Oh, how the Lanes had changed.
Most of all, or rather most personal of all, was The Last Drop; it may as well have been a different establishment altogether. And in a way, it was -- this wasn't his bar anymore, it was Silco's, tailor fitted to Silco's vision and according to Silco's design.
As soon as Vander stepped inside, the flashing lights made him wince. Meanwhile the ear-splitting music that shook the very windows of the bar-turned-club pulsed through every part of his body, and he could feel the bass with each pump.
Beneath his hood, the large man frowned. If there was any silver lining to the low lighting and neon glows, it was that they would obscure his appearance. (He'd already been deemed "safe" by the bouncers; no weapons on his person.) At first, he thought to get a drink at the bar, and he would have if there wasn't something else he wanted to do first, and potentially last, depending how the impromptu meeting went. So he instead brushed his way through the throngs of patrons in order to reach the stairs.
The ascent up them was slow, almost tentative; what would he find up there? (And just how much would it make his blood boil?) Quickly enough, there wasn't time left to contemplate these things, because he'd already reached the upper floor.
sent by: @zaunite-hound
𝐈𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫, 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐫𝐨𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝, 𝐛𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐲𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐙𝐚𝐮𝐧.
And truly, his eye seemed to be everywhere, a symbol commanding respect and allowing no opposition, even from the Barons of the Undercity. At first the injury had been a weakness, his pain a constant companion in the weeks and months after the Day of Ash. The day all their lives had been uprooted. But Silco was no man who would let a wound like this define him negatively, let alone prevent him from fulfilling his plan.
And so the moniker had made its way through the Lanes, until now the neon sign was shining into the dark of the Undercity’s night, placed prominently over the entrance of the bar which had been the center of his life. His and those he had lost ― although he made a point not to think of them too often, the vulnerable part long buried and believed dead in the depths of his mind.
Silco was seated behind his desk as he so often did, rarely being seen elsewhere most days and nights, poring over paperwork that either contained bills and other information about the Last Drop, or writings pertaining to his plans spreading like a spider’s web, almost at last able to even reach the bright light of Piltover.
Usually the music from below did little to disturb him once he was absorbed in his work, tonight not being any different, the tip of his shoe gently rocking to the beat of a slower song now playing.
His head was leaned onto the tips of his fingers, arm propped up on the table top, while the other hand held a piece of paper, as well as a cigar tucked between his fingers there, a mixed scent of sweetness and spices filling the air. A slight headache had made itself known a couple hours ago, much too soon after his last injection, which could only be remedied by bridging the time with his Shimmer-laced cigars, at least taking some of the edge off.
Inhaling one last time, Silco then placed the cigar into the ashtray, letting it rest there as he stashed some of the paperwork away after signing it with a flourish, then slowly rising from his seated position to move over into the back corner of his room. His safe was stowed away carefully, locked to anyone but him, the code a constant reminder of that one fateful day when his old self drowned in the polluted waters of Zaun. Practised fingers entered the code, causing the small, yet heavy door to open with a metallic sound, revealing the contents hidden inside.
Silco went through the motions, a ritual only he knew about and only indulged in during the late hours of the night when no one was like to disturb his peace. A vinyl was placed delicately onto the player, the needle carefully lowered onto it, summoning a melody to life that to this day reminded him of warm hands, cheerful laughter, and a blue-haired woman twirling through the tap room of the bar below.
He stood for a long minute, still as stone, head held low, before he moved and pulled forth a framed photograph, dusting it off with the back of his hand as he looked into his own, younger face and that of his former best friends. People lost, but not forgotten ― no matter how hard he tried.
Another minute passed.
Motioning to reach for his glass filled with bourbon then, his movement halted when suddenly the music from below became much louder, pouring inside and drowning out the song playing on the gramophone, causing Silco to spin around, brows knitted in anger of the disturbance.
His heart stopped.
Even hooded, even cloaking himself from sight, he would recognize that frame, that posture anywhere.
“...impossible,” he nearly breathed, the thrumming behind his bad eye causing it to twitch.
