Behind Blue Eyes

Morning in Zaun usually brought the distant clang of machinery and the muffled hum of voices drifting through the Lanes. Today, every sound felt magnified; each clang of metal on metal, every shuffled footstep, each rattling pipe echoing far too loudly in Vi’s head. She lay sprawled on her narrow bed in the cramped basement of The Last Drop, the worn mattress dipping beneath her weight. Her eyes were clenched shut, as though blocking out the faint light, that she couldn’t even see, might somehow quiet the drum inside her skull.

On most days, a small sip of shimmer could blunt this agonizing overload, numb the edges of her relentless headache. But the doses she allowed herself never lasted long, and today, even that fleeting reprieve felt out of reach. Her room, usually her safe haven, seemed stifling now, every breath tasted of stale air and old dust, the faint tang of copper lingering as if the walls themselves were seeping decay. It made her stomach twist uneasily.

She tried to roll onto her side, gingerly turning her body so that her blind gaze faced the wall. Her hand reached out for the rough edge of her blanket, fingers curling around the fabric in an attempt to ground herself. The cloth felt coarser than usual, each frayed thread scraping her palm like tiny shards of glass. A spike of discomfort shuddered through her, and she grit her teeth against it, every nerve in her body protesting the simple act of moving.

Vi inhaled shakily, seeking some fleeting rhythm in the old pipes overhead; counting their sway as they swore and groaned under the weight of the bar’s bustle. Instead, each faint creak only shot another jolt of discomfort through her. With her eyes shut, her world was already dark, but today the darkness was just as unbearable as everything else, pressing in on her with an oppressive force. She tried to orient herself by listening for familiar sounds in her room; the subtle hum of the old lamp’s wiring, the hiss from the pipes that usually soothed her. But everything merged into a shrill cacophony, refusing to settle into the comforting background noise she relied on.

She clenched her jaw, swallowing back a wave of nausea. Her fingers twitched over the blanket’s edge, desperate for a focus point. She wanted to run, or fight, or dosomething, but the throbbing behind her eyes was too strong. Even if she groped for the shimmer vial in her pocket, she knew it would do nothing more than offer a fleeting numbness. ‘What good is that when your entire body feels like it’s on fire?’ she thought bitterly.

A bead of sweat trickled down her temple, and the sensation alone felt amplified, as if a rivulet of acid burned its path across her skin. She scrunched her face, trying to shake off the hypersensitivity, but it only deepened her aggravation. The knot of anxiety in her gut twisted tighter; she was pinned in place, too drained to rise, too frazzled to rest.

Her free hand slid cautiously along the mattress, testing for the edge so she wouldn’t accidentally roll off. The familiarity of the torn seams and worn springs was little comfort; she knew the layout of her room by heart, but that only reminded her of her helplessness, her inability to face the world above. ‘Not today,’ she thought, her breath hitching.

Another clang echoed from upstairs, presumably someone shifting a metal keg or dropping a tray. The impact reverberated through the walls, sending a tremor through her tired muscles. Vi squeezed her eyes tighter, a low groan escaping as she tried to shut out everything. She wanted to melt into the darkness, to let it consume her until the world’s piercing clarity faded. Yet her head continued to throb, a constant reminder that there was no escape.

She buried her face in the crook of her arm, inhaling the faint scent of soap lingering on her shirt sleeve; Powder’s brand, probably, from that last time Powder fussed over the laundry. The memory should have comforted her, but it only made her chest tighten with guilt. Powder would blame herself again. She always does. And despite Vi’s attempts to reassure her sister, they both knew the blame ran deeper.

But it was Vi who blamed herself most. She always had. For the explosion, for her lost sight, for every bad day like this when she couldn’t handle the world. And now, even the small solace shimmer once offered was slipping through her fingers. She felt tears prick at her eyes, but she forced them back, her throat tightening painfully. She refused to cry, not like this. Not when she felt so defeated.

‘Get up,’ she willed herself, fingers digging into the blanket until her nails scraped the mattress beneath. ‘Get up, damn it.’ But her limbs remained heavy, her head too full of pounding hurt to follow through. She stayed where she was, every minute stretching into an eternity of stifling darkness and overbearing noise.

Eventually, she let her hand fall away from the blanket, her arm flopping uselessly across her stomach. She listened to her own ragged breathing, waiting for the pain to recede, for her world to become manageable again. Until then, she wouldn’t move. Couldn’t move.

Upstairs, Vander paused by the bar, setting down a crate of supplies he’d been carrying. His shoulders sagged as he let out a low breath, scanning the room. It was late morning, and the usual routine had begun: Claggor unloading deliveries in the back, Mylo grumbling over a broken stool leg, and Powder chattering excitedly about a new invention and her pending enrollment at the Academy. Yet the most noticeable absence was Vi. She was always up before dawn, either restocking shelves or idly cleaning glasses, grumbling all the while. But she wasn’t here.

