun.

“Now, Poppet,” she begins, the cigarette dangling from her lips as she exhales, “tell me again what exactly it is y’doin’ to that wee bit o’ gun there?”

You shift the barrel components in your hands, splitting them apart to inspect each piece in turn. “Just some upgrades, ma’am,” you say, your voice steady, almost distracted. “Makin’ sure they work right. Improving accuracy, lowering the kickback... pretty routine stuff.”

She shrugs her shoulders dismissively, the gesture familiar, as if she’s seen it all before. “Y’ kids an’ yer toys,” she mutters, taking another drag from the cigarette. She turns back to the bundle of fish waiting to be prepped, the sharp, rhythmic sound of her knife meeting the cutting board filling the air.

As she works, Jericho steps around her, his movements smooth and deliberate, and sets your order in front of you. His face is stern, but there’s a small, approving nod in his eyes as you acknowledge the meal with a grateful smile.

“Thanks, Jericho,” you say, your voice tinged with the slightest hint of warmth. He responds in his native language, a quick string of sounds that you don’t fully understand but appreciate nonetheless. He gestures to your mother briefly, speaking quickly, his words laced with a touch of urgency.

She nods without looking up, distracted by her task, but the acknowledgment is there. Jericho turns and disappears into the back, his boots tapping softly against the floor, leaving you alone with your meal, your mother, and the disassembled Glock.

The quiet settles in, broken only by the rhythmic sounds of your mother’s chopping and the occasional sizzle from the stove. You continue working on the gun, a steady hum of concentration filling your mind, when your mother’s voice cuts through the silence once again.

“Jericho’s been good to us, these past years,” she hums, the sound casual, almost thoughtful. Your eyebrow lifts in curiosity as you glance over at her. “Y’know, hirin’ me off the boat. Helpin’ me feed all y’youngins, givin’ me a half-decent pay, all things considered.”

You nod, giving a slight smile. “He’s good people.” Summoning a bolt from one of your belt pouches, you carefully replace a particularly rusted one. “But he’d be a right nunce not to hire you. Nobody seasons fish innards like you do, ma’am.”

“Yer too sweet, m’love.” You can hear the smile in her voice, and you return it, your lips curving into a grin. The steady sound of the knife against the cutting board continues, the comforting rhythm of home. But then, her tone shifts slightly, and she hums thoughtfully. “But I’m bein’ serious, y’know. This city, for all its faults… it’s been treatin’ us good, hasn’t it?”

The air around you seems to freeze for a moment. Your hands pause mid-air, and the weight of her words lingers, settling into your stomach like a heavy stone. The feeling is subtle, but it’s enough to make you raise an eyebrow and focus intently on her, suspicion creeping into your thoughts.

“I’d say so. I mean, Zaun’s our home. Our family, ain’t it?” you reply slowly, voice steady but with an undercurrent of something you can’t quite place.

Your mother makes a humming noise in response, her eyes never leaving the fish she’s working on. But something about the way she holds herself—slightly stiffer, her posture just a touch too controlled—sets your nerves on edge. You feel an offness in the pit of your stomach, an unfamiliar sense that she’s not entirely present, not entirely herself.

“Ma, what’re you going on about?” you ask, your voice sharp with the need to understand.

She pauses mid-chop, lifting her knife with a deliberate slowness. For a moment, she stares down at the fish, as if contemplating the weight of the question. Then, with a casual flick of her wrist, she waves the knife dismissively, the fish innards splattering against the counter in a small spray.

“Oh, nothing…” she trails off, her voice light, too light. “Don’t mind me, Minerva.”

You bite back the urge to roll your eyes, but the unease in your chest only grows. “Ma,” you press again, your tone firm but gentle.

She doesn’t look up this time. Her shoulders are stiff, her focus narrowing as she returns to her work. “It’s nothing, love. Don’t you be mindin’ me.”

But the tension between you lingers, heavy in the air, like the scent of fried fish that fills the room. You can feel the weight of her words, even though she tries to brush them off, and it gnaws at you. What exactly is she going on about? And why does it feel like she’s trying to hide something?

With calculated motions, you carefully set down the pieces you’ve been working on and cross your arms over your chest stubbornly, gaze locked firmly on your mother. For a moment, she seems to purposely ignore you, her focus fixed on the fish before her. But you don’t break your stare, waiting her out. When she finally looks up, her eyes avoid yours for just a moment, and then, with a heavy sigh, she places her knife down on the counter.

