» Three days later
Violet was beginning to get worried.
Ever since her brief meeting with that strange newcomer, Powder had become increasingly withdrawn—to the point of refusing to leave the little man's hideaway in Benzo's workshop.
The blue-haired girl was also rejecting all of Violet's attempts to talk—something which had never, in all their time together, happened before.
On a surface level, Violet knew it had only been a short three days of this, and she shouldn't get overly bothered about something that could easily be a phase.
On a deeper level, however, she was uncomfortable with this new level of distance between herself and Powder.
It had never been like this before.
In all honesty, she didn't know what to do.
Should she respect her sister's newly erected boundaries—or force her way past them in order to figure out what was going on?
Violet's indecision was leading her forward in one, sole direction.
Toward Vander.
Usually, she wouldn't even dream of bothering their guardian with something so inane—or with anything in general actually.
But, the girl's stubborn pride and unwillingness to bother their benefactor had succinctly crumbled upon being denied entry to Benzo's workshop for the third day in a row.
Vander would know what to do—whether that be to wait or otherwise. He would know. He always did.
And if it came down to it, the man could talk some sense into Benzo and convince the obstinate man to allow her passage into the hideaway.
Violet strode into the crowded marketplace, cutting through the milling crowd and moving straight toward The Last Drop.
She heard a sudden, sharp cry of, "Stop, thief!" but kept walking—unburdened by the shout.
Thievery was common in the Undercity—as was getting caught and beaten for doing so.
Violet had, initially, planned to ignore the shout. That is until a small, familiar figure sprinted past her.
The girl caught the barest glimpse of white fuzzy hair and dark skin concealed beneath the figure's drooping hood.
Violet sighed quietly, turning her head to look at the boy's pursuer.
The overweight man was blundering toward her—knocking apart the milling crowd in a desperate attempt to catch the quickly disappearing youth.
Those who were pushed aside by him gritted their teeth in irritation, with a fair few shouting their offence after him in anger.
Violet cast her eyes to the heavens in a silent prayer before sticking out a foot and tripping the fat man up as he charged by her.
Little man definitely owed her a favour now.
Maybe she wouldn't need Vander's help after all.
Her victim fell, epically—crying out in shock as his elbows hit the ground, hard.
The once-angry crowd now sneered in an easy derision, stopping to stare at the fat man's misfortune—happy that their aggressor had gotten a taste of the comeuppance he deserved.
"You fucking brat!" the man shouted, struggling to return to his feet.
His hands were red from the fall—his expensive-looking clothes covered in a light dusting of earth and gravel.
Violet stared down at the man—unimpressed with his severe lack of dexterity.
"Oops." The girl said, covering her mouth with one, mocking hand. "It was an accident—Honest."
"Like hell it was!" The man roared, storming back toward the lone teenager furiously. "You're in cahoots with little shit, aren't you?!"
Violet raised her hands in a pacifying surrender.
Her action was so poorly timed that the man actually managed to slam both of his hands into her chest—sending the girl stumbling backwards.
"I ought to beat the shit out of you, girl," the man snarled, continuing on his warpath forward.
"Try me," Violet hissed, incensed that someone so physically lacking could manage to land a clean hit on her.
She drew back a hand, watching as the oncoming man's eyes slid predictably toward her closed fist.
Then she lowered her stance—raising her left leg to stamp the heel of her boot onto the man's corresponding kneecap.
He howled in pain, falling back to the cobbled ground below—disabled by Violet's improvised hit.
His cry drew the attention of many of the people surrounding them—elevating their petty squabble into the marketplace's spotlight.
Violet would have liked nothing more than to hit the man with a strong right hook, but she refrained from doing so—barely—deeming the action overkill.
Vander wouldn't have approved.
The man glared up at Violet through watering, furious eyes—committing the girl's face to memory.
He didn't care that she was one of Vander's kids anymore. This was a step too far.
He would not be shamed like this—least of all publicly.
This offence would not go unpunished.
The crowd smirked at the older man's disgraceful showing before continuing on their way—not bothering to spare either of the two a second glance.
Being beaten to the ground by an unarmed child was laughable—a girl no less. This man didn't deserve their pity—or their attention.
Violet huffed as she saw the man's hateful expression. Typical Zaunite bravado—nothing to back it up.
She pivoted around and continued her journey across the market, heading toward The Last Drop.
She reached the doors—pushing them open and stepping inwards.
A blast of warm, comforting air greeted her—already beginning to thaw the girl's freezing limbs.
Violet shivered. The cold was at its worst at this time of year.
She hated the season of frost.
