Chapter Text

The bronze-on-white banners of Sandvik Hexvehicular Industries stirred only faintly in the breeze from the open balcony. Councillor Yurel Salo sucked in the draughts of fresh air with discreet gusto.

Sandwiched as he was between Warden-Prefect Nicodemus and Count Sandvik himself among the guests of honor, surrounded by a veritable who’s who of Piltovan dignitaries, all sweating in their finery and exuding a cocktail of fine perfumes to cover it, Salo contemplated sainthood. Specifically, for the pretty blonde maid he’d watched open the balcony doors…

…at least until he promptly forgot about her existence. Little space within one’s attention span, after all, to ogle the help when the gracious host had jugglers and mimes capering about the cavernous ballroom of Sandvik Manor amidst holographic dancers, poised and graceful, projected from spinning Hexlumens ringing the floor.

Salo mused that it was either excellent forethought to keep the dance floor looking active whilst not requiring anyone to actually dance, or a sign that Piltover in its almighty Progress had finally figured out how to sell a mansion its own proprietary ghosts.

The distraction was fleeting, unfortunately, because Salo simply couldn’t ignore the chuffing and huffling sounds Nicodemus was making beside him. The fellow squirmed in his dress uniform like an overstuffed poro barely restraining itself from pouncing upon the sprawling buffet. His eyes bulged each time they fell on the towering masterpiece of a wedding cake; a replica of the Tower of Techmaturgy in bronze and silver frosting and fondant casting its majestic shadow down the table.

Judging from the sounds Nicodemus was making just at the thought of eating, Salo’s stomach twisted at imagining the gruesome auditory components of his actual feeding frenzy.

Alas, enduring such company was the price of power; Salo’s late cousin, may the insufferable fop rest in pieces - in many small pieces scattered all over Progress Square, as it were - had been far better suited to finding actual pleasure in these displays. A master of the dance of alliances and dalliances, for certain, not that it had helped whatsoever when that grinning Hextech rocket had screamed through the window.

Yurel couldn’t too sourly begrudge his cousin, however; his untimely demise in the Council attack had cleared the way for his own rise to power. And the benefits of the Seat almost certainly outweighed the odd annoyance.

But that did leave him to deal with such yawn-fests as the merger of Sandvik Hexvehicular and Runford & Sons Cogworks, a transaction representing the opening of eight new factories, several million cogs of calculated profits and hundreds of potential jobs worth of investment…

…otherwise known as the wedding gala of Alysoun Sandvik and Terenz Runford.

Yurel glanced at the allegedly happy couple, eclipsed in the shadow of the beaming, boisterous father of the bride and his circle of laughing sycophants. He took idle note of the precious daughter’s resolute chin-quivering stare into her soup and the bold new son-in-law’s valiant attempts not to slide off the table. Salo wondered whether they had been told about the union before or after being handed their script.

Pity, thought Salo, Typical of these industrialists, it all feels more like an exhibition floor than a gala. Nothing beautiful, no real artistry, not a single courtesan of any gender or species…

I’ve attended livelier funerals.

It might have been just a tinkling of spoon on glass at any other wedding, but Count Sandvik had hired an entire Hexcoustic orchestra to add a literal fanfare to the announcement that he was ready to give his big speech.

They could almost, just almost, drown out the chanting of Stop Sandvik Slavery! and No More Death Factories! from beyond that open balcony, just outside the Manor gates.

“Well,” Yurel Salo muttered, “at least there’s some entertainment.”

He watched with dry amusement as Alysoun, sitting so close to him, perked up at the sound, peering with curiosity and something else, something more complicated, out the window.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Salo leaned over to the young bride to murmur, “We were at war with them a year ago. Now our bleeding hearts want to give them a pay rise.”

Salo’s jesting tone hid the test; he wondered if the girl had wit enough to know it.