“I’ve been thinkin’ a lot, y’know, about our future ‘ere.” Her voice is softer now, quieter, as if the words are hard to speak. She wipes her hands on her apron, her gaze shifting to the side. “Mikael’s doin’ better with the treatment, thank the Lady, but, well,” she pauses, seeming to choose her words very carefully, “it won’ be solvin’ the problem entirely, aye? Even with Yan’s assistance, which I’m more’n grateful for! He’s only got a little while left in ‘im.”

The weight of her words hits you like a punch to the gut. You knew it—knew it, even if none of you had been able to say it aloud. Mikael’s condition had been hanging over your family like a dark cloud for so long now, but the idea of his passing, the inevitability of it, had been something you all tried not to think about. It felt easier that way—safer. But now, the truth is finally out there, hanging in the air.

You don’t respond immediately, but you can feel the heaviness of it all pressing down on you. “I only mean…” She stops, her voice trailing off as she picks her words with the care of someone who’s trying not to say too much. “when he does pass, which I hope by the Lady isn’ anytime soon! …I don’ rightly know what’ll be left for me here.”

You blink, staring at her, completely confused by what she’s saying. “What?” You can’t keep the disbelief from creeping into your voice. “Ma, I’m here! The boys! We’re your kids. What do you mean you don’t know what’s left for you here?”

“Yer adults now.” She says stubbornly, her tone firm but tired. She avoids meeting your gaze again, focusing on the fish in front of her. “Look, y’know I love all of you. But…Zaun was never my home like it became yers, let’s be real now.

“Of course it’s your home!” You protest vehemently. You’re half-aware that you’re being too loud, but you don’t find it in you to care. 

She sighs, the exasperation in her tone more evident now. “No,” she repeats, her words patient, but there's an underlying sharpness. “The sea is m’ home, Minerva. Y’know this! And it’s been…so long since I’ been there. I wasn’ built for all this…” She gestures around her, at the restaurant, at the walls of the kitchen, the strange city life that surrounds you both, “city life.”

“That life nearly got you killed!” You snap, your fist pounding down onto the counter. The force of the impact causes your half-eaten bowl of fish to rattle, the motion vibrating through the wooden table. “You’ve got a fucking bounty on your head, Ma! You know, that thing you’ve talked about nearly every day since we got here? There’s a reason we left Bilgewater in the first place!”

Her face tightens, her features softening with a mixture of fatigue and frustration. She rubs her temples as though the conversation alone is enough to wear her out. In the dim light of the kitchen, the lines around her eyes seem deeper, more pronounced. The years are catching up to her, but there’s no denying the stubborn fire in her eyes.

“It’s been a long time since then, Minerva. I doubt those ol’ geezers’d even recognize me at this point.”

You stare at her for a long moment, utterly stunned. Then, running a hand through your hair, you let out a frustrated groan. “Are you being serious right now? So, what? Dad dies and you’re just gonna… what, leave all this? Leave the house, your job, the boys, me? For what? To run away and be a pirate again? You haven’t even been on a boat in almost two decades!”

“That’s what I’m trying to say!” She extends her hands toward you, reaching for the fist you’ve left clenched on the counter. “We should go, Poppet! Y’n’ me, against the world! I’ve…I feel guilty that I’ve never shown y’ the skills o’ the trade, the family life! Y’ve done well for yerself ‘ere, it’s true! But…” She pauses, squeezing your hand gently, her voice softening as if trying to coax you into understanding. “Wouldn’ it be better to be livin’ a life o’ fresh, ocean air? With the waves, the smell o’ the docks, the joy o’ an ‘onest days’ work where y’ don’t gotta be dealin’ with all this…police brutality n’ revolution nonsense?”

You blink at her, stunned and momentarily speechless. “’Nonsense’?” The word feels like a slap to your face. “Ma, this is my life! Our life! We can’t just… turn away from all this!” You pause, taking a deep breath to steady yourself, before wrenching your hand away from hers. The movement is sharp, almost angry. “At least I can’t.”

She watches you, her face unreadable for a long moment, but you can see the glassiness of early tears in her eyes. The silence between you is heavy, thick with everything unspoken, everything you’re both too afraid to say out loud. You can feel your pulse hammering in your ears, the tension so thick that it’s hard to breathe. 

