First drop
—I was gonna go see… Vi.
—Vi?
—You wanna come?
And that conversation is the first thing she hears as soon as she wakes up on the couch in Vander's old meeting room, downstairs in the basement of The First Drop The voices sound muffled, but this nap has caught her with an extra light sleep. She sits up suddenly and clears her throat, rearranging her work vest and ruffling her hair slightly. She is so intent on hiding her unexpected fall into torpor that she has completely forgotten to greet Powder and Ekko. They're looking at her, they're laughing, and of course, her not-so-quick reaction has failed to convince them that she was perfectly awake.
“What?!” She raises his voice with a certain indignant tone at the joking look of the two young people. “I was just resting my eyes.”
“Drooling, right?”
Her little sister's accurate question catches her just as off guard as their entrance into the room, so she limits herself to running a fist over the edge of her mouth to wipe away the saliva with all the poorly disguised dissimulation that characterizes her.
“Okay, fine. I have fallen asleep. Anything else to blame me before you tell me what you came to do here?!”
“Vander is looking for you.” Powder shrugs. Ekko looks at her in absolute silence; He doesn't seem to have any intention of participating in the conversation. Maybe he's as tired as Vi herself. “He wants you to help him as soon as possible.”
“And so?” the pink-haired girl snaps, rubbing her eyelids with a couple of fingers with the intention of clearing her vision as soon as possible and not letting it show that she is still much more than drowsy.
“I think they're about to start with the nitty-gritty.”
“The nitty-gritty?”
“The nitty-gritty about all of this, Vi; the big nitty-gritty.”
“Great. Party for others, work for us. I'm dying to help.”
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Midafternoon in Piltover. It's colder than usual, but not too much, and she don't like the dress. Caitlyn looks at herself in the full-length mirror that has adorned her room since she was just a child and decides that she looks more like an overstuffed vase than a Kiramman. Definitely, she doesn't like it. She hates it, so it takes her less than five seconds to start taking it off herself; this time she doesn’t plan to wait for the service to unbutton her back area as they have done the other way around before.
"No way," she comments to herself as she struggles with the fabric, the one that seems so elegant but that fits so bad with her sober style, behind the wooden screen.
Two knocks on the door. And then three.
She recognizes that sign perfectly well and doesn't even bother to grant her permission, he knows he can come in whenever he wants as long as he knocks before doing so.
“Knock, knock,” Jayce's voice doesn't surprise her at all. “Do you need more time? Your mother is complaining non-stop in the hall.
“I'll need all the time I need to get out of here without looking like a candy dish.”
Jayce doesn't know what to respond to the eminently acidic and irascible response he just heard from behind the logging accessory. Two pieces of clothing fall here and there, pieces of fabric that the young man doesn't quite know how to identify but which he’s very clear are not exactly to Caitlyn's discreet taste.
“Do you have an alternative?” he asks, closing the door behind his back, but staying far enough away so as not to invade the privacy of that girl he considers a little sister.
“Of course I have it.”
More clothes flying, hanging and falling from the edges of the wooden screen correctly placed in front of the closet. Jayce feels like he's talking to the furniture, but clearly, he's not.
"At least keep that headdress on," he says with a clear intention to annoy her. He has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. “I've seen you with it before and it suits you, you were cute.”
“Shut up and stuff it.”
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Vi only needs four seconds to be carried away by the good atmosphere of the tavern, converted into an improvised concert hall with an open bar for the participants in the Young Innovators Competition tonight. The same thing always happens to her: she complains first, but with a couple of knowing glances from Vander and seeing people enjoying themselves, there's nothing more to talk about: she's into it.
She has changed the vest, rolled up the sleeves —even more— of her already short t-shirt, and tied a couple of strands of hair in a braid back over her shaved side. The long bangs? She would have to cut it sooner rather than later, but that problem will be solved by tomorrow's Vi, or so she tells herself as she removes it from her face with a little head movement while she keeps pouring fruit punch behind the bar with her father.