Vander’s stomach tightened with worry. He knew Vi had days when her senses overwhelmed her; dark days when she disappeared into the shadows of her basement room, refusing to speak to anyone. He’d been there for all of them, since the day she lost her sight. But there was a heaviness in his chest that told him today was different. Perhaps it was the tension he’d felt from her the night before, or the slump in her shoulders whenever she walked away from the bar. Whatever it was, it left him with an uneasy feeling that twisted through his gut.

“What’s wrong?” Powder asked, catching sight of Vander’s troubled expression. She was perched on a stool, her short blue hair tied into two messy buns, a small mechanical contraption half-assembled in front of her. She wore her normal red vest over a short white shirt, grease stains already smudging the edges.

“Vi’s not here,” Vander said simply, setting the crate on the floor with a soft thud. “I haven’t seen her all morning.”

Powder’s eyes widened, a flicker of guilt immediately crossing her face. She hopped off the stool, the pieces of her invention clattering on the bar as she abandoned them. “She never misses a morning,” she murmured, fingers tugging anxiously at the hem of her vest. “Do you think… she’s okay?”

Vander forced a small, reassuring smile onto his face, though his worry weighed heavily on his mind. “She’s probably just havin’ a rough day, kiddo,” he said quietly. “But I’ll check on her.”

Powder nodded, her brows pinched with concern. “I’ll come too,” she said, her voice trembling slightly with that lingering guilt she always carried.

“Not this time,” Vander replied, resting a large hand on her shoulder. “Lemme handle this. You mind the bar with Mylo and Claggor ‘til I get back.”

Powder hesitated, her lips pursed in a silent protest, but she finally gave a shaky nod. “If she needs me…” she began, voice trailing off.

Vander squeezed her shoulder once, “I know,” then turned and headed toward the stairwell that led down to the basement. Each step felt heavier than the last, his heart thudding with the weight of concern.

As he descended, his mind drifted to the last time Vi hadn’t shown up to open the bar. He remembered the sharp jolt of panic he’d felt after scanning the empty counter, and the grim sense of certainty that something was wrong. He’d taken these same steps, boots echoing against the worn wood, and had found her on the floor next to her bed, curled up tight.

Her hair had been damp with sweat, her body trembling as she pressed her face into the cold concrete, as if trying to numb herself against the raw nerve endings that made every sensation unbearable. The memory rose in him like a tide of dread: how she wouldn’t speak, her jaw clenched in silent torment until he finally coaxed her onto the mattress. She’d been so pale, so spent, that he’d feared for a moment she was slipping away from him entirely.

He’d stayed with her that day, missing shipments and ignoring curious patrons as he sat by her bedside, gently placing a cool cloth on her forehead and speaking in a soft, steady tone. He’d told her stories of how he met her parents in the mines all those years ago, of the first time she tried to fight him when he’d told her she needed rest. Eventually, she’d dozed off, lulled by his presence, and he’d breathed a silent sigh of relief.

Shaking the haunting recollection from his mind, Vander reached the bottom of the stairwell. He paused outside Vi’s door, listening for any signs of movement, labored breathing, a groan, anything. The wood felt cold under his palm as he steeled himself to check on her, silently praying to Janna that he wouldn’t find her on the floor again, terrified and in pain.

Inhaling deeply, he pushed the door open, ready to face whatever awaited inside.

Vi’s room was lit by a single, weak lamp in the corner. Usually she kept it off, relying on her precise memory to navigate the tight space, but Vander flicked it on anyway, hoping the faint glow might bring some semblance of normalcy. The dull, tired light fell across the stained concrete floor and the sagging mattress against the far wall. There, huddled beneath a blanket, lay Vi, her silhouette barely distinguishable on the bed.

“Violet,” Vander said softly, his voice carrying in the small room. He caught the faint shudder in her breath; the slightest hitch that could mean tears or pain she refused to voice. Gently, he pulled the door shut behind him, shutting out the muffled clamor of footsteps and chatter drifting down from the bar above.

Vi remained silent, curled on her side with her arms wrapped around her midsection, as if hiding from an unseen threat. She didn’t so much as flinch at the sound of the closing door. Vander crossed the short distance to her bed, his boots scuffing lightly against the rough concrete, a noise that felt too loud in the hush of the room.

“C’mon,” he coaxed, easing himself onto the edge of the mattress with a quiet groan. The springs sagged beneath his weight, and he could feel the tension radiating off Vi in palpable waves. “You feelin’ too rough to come up?” he asked, though he suspected as much the moment he hadn’t seen her upstairs.