Just as you think your mother is about to deliver another retort to you, the two of you are abruptly interrupted by a booming voice and a thick arm wrapping around your shoulders.

“There’s my two favourite ladies! How’re you doing, Ma?” Vander exclaimed, giving you a tight sqeeze. You’re still so boiled in the bubbling anger in your chest that you just allow yourself to be pulled into the embrace, but don’t return it.

You’re still seething, your chest tight with the boiling anger, but you let yourself be pulled into the embrace. You don’t return it, though—your arms stay stiff at your sides, and your teeth clench behind your lips. The warmth of his hug does little to ease the fire crackling in your veins.

Your mother, however, quickly wipes at her eyes, and in an instant, her face shifts—like flipping a switch. A smile stretches across her face, fake and practiced, her gaze diverted from yours to Vander. She does it so easily that it stings. The ease with which she hides the truth from you, the ease with which she’s been hiding her true feelings from you all these years, twists something deep inside. It makes your anger flare up again.

“Vander, my boy! There r’are! What brings y’round this level?” She puts on the warmth, her voice smooth as silk, as if the conversation you just had didn’t exist.

Vander chuckles and gives your shoulders another squeeze, leaning down to press his head atop yours. His warmth is comforting in the early-spring chill of the market. But you’re too far gone in your own thoughts to appreciate it. Your eyes remain fixed on your mother, a silent accusation burning through you.

“Just picking up our girl here! We’ve got a rally tonight before the fights.” His voice is light, easy, but he seems to sense the undercurrent of tension in the air, the thickening silence between you and your mother. His brows furrow slightly. “Am I…interrupting something?”

Your mother waves him off with practiced nonchalance, picking up her knife and going back to the fish without so much as a flinch. “Not at all! Are y’ hungry, I can whip somethin’ up for y’, real nice n’ warm.” 

Her words don’t land. Not on you. As if on cue, your hands start to move, each motion sharp and precise as you gather the disassembled parts of the Glock, your fingers almost trembling with frustration. The pieces snap together with a hurried clink, far from the careful assembly you know it needs. The gun is a mess, but at this moment, you don’t care. It’ll hold, for now. But everything inside you wants to lash out, to scream, to make her understand.

“We’re fine, ma’am.” The bite in your tone surprises even you, and your words hang in the air between you and Vander, charged with a new weight. “We’re running late as-is.”

Your mother’s eyes flash briefly, but she hides it quickly behind a forced smile. “It’ll only take a minute!” She motions toward the kitchen, her voice sweet, insistent. “I can—” 

“I said we’re fine!” You don’t give her a chance to finish. Your words are sharp, harsh, cutting through the air between you. Vander stiffens against you at the outburst, but you don’t care. You slam the work-in-progress into your satchel and toss it over your shoulder, the leather strap digging into your skin as you turn on your heel and storm off.

You don’t wait for Vander to follow you. The crowd of the upper-level market parts around you like water, but all you can focus on is the churning anger in your chest. You feel the burn of your magic, restless, coiling beneath your skin like an electric charge. Everything around you—every scrap of metal, every bolt and piece of machinery—vibrates, responding to the pulse in your veins. You want to tear it all down, to unleash the fury that’s bubbling just under the surface. But you know better.

Vander catches up to you quickly, his steps sure and calm beside your hurried pace. He doesn’t ask anything at first. But you can feel his eyes on you, steady and patient, as always. You don’t look at him, too lost in your own storm of thoughts, but his presence is grounding.

“…You want to catch me up on what that was about?” His voice is quiet, gentle, almost coaxing.

You shake your head, the frustration too raw. The words are there, ready to spill out, but you know they’d come out all wrong. Anything you say right now would be said in anger, and Vander doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve to be caught in the storm your mother has created inside you.

So you keep walking, your feet moving quickly, the streets of the market blurring around you as you navigate the crowd. He just walks with you, his presence a steady anchor to the chaos in your mind. You can feel his gaze on you—patient, understanding. 

"Saw Violet and Baby Powder today." Vander’s voice cuts through the anger, drawing your attention. He starts digging into his pockets, and the motion is enough to pull your focus. Yet, your jaw remains clenched, a raw tension gnawing at the edges of your control. He pulls out a small slip of paper and hands it to you. Your fingers brush against his, but it's the photo that catches you.