Her father, yes. Because Vander is, after all, hers and Powder's father. Everything she can do for him doesn’t seem enough to repay all of that man has shown to them, how much he has helped them and the large number of opportunities he has given to them since Zaun had free rein to develop under the (still) strict but (partially) fair supervision of Piltover: they now form the same region divided into two territories and, of course, Vander and Silco are the main reference figures as spokespersons for the Zaunite people.
“Aren't you grumbling anymore?”
The voice’s tone of the bar buddy she adores so much brings her out of her musing, and Vi has to force herself to blink to avoid spilling too much punch onto the row of glasses she's generously filling to the brim and beyond.
“Free drinks. They will disappear in less than three minutes.” she responds, not really knowing what to say.
“Three minutes? You're underestimating our clients.”
Vander bursts out laughing. He starts to laugh with that laugh that is so Vander's, so much her father's since he had to be one, and Vi can only think that she wishes she could encapsulate the memory of his eyes and the warmth of his smile for the rest of her days, even when he playfully hits her in the middle of the face with the rag from cleaning the bar.
The screech prior to the start of the concert suddenly silences the laughter of the two and the false accusations tinged with a familiar passing joke between them. Vi grits her teeth in disgust and Vander surreptitiously rubs one ear to stop listening to that infernal sound that splits his head for a moment; he almost looks like an untrained dog shaking his head.
“Oops! I'm sorry!” is heard from the distant reverberation of a worn microphone whose carrier is dedicated to running from one point to another on the stage.
And, by the way, she gives them a couple more squeaks because of the lack of care she has with the movement. The piercing roar comes back louder, even deeper, with a deafening beep as Powder trips over another of the cables she's trying to connect to the sound system.
Vander snorts sharply and shakes his head once more. His wide hands resting on the bar to avoid scratching his arms too much, bringing them to his face and scratching himself. He knows it happens to him more often than he would like and he especially hates it when it happens in front of her girls.
Vi looks at him worried and then looks at her sister. She has stood still and the only thing she can articulate is:
“What the fuck, Powder?!” she exclaims in a fit of helplessness, waving her arm so that she can see her from afar.
But then it is the same strong hand that a couple of seconds ago was holding on to the edge of the bar —not without a certain trembling— that rests on her shoulder and Vi meets Vander's now somewhat duller gaze when they see each other's face to face again.
“Are you OK?” she holds him by the arm. She knows that if she passes out dead weight again, she won't be able to hold him alone this time. And the place is too full of people to be able to move without major difficulty.
“Don't worry. It’s okay. I’m fine.” Vander pronounces each sentence with staccato pauses, taking a deep breath as he tries to stand tall again with the help of his eldest daughter. “I'll get through it. You know, as always.”
Vi doesn't respond, just nods and reflexively rubs his back before he pulls away to go back to tending to the bar. She's doing her best to ignore the detail.
It's been happening to him since the war. It is a sequel to the past that has left its mark on him. Something indelible, a physical memory marked in the soul from which he will surely never be able to free himself. Vi allows him to walk away, go back to his task so he can calm down. It's the best option and it's what Vander always asks them for when he has one of his attacks of pain at loud noises. At least, this time, he is not inertially scratching the skin of his forearm: he tends to get so rough with that part of his body that the wolf tattoo becomes more and more diffuse.
Neither of them has more time to talk about it, the clientele begins to fill the place more than it should. It is seen that the large crowd, the one that was waiting at the gates of The First Drop until dark to attend the concert, has finished its afternoon of entertainment around the Progress Fair installed along the bridge. Half Zaun and half Piltover are now looking for a place to go to commemorate the great day of the union between both nations and, as always, Vander's tavern offers one of the best alternatives sponsored by the interterritorial relations committee thanks to the latest negotiations of Silco as mediator and Benzo as honorary member of the commercial exchanges. Vander still doesn't want to get too involved after the military conflict: The First Drop has always been his refuge, before and after the bombs; he didn't want to change his life when it was offered to him and he won't do it now either, he is completely sure.
The drinks come and go, the place fills up, the music begins to play now free of auditory horrors, and people begin to gather around prototypes on the side of the place, an area specially cleared days ago to show the exhibition of the inventions that will compete for the jackpot the next morning in the Young Innovators Competition in front of thousands of Piltover investors willing to put their fortune at the service of the project that most attracts their attention.