A shuddering sigh slipped from her lips. She turned her head just enough to angle her ear toward him, eyes staying tightly shut as though the faint lamplight itself stung. “I’m fine,” she muttered, the hollowness in her voice contradicting any claim of well-being. It scratched at her throat as she spoke, the rasp a testament to how fragile her nerves were.

Vander tried to soften his tone, letting his paternal concern show. “Gotta do better than that, kid.”

She flinched as though the gentleness in his voice was too much. Turning her face into the old pillow, she pressed her cheek against the fabric, hissing softly as it scraped her skin. Every texture, every sensation felt amplified today, and the friction of coarse cloth on her overly sensitive flesh sent fresh ripples of discomfort through her. She forced another wave of tears that threatened to gather in her unseeing eyes; crying only made the pounding in her skull worse.

Vander allowed the silence to linger for a moment, resting one of his large hand lightly on her shoulder. She stiffened, but he kept his grip steady, hoping the warmth might ground her. “Is it… your senses?” he asked carefully, measuring each word, unsure how to even put into words what she was currently feeling.

A choked laugh escaped her lips, though it was little more than a ragged exhale. “It’s everything,” she whispered, her voice catching on each syllable like gravel in her throat. “Too loud, too dark, too… everything.”

Vander’s chest tightened at her admission. It transported him back to those early days after the explosion, when even the faintest noise; an accidental clang of a pot, the shuffle of feet behind her would send her reeling. She’d slammed her fists into walls, curled up in corners, lashed out whenever someone tried to touch her. Watching her relearn the world by touch and sound had been both awe-inspiring and heart-wrenching. Now, all these years later, she still found herself prisoner to days like this.

“Violet…” he began, voice faltering. He cleared his throat. “You know you can talk to me.”

Vi shifted her weight slightly, wincing as her short, pink hair caught on a stray thread of the pillowcase. “Nothin’ to say,” she forced out between clenched teeth. “I just… need it to stop.”

Vander’s gaze drifted around her tiny room. He spotted a crumpled shirt dangling from a crate, the smell of stale coffee lingering by the nightstand. It looked disheveled, but not alarmingly so. And yet, he could tell something underlying these seemingly normal disarrayed signs; an acute helplessness that tied his stomach in knots.

He didn’t know about her secret shimmer usage, didn’t know the small vial tucked away with her clothes had done little more than take the edge off this morning. All he saw was a woman who rarely let anyone help her, now looking too broken to face the day.

“Do you want me to get Powder?” Vander asked quietly, though deep down he knew the answer.

“No,” Vi groaned, the word laced with a flicker of frustration. “I don’t want her blaming herself for this too. She’d just… fuss.”

He sighed, recalling how Powder had carried a kernel of guilt since the explosion; she’d been a child then, just like Vi, but it never stopped her from holding herself responsible. Vander also knew Vi’s own guilt ran just as deep, even if she refused to speak of it. “Alright,” he relented, pressing his hand more firmly to her shoulder, the warmth a steady reassurance.

They remained like that for several minutes, her labored breaths the only sound. Beyond these walls, the echo of machinery and distant chatter went on, but in Vi’s cramped space, time felt paused, centered only on her struggle to breathe through the waves of sensory overload.

Eventually, Vander stood, his knees protesting the motion. He took in her trembling form, huddled and unmoving, and tried to keep his voice calm. “I’ll be upstairs,” he said softly. “I won’t let anyone bother you.”

Vi’s body relaxed a fraction at his promise. It was the closest to gratitude she could manage just then, so he took it as a small victory. He flipped the lamp off on his way out, pausing at the threshold.

As he shut the door behind him, Vander lingered in the stairwell, one palm pressed flat against the rough wood.

The same dread from earlier gnawed at him still. There was a hollowness in Vi’s voice he hadn’t heard in years, a dullness that worried him more than any outburst of anger ever could. ‘Something’s off,’ he thought with a sinking heart, but he had no answers. ‘All I can do is be here.’

Closing his eyes, Vander inhaled, then let out a long, shaky breath before turning to ascend the stairs. Worry weighed heavily on his chest, each step feeling like a silent confession of helplessness. There would be questions from Powder; he could already picture the anxious furrow in her brow, and from the rest of the group, who would wonder where Vi had gone. All he could offer them was vague reassurance. She’s just havin’ a rough day, kiddo. But even Vander knew that was an inadequate salve for the knot of dread coiling in his gut. If Vi slipped any further than she already had… he wasn’t sure how he’d hold her together this time.