Violet stands proudly, grinning wide, showing off the gap where she’d just lost her first tooth. She cradles her baby sister, the fragile, blue-haired little one, in her arms. Powder looks so small, so vulnerable, but the image tells a story of love, of a bond that has already begun to form, even in the hardest of circumstances. Your heart stirs, the anger that once blazed hot within you softening in the face of this pure, unguarded moment. It’s still there—raging, simmering—but now it’s tempered with something else. Something warmer, like the way the sun feels on your skin after a long storm.

You swallow hard and look up at Vander. "How’s she doing out of the incubator?" The little blue-haired baby had been kept incubated for a few weeks now, Yan clearly explained that she was much too fragile to rely fully on her own means of survival. Vander gently took the photo back, smiling proudly back down at you.

“Doc says she’s going to be just fine.” He nods, pocketing the image. “A strong little girl, that one. A fighter, for sure.”

You let out a quiet breath. “She comes by it naturally.” You close your eyes, taking a moment to calm yourself. The anger doesn’t vanish, but in its place, there’s something steadier, something that reminds you of why you’re still here. The thought of leaving this place, leaving these people behind, knowing that you might not see the kids like Violet and Powder grow up—it’s a heavy weight. But it's a weight you bear for their future, for something better.

You open your eyes and meet Vander’s gaze. “Thank you.”

He raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in that teasing way. “For what?”

You reach for his hand, your fingers curling around his. “For always knowing what I need to hear.”

His smile softens, and without a word, he brings his other hand up to cup your face, pulling you closer. You close your eyes as his lips brush against yours, gentle, almost reverent. It’s a fleeting touch, like a whisper of a promise. His thumb caresses the side of your cheek, and in that quiet space, you intertwine your fingers, drawing him in just a little bit more. As he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, the warmth between you both as if time has stopped. You stand there for a long moment, locked in this simple intimacy, the world outside fading away.

"We should do it," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin, his nose nudging yours in that familiar, affectionate gesture. "Someday, y’know, have a couple little ones running around."

Your heart stutters for a moment, and your eyebrows shoot up, barely able to contain your laughter. “You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head, that mischievous glint never leaving his eyes. “I see you with the youngin’s all the time, you’d make an excellent mother.”

The image of Violet’s bright grin and Powder’s tiny hands fills your mind, and you feel a pang in your chest—something you can’t ignore, even if you try to. But you force a sigh, covering the soft flutter of yearning that bubbles beneath your ribs. You pull away, crossing your arms, trying to act unaffected. “I don’t think this world could handle another you, Van. Our tempers combined?” You shake your head with a half-smile. “We’d doom all of Runeterra.”

Vander follows you, keeping that damnable grin plastered across his face. "C'mon, Minnie, a little ankle-biter with your looks and my strength? It’d be a gift to Zaun."

You roll your eyes, but there's a soft teasing smile tugging at your lips. “Just my looks, hm? Kind of sexist.”

Vander laughs and shakes his head, but doesn't back down. “Fine then, my looks and your brains. Now that would be a kid that’d rule over all of Runeterra.”

You chuckle, a full laugh escaping you this time, as you continue walking, his hand slipping into yours once again. You both share that easy warmth between you, a quiet understanding, despite the world that continues to rage around you.

***

The heavy creak of the bar's door echoed in the otherwise murmuring room, drawing the attention of a few scattered faces. The dim lights flickered slightly, casting long shadows over the worn wooden tables and mismatched chairs. The bar smelled of stale beer and sweat, the kind of place where the walls had witnessed more than their fair share of secrets. But tonight, it felt alive with something else—something charged.

At the back, a makeshift stage stood, with a lone microphone perched in the center. A small crowd had gathered around it, forming a circle of rapt attention, hanging on every word from the man who stood at the center of it all. His voice was a commanding presence, rich and smooth, each sentence punctuated with a charisma that had them nodding along like they were part of something bigger than themselves.

"Children of the nation of Zaun!" Silco’s voice rang out, filling the room effortlessly. He stood tall, wearing a tailored suit that had seen better days but still held the weight of authority. His eyes gleamed with conviction as he gestured toward the crowd, making his words feel like a promise. “You’ve heard us speak to you about strength, endurance, the Undercity’s ability to survive, no matter what Piltover throws at us. But as of late, I’ve begun to think of history–”

You and Vander moved over to the bar nearby, you flagging down the bartender for a couple of pints. Silco had spotted you the moment you’d come in, and welcomed you with a glint of his eye. Benzo, you recognized was chatting up Luoi in a corner. 