The bar itself was mostly empty—save for one lone Zonai who was drinking quietly in the rightmost corner.
Not many people were around at this time of day.
Violet strode up to the counter—yelling Vander's name toward the back room's open door.
The Zonai's animalistic ears twitched at the sudden noise.
Wooden floorboards creaked loudly—signalling the barkeep's steady approach.
The large bearded man strolled into the room, wearing a doubtful expression.
"Vi?" The man said, his tone one of mild surprise. "What are you doing here? You and the others don't normally come round at this hour."
Violet glanced away from the man—momentary indecision overwhelming her plan to seek for advice.
The girl wasn't too sure how to explain her situation without sounding—at worst—overtly pitiful.
"It's Powder," Violet started, sounding hesitant. "She… she's been acting different—more different than usual."
Vander looked down at the lines of worry haunting his charge's gaze before sighing uncomfortably.
"Come sit down," he said, motioning for the girl to take a seat before him. "And tell me everything."
✦ ✦ ✦
"Hmm."
Vander hummed—now understanding the reason behind the girl's anxiousness.
Callian could have given Powder anything—be that heartfelt advice, or possibly something more down-to-earth. There really was no way to tell until she decided to open up and talk to them about it.
He hadn't seen the man in about half a week and had simply assumed that Callian had left the Undercity—deeming it unfit for purpose, just as he had with Piltover.
Still, forcing this issue wouldn't help.
Whatever Callian had given his youngest, it couldn't have been that dangerous—or she would surely have refused it.
Powder had a good head on her shoulders—and Vander trusted her to make the right decisions—despite her emotional immaturity.
"Listen—" Vander sighed, placing a gentle, comforting hand atop Violet's own.
It was a rare gesture—one that signified he understood the depth of her worry.
Then the man broke off, interrupted midway as the bar's door swung open once more.
His grey eyes slid towards it—focus momentarily disrupted.
A familiar figure stepped over the threshold—long dark coat buttoned up to the collar, his jacket's hood pulled high.
Vander's eyes narrowed.
Speak of the devil and he shall appear…
"You…" Violet muttered angrily, slamming her hands down onto the bar's counter. "What are you doing here?!"
Callian approached—unfazed by the girl's accusatory tone—not even bothering to deign her words with a reply.
He instead retrieved a sizeable pouch from within his coat and dropped it before Vander's seated figure.
"For the wine." He stated flatly, continuing to ignore the glare he was recieving from the furious-looking girl.
The man slowly wiped his fingers on the front of his dark coat, then replaced his hand back into his pocket.
Vander hesitated, then loosened the pouch's strings.
He glanced into the now-widened entrance—his gaze visibly hardening.
"Hey!" Violet snapped, waving a hand directly in front of Callian's face. "I'm talking to you."
She reached out—fully intending to grab the stranger's shoulder and turn him to face her.
To her surprise, however, Vander's large hand closed around her outstretched forearm, halting her action midway.
"Why—" Violet began, dismayed, but stopped as she noticed the expression lining her guardian's face.
"Violet, how about you take this to the sink—give it a wash," said Vander, his tone light, but firm.
Violet was stunned.
Vander never called her that—not unless he seriously wanted her to listen.
She nodded slowly, set on edge by Vander's sudden change in attitude. She watched as Vander re-tightened the pouch and pushed it toward her.
The simple movement left a faint red trail smeared across the bar's otherwise clean counter.
As the girl accepted the unexpectedly heavy pouch, she felt a strange wetness pool onto the palm of her hand.
Her eyes widened, watching as the liquid began to spread across the cloth of her bandaged hand, dyeing it a newer, darker colour.
The girl recognised that deep, gritty, crimson immediately.
How could she not?
It was blood.
And it was covering the entirety of her hand.
She vaulted the counter immediately—heading straight for the sink.
She dropped the pouch into the basin, reaching out to turn on the tap with her other, cleaner fingers.
Water streamed downward onto the fabric, slowly filtering down through its thick patchwork exterior.
Violet loosened its strings cautiously—leaning her head forward to take a look inside.
The pouch was filled to the brim with ringed, gear-like coins which were coated with a thick, viscous blood.
The amount inside… was just too much.
Over fifteen thousand Marks at least—minimum.
She'd never seen so much a large amount of cash in one place before.
"That kind of money pays off far more than just one drink."
Vander's grim voice grounded Violet back to the present.
Callian's violet eyes flickered toward Violet, then back toward the man before him.
"Then get me another," he said, his tone deliberately casual.
Then his eyes glittered with an unnatural, dangerous edge.