Vi watches out of the corner of her eye as Claggor and Mylo's technical model is getting more attention than they imagined. Several wealthy gentlemen and their relatives —or closest associates?— crowd around both of them to ask questions about the functioning of the object and its application in the socioeconomic and local autonomy of Zaun. It's a great idea, a really good thing to help with cleaning up The Rifts; they have a good chance for winning. Vi is convinced of this and her train of thought only manages to be interrupted by deafening chords and a scream so recognizable as her own voice amplified behind the microphone once again:
“Gert and the Chem Sisters are joining us tonight, ladies and gentlemen!” exclaims Powder, jumping from one side of the stage to the other as if she were an enthusiastic human top; “Does anyone want to go up here?!”
People who are not so aware of the exhibition because they have either already seen it or have come especially for the concert just cheer, but no one dares to raise their arm to go up.
“Nobody? Oh, come on! I don't believe it!” the blue-haired girl shouts at them from the stage, clearing her voice and forcing the highest treble in her throat so that it can be heard over the new melody that the group is starting to play, “You leave me no choice!”
A white spotlight, the kind that blinds you without you having time to react, hits Vi's face squarely from the distant musical performance. Someone whom the aforementioned seems to distinguish as a yordle has been in charge of contributing to the treacherous idea that is coming to her:
“Let’s go, sister! Punch them with your song!”
Vi glances at Vander sideways and he, now mostly composed and having almost completely restored his usual smile, gives her an spontaneous sigh just before speaking again:
“Do it. Show them what you have.”
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The biomechanical tattoo project for scar repair about she has been listening for an hour seems very intriguing to her, but she has to admit that the alternative to traditional filtering masks for the underground tunnels that her parents seem so interested is also a good alternative. A safe investment. Caitlyn knows how to recognize when her mother's gaze conveys genuine curiosity and this is the case; furthermore, the topic is close to her heart: after all, it has a certain connection with the purification and ventilation system that Cassandra devised in her youth for Zaun. Investing in a combined project where they can use this new equipment to modify the infrastructure and extend the toxicity-free zone beyond the arteries of the underground city would be splendid.
Caitlyn takes a deep breath as she listens to the string of conversation, half presentation, half questions between her parents, the rest of the potential interested investors and the minds of the prodigy who have made the prototype possible, but the truth is that she has been dressed in an outfit all afternoon that, although it’s not as terrible as what they had originally prepared for her, it’s still not truly comfortable at all; she must admit that the short ankle boots stylize the straight, long skirt —much better than the pompous dress she tried this morning— and enhance the luminosity of the pintuck blouse that hugs her waist and neck. A style very much like her mother, why not say it? Not to mention the damn headdress that she finally had to accept to complete the outfit. And where is Jayce? He can't have gone too far with his leg.
She huffs, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as the conversation begins to turn from the real applications of the instrument in people's lives to the economic terms and production costs in the hypothetical case that the project will be chosen tomorrow in the Young Innovators Competition itself: tonight is just a way to open the minds of investors, and the House Kiramman —of course— already have their eyes on several amazing projects.
From the exhibition area: a kind of semi-hall specially reserved for it this year, Caitlyn perceives how the music of the concert that is taking place next door changes abruptly, she hears the screams of the people, the exclamations of joy and someone with a voice as shrill as a horn babbling through a microphone. Have they announced a change with the singers? She's not sure, but she would certainly give anything to rest for a while from the rigid posture she's been maintaining for so long and have a drink without thinking too much while enjoying the performance. Walking throughout the afternoon, between conversation and excessively formal conversation, keeping up appearances and holding on to her heels at each abrupt stop, was not exactly what she was most excited about the obligatory activities that she had to maintain as a member of “high society.” —a label that, by the way, she has always detested— to which she belongs by birthright.
When the new chords of the electric guitar sneak into her ears without express authorization, her mind becomes a real back and forth between the words of her mother negotiating and the rhythmic notes of a melody that penetrates her to the bones with ferocity, that crosses her stomach and makes her start to surreptitiously move one of her feet in each chorus. The voice is beautiful, rough but at the same time clear and heartbreaking; and the song is not far behind.