“You think he’s actually gonna let you speak tonight?” you whisper into Vander’s ear.

"Depends on how much whiskey he’s had," he replies with a smirk, his voice low. "But he’s got to run out of fancy words eventually.”

"…As we know from our history, from the tales passed down to us by those who raised us, this city was once a holy land," Silco continued, his voice growing deeper as he paced slowly across the stage, letting each sentence sink into the crowd. "A place of grandeur, a place decorated to the Wind Goddess…"

A sharp, jubilant ‘whoop’ rose from the crowd, a moment of genuine enthusiasm, and Silco’s lips twisted into a smile that could’ve been mistaken for warmth, if not for the coldness that lingered in his eyes. He drank it in, relishing the energy of the crowd, before pressing on. "Our ancestors stood tall in the face of turmoil because of the protection of gods…but now, as war brews over us once again, we, the people of Zaun, have become our own gods!"

“Someone's gone and given our boy a god complex,” you muttered under your breath as the bartender slid two frosty glasses of beer toward you and Vander.

Vander lifted his pint, the amber liquid swishing in the glass, and met your gaze with a sly, knowing grin. “Please, that’s been there the whole time.”

“We know that the Enforcers have gotten more bold as of late.” Silco continues, taking the microphone off its stand as he begins to slowly and confidently pace the length of the stage. “And rest assured, we’re just as mad as you are. They come into our homes, our businesses, walk along our streets like they own them. But do they?”

A resounding "No!" erupted from the crowd, raw and full of collective fury.

"Right!" Silco’s voice surged again, sharper now. He strode to the edge of the stage, his arms wide, as if pulling the crowd to him with invisible strings. "These are OUR streets, our homes! And it’s about time they’re reminded of that! For too long, we have been told that this system is just—that those rich bastards Top-side deserve their wealth because they work harder, think smarter, or simply because they were born into it. But I ask you—where is the justice in a world where a few can sit on their golden council thrones, while the rest of us are forced to fight for crumbs?”

A roar of approval followed, the room vibrating with the collective energy. It was as if the tension had snapped, and for the first time, they felt like they might actually have the power to do something about it. It was intoxicating.

“When?” A familiar voice, Sevika, growled out. “You’ve been giving these speeches for years, Silco. When, exactly, are we going to ‘remind them’?”

A murmur of agreement sounded throughout the crowd, and you weren’t surprised when Vander jumped into action, leaping onto the stage with outstretched hands. HE didn’t need a mic, his voice booming with his own power. 

“The man who needs no introduction,” Silco motioned to his brother, looking somewhat annoyed to share his limelight, but ultimately not fighting back.

“You’re right for wanting action.” Vander exclaimed. “As we speak, rest assured we’re making plans on an effective plan. Trading in weapons for every able body that’s willing to fight, strategy, rations. When we cross that bridge, and it will be soon, it’ll be a right and proper storm.” His eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as the weight of his words sank in. “We’re not some forgotten backwater that they can kick around. We are not just a city. We are an army. An unstoppable force.”

Vander turned his gaze to Silco, his voice low but fierce. “And we don’t depend on some god or divine miracle to protect us. We protect ourselves. When we strike back, it won’t be a scattered, half-hearted effort. It’ll be decisive, and it will be relentless. We do it smart, we do it right, and we do it together.”

Silco’s eyes glinted with the fire of a shared purpose as he nodded, his voice rising with a raw, unstoppable conviction. “Together,” he echoed, the word carrying the weight of a promise. “Zaun’s future will not be built on the backs of the rich or the powerful. It will be built on the blood and sweat of its people—the ones who have always worked, bled, and struggled. We will not let the elites decide what we’re capable of. We will rise up, we will tear down their towers of tyranny, and we will burn their control to ash. This city belongs to us, and we will make sure the world knows it!”

His words were like a rallying cry, echoing through the room, each syllable a strike against the forces that had held them down for too long. The air seemed to crackle with energy as the two men stood together, bound by the same unyielding vision: a future built by the people, for the people. A future where their voices would no longer be silenced. In all the chaos, a certain vibration itches at the back of your skull.

The moment is cut short, however, as the door slams open, crashing against the wall behind it. Inside the doorway, Niya stands, panting and disheveled.