"And you," he continued, slowly twisting to face the corner of the room. "get out. I dislike eavesdroppers."
The Zonai stiffened in alarm, its ears flat—grey fur standing on end.
The creature abandoned its unfinished drink hastily and hurried to leave the bar.
Callian drummed his fingers on the bar's counter—patiently waiting for the demi-human to make its exit.
Only once the Zonai had left did he finally drop his hood—revealing his owl-like half-mask and dark blue hair.
Vander glared down at the man with a clear disapproval.
Reluctantly—as he couldn't see any other way to effectively diffuse the situation—he retrieved that same rare vintage he had served to the man earlier that week.
"And the rest of it?" he asked, watching as the masked man took hold of the glass he had been offered.
Callian gazed down at the wine with a clear, musing air.
"It's yours," He replied.
Vander nearly growled.
That kind of money didn't just appear out of thin air—especially not in the state Callian had left it in.
People might come looking for it. The wrong kind of people.
Vander's hands curled into fists.
"There are better ways to buy my favour than with stolen blood money," he said, his normally impassive tone beginning to crack. "Where exactly did you get it from?"
Callian could feel the wooden counter beneath his leaning arms tremble underneath the weight of Vander's ire.
Still, he did not deign to answer the larger man's query.
"Are there?" He asked, his voice dryly curious.
His gaze shifted toward Violet, who was still standing beside the sink.
"Your daughter looks quite happy with it though, given by her rather laden pockets."
Violet's expression distorted—knowing the man's words to be true.
Just as Vander was about to demand an answer to his second question, the bar's doors creaked open once more, drawing his attention away.
"Vi, Vander! Look! I did it! Bloomer works!"
The small, blue-haired Powder sprinted through the doorway—face bright and flushed.
"Callian?!" She gasped, recognising the masked man. "You're back? I thought you were gone for good!"
The tension between the two men snapped.
Callian turned fully to face the excited girl.
"Little Powder," he said, the ghost of a smile haunting his otherwise steady features.
His violet eyes glanced down at the item she held within her grasp.
"I see that my gift to you did not go unused."
"Uh-huh!" she replied, beaming—practically bouncing over to him in her excitement.
Powder then wrapped her arms around the man in a quick, energetic hug.
Callian stiffened underneath the sudden contact he was receiving.
"Look—" she said, retracting her arms from around him and presenting her creation to him. "I remade my smoke bomb with it! It's worked every single time I tested it!"
Powder's sunny enthusiasm had now utterly crippled the previously serious atmosphere.
Callian gave Vander a permissive glance, respecting his place as the girl's guardian.
Reluctantly, the larger man acquiesced, nodding his head in a very grudging allowance.
Callian then looked forward again—reaching out a hand to take the palm-sized grenade from the eager-looking girl.
It was crude—built from junk, as they always had been.
A sharp, cartoonish grin had been scrawled onto its rough, metal surface—humanising the otherwise lifeless device.
It was an authentic, handmade work.
How nostalgic.
The man turned it over in his hands carefully—his grip tightening imperceptibly.
Had it really been that long already?
"If what you say is true, then you have far exceeded the expectation I had of you," Callian said, offering it back to the girl. "Well done, child."
Powder preened underneath the man's honest praise—a warm surge of happiness growing inside of her.
Violet stared at their reaction—stunned.
After days of silence—of damn near isolation—Powder had just walked right up to this man… and hugged him.
She had just accepted that condescending title without complaint too—child.
Powder hated being reminded of her status as a kid—especially from her, and even by the kind and understanding Vander.
And yet—here she was. Looking happier than ever.
"Powder," Vander began, his voice cautious, "what did Callian give to you, exactly?"
"I gave her a gift that only someone of her rather remarkable talents would be able to enjoy," Callian cut in.
"He gave me a smoke bomb!" Powder interjected, grinning. "I took it apart to figure out how it worked—now mine work too."
Vander glanced across at Callian curiously, his fleeting anger forgotten.
"Wait—wait," Violet blurted out, moving toward the bar's counter hastily. "The reason you didn't talk to me for days… was this?"
She gestured toward the device emphatically, looking more than a little hurt.
Powder took one look at the expression ruling Violet's face before averting her eyes in a dawning shame.
"I did say it was a secret…" she muttered, the energy in her voice dimming, "it wasn't ready yet."
Vander looked between the room's other three occupants.
He could feel a slight headache coming on.
That was one problem sorted at least. Now to address the elephant in the room.
"Come on," Powder said. "I wanna show it to you—to all of you."