His boots thudded against the final stair, and he paused a moment, steadying himself. ‘I have to do something,’ he thought, a grim determination threading through his weary mind. ‘But what?' He could no more fix her heighten senses than he could erase the nightmares that clawed at her when she closed her eyes. He couldn’t pull her from the fog of guilt she’d carried since the day she lost her sight. All he could do was be there, hoping that somehow it would be enough.

He exhaled and ran a hand over his face, smoothing away the fatigue that threatened to show. When he finally emerged into the bar, the soft drone of subdued chatter and clinking glassware greeted him. Powder caught his eye immediately from behind the counter, the white shirt she wore looking more rumpled from her restless fidgeting. Her face was etched with worry, the open concern of a younger sister who felt powerless. Vander shook his head faintly, a silent signal that things were not okay, but also that it wasn’t her fault. Powder pressed her lips into a thin line, her gaze flicking to the doorway that led to Vi’s room. The unspoken question hung between them: Is Vi going to be alright?

The day dragged on, each tick of the clock underscored by the absence of Vi’s usual presence. Mylo and Claggor attempted to fill the bar with lively banter, with Mylo cracking jokes that landed more awkwardly than usual and Claggor offering half-hearted chuckles in response. Every so often, Mylo cast uneasy glances at the stairwell, and Claggor’s fingers tapped anxiously on the table’s surface, betraying his calm veneer. Meanwhile, Ekko and Powder huddled at the far end of the counter, whispering ideas about a new joint project; something involving a clockwork flotation device, by the sound of it, though neither seemed fully focused. Powder’s eyes kept flicking to the back, as if expecting her sister to show up any second, complaining about the racket.

Customers trickled in sporadically, mostly regulars who noticed Vi’s absence immediately. Many asked where the “grumpy bartender” had gone. Vander offered a gruff “She’s feelin’ under the weather,” or “She ain’t up for it today,” and that usually sufficed to quiet their curiosity. A few lingered, eyes uncertain, suspecting there was more to the story than a mere headache.

Late in the afternoon, Caitlyn stepped in, her polished demeanor a drastic contrast to the bar’s worn interior. She stood at the threshold for a moment, eyes scanning the room; perhaps looking for Vi, perhaps just taking stock of the subdued atmosphere. Powder offered a wavering smile, which Caitlyn returned before approaching Vander with a polite nod.

“How is she?” Caitlyn asked quietly, voice low enough that only Vander and Powder could hear. There was no demand in her tone, just genuine concern. Her refined accent made the question sound almost delicate amidst the rough edges of Zaun.

Vander shook his head. “Not up for visitors,” he said simply, his expression slightly guarded. He wasn’t about to explain Vi’s sensory overload or her dark moods to the Piltover Sheriff, no matter how polite she seemed. “Needs a day to… sort her head.”

Caitlyn nodded in understanding. She didn’t push, didn’t ask to see Vi. Instead, she set her elbows on the bar and asked if there was anything she could do to help. Vander just shrugged. “We’ll manage,” he said, and she accepted the answer with a quiet sigh.

And so the night inched forward. Mylo attempted to liven the mood by challenging patrons to card games he promptly lost; Claggor shuffled supplies around, trying to stay busy; Powder fidgeted with her contraptions, mind clearly elsewhere; Ekko hovered between them, offering help where he could but also casting anxious looks toward the basement door. Everyone felt Vi’s absence like a missing cog in a carefully assembled machine.

When midnight neared, the bar finally began to empty, until only the group remained. Powder leaned against the counter, arms folded, chewing her lip. Ekko and Claggor cleared away empty glasses, and Mylo grumbled about some lost bet. Caitlyn lingered for a while, nursing a glass of water, waiting for some miraculous shift in Vi’s condition. Eventually, though, she stood, thanked Vander, and slipped into the night.

A gnawing fear settled into Vander’s chest as the doors closed behind her: What if, this time, Vi couldn’t come back from the darkness that claimed her? He tried to remind himself he’d seen Vi at her worst before, seen her lost in a cycle of blame and despair, yet she’d always resurfaced. Still, there was a dark undercurrent today; a emptiness in her voice, a slackness to her posture, that weighed on him more than any of her prior episodes.

When the last of the lights were turned off and the bar was locked down for the night, Vander trudged up to his own cramped room above the bar. He passed the basement door, resisting the urge to knock and check on her again; he knew from experience it wouldn’t help. If she needed him, she knew she only had to call out. But she never did on days like this, and it tore him up inside. With a heavy heart, he climbed the stairs, hoping she was simply sleeping off the worst of it. Yet he couldn’t shake the gnawing doubt that this time, maybe it wouldn’t be so simple.