“They’re coming!” she yells, her voice sharp and ragged, cutting through the low hum of conversation in the bar like a knife. Heads snap toward her, a mixture of alarm and confusion painted on every face. Her wide eyes lock as she stumbles forward, desperation etched into every frantic step. “The Enforcers, Grayson, they’re—”

Her words are stolen by a deafening crack. The sound ricochets through the room like a physical blow. Her body stiffens unnaturally, arms jerking at her sides as if yanked by invisible strings. Time fractures, each second stretching into eternity as she crumples forward, the light in her eyes extinguished before she even hits the ground.

A dark, gaping hole mars the base of her skull, blood pooling around her like a grotesque halo. The crimson stain seeps into the weathered floorboards of the bar, the vivid red an accusation, a warning. 

“Niya!” Benzo’s cry tears through the paralysis gripping the room. He surges forward, but a sharp clang—the unmistakable sound of armored boots—stops him in his tracks.

The front doors burst open with a violent crash, splinters flying as black-clad Enforcers flood in, their heavy boots pounding like a drumbeat of doom. Their visors glint under the flickering light, hiding cold, merciless eyes. They fan out with mechanical precision, weapons raised, sweeping the room as if daring anyone to resist. At the front of the attack, Grayson’s clear, steely grey eyes under her helmet, partially shaded from the gas mask enveloping her face.

“For what it’s worth,” she starts, reloading her pistol. The bullet casing falls to the floor, rolling to stop when it comes into contact with the sticky liquid of Niya’s blood. “I warned her not to run.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence, a thick, suffocating stillness as if the entire world is holding its breath. Then, someone—maybe Benzo, maybe you—makes the first move. A glass shatters against an Enforcer’s helmet, and all hell breaks loose.

The bar erupts into chaos. Tables flip, chairs are hurled like missiles, and shouts mingle with the sharp, percussive bursts of gunfire. Glass shatters, scattering like jagged stars across the floor as a few desperate souls scramble for the back exit or dive headlong through shattered windows. Most, however, are too stunned—or too furious—not to fight. Hardened survivors, people who’ve clawed their way through hell a dozen times before, seize whatever they can—broken bottles, splintered chair legs, even their bare fists—and throw themselves into the fray.

A bullet zips past your ear, close enough to sting, but your instincts take over. With a flick of your wrist, the bullet reverses course, whizzing back with deadly precision. It buries itself in the knee of an advancing Enforcer, who collapses with a howl of pain. Another grabs you from behind, his armored arms locking around your torso, but you’re already moving. Your knife, sleek and sharp, leaps into your hand.

With brutal efficiency, you plunge the blade into the Enforcer’s neck, feeling the sickening give of flesh and cartilage. A wet, gurgling grunt escapes him, but you don’t falter. Your vision blurs with crimson fury as you twist the knife, savoring the grotesque squelch that confirms his demise. When you wrench the blade free, his lifeless body crumples to the floor. You glance down briefly at the spreading pool of blood, and not a single drop of sympathy stirs in your chest.

The room is a cacophony of violence, but your focus narrows to a single point. Niya.

Ducking and weaving through the chaos, you dodge swinging fists and stray gunfire, your movements instinctive and precise. You reach her body, sprawled on the floor amidst the pandemonium, and seize her in your arms. Her weight is heavier than it should be, an unbearable confirmation of what you’re already dreading.

Leaping over the bar counter with her limp form clutched to your chest, you drop to your knees, cradling her like a precious, broken thing. Her once-vivid eyes are dull, the spark gone.

“Niya, no,” you whisper, your voice cracking as the tears begin to fall. Hot, desperate, they streak down your cheeks and land on her lifeless face. “No, no, no…Niya, please!” Your hands shake as you give her a gentle shake, your body wracked with silent, choking sobs.

But there’s no response. Her skin is already cooling beneath your touch, her blood staining your hands and clothes. She’s gone.

Benzo’s voice rises above the din, a primal howl of rage and grief. He’s in the thick of it, swinging a jagged barstool leg like a berserker, his every movement raw and unrestrained. He slams it into an Enforcer’s shield, sparks flying with the impact, but the Enforcer is relentless, shoving back with force.

Your head snaps up as you spot another Enforcer leveling his firearm at Benzo, aiming to end his rampage. Panic spikes in your chest, and you start to lift your hand, ready to send the weapon flying, but someone beats you to it.