"Later, Powder," Vander replied, looking back at the masked man uneasily. "I have some business to clear up with Callian first."
The man in question tilted his head to the side owlishly—amused by Vander's perseverance.
Most men living in the Undercity would have taken that money without hesitation—or second thoughts. And yet, this man persisted.
"Rest assured, Vander, not a single Mark inside that pouch could possibly be traced back to you. I made sure of that."
Given the blood that had been staining the coins, Vander felt that Callian's words came off as more ominous than comforting.
But he was sure the man knew that, and had said them anyway.
"You're quite sure?" he pressed, eyeing the man strongly.
"Absolutely," Callian confirmed. "There is not a doubt in my mind."
Powder looked a little muddled by the vague exchange.
"He gave you money?" she asked, turning her head toward Vander. "How much? And for what?"
"The majority of it is for you," Callian said, drawing the girl's attention toward him. "Your flourishing ingenuity—despite your less than ideal circumstances—caught my eye. I believe you are a talent worth investing in."
Vander frowned.
So that's what the money had been for. It wouldn't have killed Callian to be a little specific—at least then he wouldn't have been so annoyed.
Still, his curiosity deepened—as did his guardedness.
He hadn't believed his adoptive daughter's gadgets to amount to anything more than a childish pastime.
Had he been wrong?
"In fact, I'm surprised it has gone unnoticed for this long." Callian continued, drumming his armoured fingers into the wooden counter in a visibly calculated impatience. "Being so learned in this area, your… father's failure to nurture it is, quite frankly, baffling—but perhaps understandable."
Vander watched the man carefully as Powder took the seat beside him.
Doubt began to bloom in the recesses of his mind. Self-doubt.
"When you said you were a scout," the barkeep asked, "what exactly were you looking for?"
Callian stopped his drumming deliberately, now fixing the barkeep with a critical gaze.
"Talent." He stated. "Capable, budding, uncontracted talent."
It took a moment for Callian's words to sink in—for the room's occupants to truly grasp what his words implied.
"You—you really think I'm worth sponsoring?"
Powder's voice was small—wavering in the face of denial.
But every person in the room could hear the emotion lacing her tone.
Callian smiled faintly. Genuinely.
"I do."
Vander looked down at the expression ruling his daughter's face.
He knew he had lost this battle.
Still—he had one more suspicion to clear up before he came to terms with this loss.
"Are Powder's gadgets really that impressive?" the man questioned, selecting his next words carefully.
He didn't want to sound so unfaithful in Powder's abilities—but this was something he needed to confirm.
He could already see the little girl withdrawing from him—her crumpling features giving away her hurt.
"Surely there are far more accessible prospective talents Topside?"
Callian stared across at the barkeep evenly.
"Accessibility does not equate to value," he replied, his drumming beginning once more. "But that is beside the point. Piltover's youths have proper materials within reach—along with extensive textbooks and lectures to learn from. Powder had none of those, and yet, she still managed to create something of this complexity—"
The man gestured toward the girl's smoke bomb.
"Fully operational or not."
It looked childish—undeniably so. The cartoonish scrawls—its improperly formed exterior.
But Vander could see it now. How Powder gazed at it with hope. Hesitant yes—but still there.
If Callian's words were truly honest, then it meant that his youngest wasn't without hope—like so many others rotting in the Undercity. She wasn't without a future.
A light trilling noise suddenly emanated from within Callian's coat.
Its owner unbuttoned it with an uncharacteristic briskness—reaching inside to retrieve a beautiful, ornate-looking watch.
The timepiece was a gorgeous amalgamation of green-stained glass and flawless-looking steel—its miniature, interlocking gears shifting visibly within.
Two tiny letters lay carved into its side—unnoticed by all but the sharp-eyed Powder.
They read: E.L.
"I'm afraid I must depart—for now at least," Callian said. "I will return when I can."
He turned toward Violet, his tone stern.
"And in case it was not already evident to you—that is your sister's money you have pocketed. I advise you put return it to where it belongs."
Violet flushed, embarrassed.
"I know that." She snapped, defiant. "I'll put it back now that I know it's not yours."
Callian allowed his gaze to linger on the belligerent girl for a moment longer, before sliding off his seat and turning to leave.
"Vi!"
Powder's voice rang out from behind him—indignant.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Callian stepped over the bar's threshold, its heavy doors swinging shut behind him—cutting off the sisters' one-sided bickering.
He would leave Vander to ruminate on this for a while—give him time to process what he had learned. It would be a few days at least.
Then he would return—and await the day that started it all.
✦ ✦ ✦