Hello! I've always loved all your Cait/Vi work, I was ecstatic when I found your blog. I was wondering if you might consider writing something about Vi struggling with paperwork, and it occurs to Caitlyn that she's never had a formal education?
Somebody has the radio at their desk turned on, playing tinny orchestral music of the sort Vi has never learned to enjoy. It makes her feel like she’s trapped in the limousine of a octogenarian with onion breath and an iron grip on the dial that controls the tunes, and she keeps tapping her pen obnoxiously against the form she’s staring at - been staring at for twenty minutes now.
Some fucker somewhere in this office thinks it’s relaxing, this awful fluctuation between triumphant Piltover Um-Pa-Pa and flittering Ionian flute, but Vi is sweating angry beads of perspiration just fighting the urge to demolish every audio-producing piece of hextech in a five mile radius.
From a mile away, Caitlyn sees this. She speaks to Vi - frustrated by the music, and somehow incapable of completing her report because of it - and then speaks to the owner of the radio. Officer Runiez admits she plays the radio whenever Officer Vi does paperwork, because Vi mutters to herself and reads out loud whenever she’s faced with the grim spectre of typography.
Vi does Not Like when Caitlyn attempts to fix this with best practices and scripts gleaned from the HR manuscript. She fights - fights with tooth and nail, and only because she likes this stupid big-hat bigwig against her better judgement - the temptation to tell her to fuck right off. For a long while, it seems like there’s no solution, no middle ground - just suffering.
It takes a few months to find room for it in the budget, but one day Vi comes into the office and there’s a fancy new hextech gadget - property of the Pilover Police Department, and theoretically for all of them - fancifully branded a Sleepless Secretary. It’s a dictation device, a typewriter-microphone hybrid with some extremely clever technology in between that turns the spoken word into the written. You do the talking, and it records.
Vi still suffers the agony of having to read out loud, but suddenly her reports take thirty minutes to write, instead of entire afternoons. Runiez stops playing her awful Jubblethinger’s Fifth Bowel Movement, or whatever faux-sophisticated Yordle-invented aural torture it is.
And quietly, Vi is thankful that she trusted Cait to find a solution.