Vander.

He crashes into the Enforcer like a living battering ram, his massive fist colliding with the smaller figure’s chest. The impact is thunderous, sending the armored Enforcer hurtling into the wall with a sickening crunch. Vander roars, a sound that shakes the very walls of the bar, and turns his furious gaze to the next target.

The fight grows even more brutal. The air is thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder and blood, the clamor of battle nearly deafening. Chairs and bottles fly, fists meet flesh, and the floor becomes a slick battlefield of spilled drinks and lifeblood.

Above it all, Grayson’s voice rings out like a whip crack. “Subdue them!” she commands, her tone cold and sharp. But the Enforcers’ rigid discipline is beginning to fracture under the relentless, desperate fury of the patrons.

But this isn’t a fight. It’s an ambush.

Within moments, the chaos shifts. What was once a raw and desperate brawl begins to tilt inexorably in the Enforcers’ favor. Their numbers and training overwhelm the uncoordinated fury of the Zaunites. One by one, people are forced against the walls or slammed to the floor, their arms wrenched behind their backs as pairs of handcuffs snap shut with a metallic finality. The patrons who moments ago had been fighting tooth and nail are now subdued, their struggles met with the cold efficiency of the Enforcers' unyielding force.

Shutting Niya’s unseeing eyes, you whisper a silent apology and place her gently off to the side, as if shielding her from the violence she can no longer witness. The rage that courses through you burns hotter than the pain in your chest. With one last glance at her still form, you unholster your knife and steel yourself for what comes next.

You’re halfway over the bar counter, ready to leap back into the fray, when your eyes lock on Silco. Two Enforcers wrestle him toward the counter’s edge, his defiance barely masking the strain in his movements. One of them slams him against the counter, forcing his arms behind his back.

Without a second thought, you launch yourself into action, your body moving faster than your mind. With every ounce of strength you have, you tackle the nearest officer, sending the two of you sprawling to the floor. The Enforcer lets out a grunt of surprise as you both crash to the ground.

Your knife flashes in your hand, aimed for his neck, but the officer is quicker than you expect. He blocks your strike with a sharp upward motion of his armored forearm, the clash of steel against steel ringing in your ears. Before you can recover, he shifts his weight forward, slamming his helmeted head into your cheekbone.

Pain explodes through your skull, white-hot and dizzying. You reel back, clutching your face as the taste of blood floods your mouth. But you’re too far gone to stop, too consumed by anger and desperation. With a growl that tears from the depths of your chest, you lunge at him again, your knife slashing through the air.

He’s faster this time. Anticipating your move, the Enforcer sidesteps with practiced precision. In one fluid motion, he draws the pistol holstered at his hip and levels it at you.

The shot rings out, loud and final.

Pain tears through your shoulder like a hot blade, and your cry of agony is swallowed by the chaos around you. The force of the bullet spins you, and you crash to the floor, clutching the wound. Warm blood spills over your fingers, soaking into your jacket as your vision wavers. But the pain doesn’t stop the fire in your chest. Even as your shoulder throbs with every heartbeat, you snarl through clenched teeth and shift to push yourself back up. The Enforcer towers over you, his pistol trained on you once more, the cold barrel glinting in the dim light.

Your eyes dart back to Silco. He’s managed to wrestle an Enforcer to the ground, pinning the armored figure beneath him with a furious snarl. For a brief moment, it seems he’s gained the upper hand—until another Enforcer storms in, grabbing Silco by the collar of his finely tailored suit and yanking him off his opponent.

Silco twists and swings his dagger, the blade gleaming as it arcs through the air. But his attacker is ready, slapping the weapon from his hand with a brutal efficiency. The dagger clatters to the floor, spinning away into the chaos, leaving him defenseless.

You grit your teeth, the pounding pain in your shoulder barely registering as adrenaline courses through you. You’re already preparing to lunge toward him when another crack echoes through the room.

Pain sears through your side as a bullet grazes your thigh, tearing through the fabric of your pants and leaving a burning sting in its wake. You stagger but refuse to fall, your rage igniting into a roaring inferno.

“Bastard!” you scream, your voice raw with fury. Your hand snaps out instinctively, fingers clenching into a fist. The Enforcer who fired at you barely has time to react as his pistol crumples in his grip like a wad of paper, the metal screeching under the pressure of your will.