Faced with the noise that comes from the concert area, several groups of people present at the exhibition momentarily abandon their interest in the projects to go find out the reason for such aural success on the other side of the wide and thick crimson curtain that works as a separation between the party zone and the innovation zone; of course, Caitlyn is not an exception.
She slips away almost without thinking, like a spontaneous chain reaction motivated by the rhythm of the song and the good atmosphere of the place. She walks away from her parents with a hungry curiosity burning in her chest so typical of her in every facet of her life. When she pushes the curtain aside with one hand, the hubbub of spotlights, colored illumination and people dancing in front of the stage hits her square in the face along with an inevitable smell of sweat, sweet drinks, alcohol and a certain touch of automatic air freshener that some employee must be distributing so that the growing enthusiasm does not end up turning the aura of enjoyment of the place into a “bad club” the night before such an important competition. At least, there is relative logic order: it's just people enjoying themselves; what can she expect?
She blinks several times at the white lights that come and go in front of her eyes, they are so blinding that she is practically forced to move among the people with her head relatively low and fixing her gaze at times, while the people allow it and her hand manages to provide herself with some covered shade as a visor. Finally, she finds a space next to a white-haired boy who contemplates the stage enthralled.
“Excuse me, who is playing?”
He looks at her, completely lethargic, as if he had just woken up from a lucid dream, and then he points his chin at the stage again, like a ghost.
After getting no verbal response, Caitlyn looks up, her left eye half closed because of the damn lights —as powerful, burning, and accurate as a noxian blade— and then she sees her:
On the stage.
She is singing.
She's sweating.
She's enjoying.
And she's fucking fantastic.
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Vi's lungs burn just as the final chords wrap around the guitarist's fingers and Gert gives her a sneaky signal from the mixing machine where she plays the soundtrack. Several colored balloons with confetti burst over their heads as if it were an explosion when Powder appears again, stellarly, in a corner of the stage with the “squeaky” microphone.
“That's all, dear friends; our bartender needs to rest before the free bar hour!” she exclaims at the end of the song. “But we can continue with the party!”
And then Vi takes the opportunity to give her sister an elusive grimace of sly reprimand that ends in a smile as genuine as the one Powder returns to her. It had been years since she had sung, not in public and certainly not with the Chem Sisters, but that song was hers; she composed it for the group last year and never got to practice it with them, she only gave it to them and focused on the tavern; someone had to help Vander with all the work.
Vi scratches the hextech scar that adorns the middle of her neck as she walks through the crowd, there are those who give her a path as much as possible, congratulate her on her performance or even take the liberty of giving her a free pat on the back as a gesture of admiration. She avoids their gazes with her head bowed, and a soft giggle halfway between embarrassment and excitement escapes her throat as she reaches the bar counter. She doesn't think twice: leans on it with both hands and jumps behind the wooden structure, ready to take over from Vander, who seems to have left the place for a moment to replace one of the barrels.
She decides to unbutton her black and dark red leather vest to avoid sweating more. She still has a long night ahead of her, she doesn't have time to take a shower right now and she notices her t-shirt is soaked underneath her chest and at her back. She doesn't have many other options and she has to help her father before the free bar starts.
There are freshly scrubbed glasses in the drying room and not a single one can be missing before people start ordering drinks like crazy as the concert gets longer, so let's get to work: she looks around for a clean cloth and finds it relatively close thanks to the order that Vander strives to maintain behind the bar even in the most overwhelming moments. Without further ado, she begins the drying task with her eyes fixed on the glass, checking that not a single fingerprint or mark remains on the surface while she is still trying to catch her breath after the experience. It had been too long since she had felt a high like the one she just experienced.
Her ears catch the approach of new client, detecting the woman practically out of the corner of her eye, she is really used to it and is good at reacting in time; unlike Powder, —and admitted by Vander— she is an “animal-bar” and she don’t need to look up from her rag just before telling the piltie her stellar quote:
“What can I get you, pretty?”