The distraction buys you a precious moment. You pivot toward Silco, each step a battle against the throbbing in your shoulder and side. But the same Enforcer persists, his movements fast and relentless.

“Enough,” you growl, your voice low and venomous.

Whipping around, you grab him by the helmet, forcing his head to one side and exposing the vulnerable flesh of his neck beneath the armored collar. In one fluid motion, you plunge your blade into the exposed skin, feeling it sink deep. He lets out a wet, gurgling sound as blood bubbles from his mouth, his body stumbling before crumpling to the floor.

You don’t look back.

Silco is struggling against another Enforcer now, his arms forced behind him. The metallic click of handcuffs locking into place is like another gunshot in your ears.

Pushing your battered body forward, each step feels heavier than the last, but you refuse to stop. The pain is a distant thrum beneath the fury coursing through your veins. Silco struggles against the Enforcer pinning him to the counter, his defiance radiating even as his arms are forced behind his back. The sight sends a fresh surge of adrenaline through you, drowning out the ache in your shoulder and the burn in your side.

Your eyes lock onto a dislodged metal chair leg lying amidst the chaos. Extending your hand, you summon the scrap to you, the metal twisting and contorting as it obeys your will, coiling around your knuckles like a makeshift gauntlet.

With a growl, you drive your fist into the Enforcer’s side, targeting the vulnerable spot just above his kidneys. The force sends a sharp clang reverberating through his armor, and even through the plating, the impact is enough to make him stagger back, releasing Silco.

Not letting up, you whip your dagger through the air, the blade slicing cleanly into the Enforcer’s ankle. He lets out a strangled cry, collapsing onto one knee as the pain cements him in place. But you don’t care.

With his helmet half-loosened in the scuffle, you take the opportunity to unlatch the clasp fully, yanking it off and exposing his face. Your metal-clad fist follows, slamming into his nose with a sickening crunch. Blood sprays, and the Enforcer drops like a stone, unconscious—or worse.

You wrench your dagger free, standing over his limp form, your chest heaving. You can’t bring yourself to care whether he’s alive or dead. There’s no time.

Turning back, your stomach sinks. A good half of your group is already subdued, their hands bound in cuffs as Enforcers drag them toward the exits. Panic flickers through your rage. Your eyes sweep the floor, scanning the chaos.

Where is he?

Then your eyes lock onto Vander’s fallen figure. It takes two officers to keep him pinned, and even then, they’re struggling, their boots scraping against the blood-slicked floor as he thrashes. A third Enforcer approaches, cuffs in hand, intent on locking him down.

“No!” Your cry rips from your throat as you push yourself forward, adrenaline the only thing keeping you upright.

You make it halfway there before another gunshot cracks through the air.

This one finds its mark.

White-hot agony explodes through your side as the bullet buries itself just above your hip. The force sends you sprawling, your body crumpling against your will. A strangled shriek escapes your lips as the pain sears through you, and you clutch at the wound, warm blood spilling over your hands.

Through the haze of agony, you hear the measured thud of boots approaching. You try to lift your head, but the effort is too much. A shadow looms over you, and Grayson kneels down, her expression unreadable but her voice icy calm.

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” She speaks with maddening composure, her tone cutting through the chaos like a blade. “There are rules for a reason, and it’s about time you all learned how to obey them.”

She tosses something onto the ground beside you. Your blood-soaked bandana. The sight of it twists something deep in your chest, but before you can respond, the edges of your vision begin to blur, dark tendrils creeping inward.

“F…uck you,” you growl through gritted teeth, your voice shaky but defiant. “Let us go! You think we can’t—Gods, fuck—break all these people out of your little HQ?”

Grayson stands, her boots clicking against the floor as she straightens. “Oh, these people won’t be going to HQ,” she says, her voice sharper now, carrying over the din so everyone left conscious can hear. “No, you’ll find they’ll be moved to Stillwater by midnight. No more warning shots.”

She pauses, her gaze sweeping over the wreckage of the bar and the battered survivors still standing. “You want war?” Her voice hardens, her authority resonating in every word. “Very well. Consider this war.”

Her words hang heavy in the air, a chilling promise that makes even the most reckless of fighters hesitate. As your vision dims and the strength drains from your body, her voice is the last thing you hear.

[hel-unleashed]

Arctober 8 - Blue

[hel-unleashed]

Arctober 10 - Jinx