Alysoun just stiffened up and stared at the dregs of her soup. Then at the enormous, straining buffet tables beyond theirs, around which extravagant guests were still milling, one woman in a feathered bonnet and elaborate bustle ignoring the imminent speech to snatch at the feast like a darting piranha.

More food would be thrown out tonight than the families of Sandvik Industries’ factory workers, mostly poor Zaunites, would eat over a course of months.

“…we do pay them,” Alysoun mumbled, “Like the Accords say. It’s just…it’s not-”

Count Sandvik cleared his throat, gave a beaming smile, and opened his mouth. In the expectant silence the protest chants only rang out clearer –

“No more Death Factories!”

“Fair Pay for Zaunite Workers!”

“Stop Sandvik Slavery!”

“…enough,” Alysoun muttered, and clenched her fingers around her fork.

Terenz blinked out of his sleepy trance and looked sidelong at his new bride, as if it were the first time he’d heard her speak aloud. For all Salo knew, it might have been.

Count Sandvik, however, wasn’t about to compete. He scowled with his impressively bushy eyebrows and glared at Warden-Prefect Nicodemus in a silent ‘why have your officers not removed that rabble?’ before starting his speech.

“Friends, associates, and esteemed fellows of the City of Progress-”

“STOP SANDVIK SLAVERY!”

Sandvik’s face turned an ugly red color. Someone in attendance snickered loudly. Salo planted his chin on his palm and looked for the culprit, out of curiosity, but the only movement in the gathering aside from awkward seat-shuffling was the girl in the bonnet, her expansive bustle worn too slovenly for Salo’s liking but with a pretty enough face, fumbling with her ample bodice in a somewhat unnatural way, but one that made Salo giggle.

Was she stuffing something into the food? How uncouth.

His attention shifted as, in response to an imperious gesture from Sandvik and his mighty eyebrows, the fanfare blared again, followed by a Hexcoustic squeal that put Salo’s teeth on edge as Sandvik dialed up his volume in attempt to drown out the interlopers.

The lights had also dimmed, unfortunately stymying Salo’s stickybeaking and forcing his focus to the loudmouth Count in the literal spotlight.

“Friends! Associates! Esteemed fellows of the City of Progress! Welcome, this fine and balmy evening, to the wedding of my beautiful daughter, Alysoun, heir to the fortunes of Sandvik Hexvehicular Industries, to the talented Terenz Runford, brilliant and vigorous young scion of Runford and Sons Cogworks, representing generations of fine Piltovan innovation in the fields of…”

Salo felt his eyes glaze and snatched another seafood canape from the blonde maid as she passed him.

“…when my daughter came of age, well I said to my long-time associate, Marquis Runford, what good is it having a wedding if it doesn’t pay a good profit?”

Polite titters at the joke rippled up in waves from the crowd. Bonnet girl’s snicker cut oddly through them, as if she were laughing at an entirely different joke. Runford himself preened like a resplendently bearded hawk, bowing his head in faux modesty, and the Count continued.

“But on a less frivolous note, let me speak for a moment about legacy. For it is legacy that we are here to celebrate, tonight, the enduring legacy of two great companies. A legacy of inventiveness, of hard work, of rising from humble roots to the success that we have today, that classic Piltovan story, of determination and willingness to-” the Hexophone squealed, distorting its projected voice, “-put-” ::ethics!:: “…aside in the pursuit of-” ::being a greedy poopface!::

A murmur went through the crowd. Sandvik furrowed his spectacular eyebrows and peered at the device.

“Pardon that, I meant to say that I’m-” ::hocking off my daughter like an antique watch!:: “-and…my word! And – um-um-” ::also laundering funds for the Chembarons!::

The shrill voice scratched out of the Hexcoustics systems, and Sandvik turned a vivid shade of aubergine. Salo slowly sat up, and so did his eyebrows.

“Pardon me, fine guests,” stammered Count Sandvik, whilst his daughter stared at him open-mouthed, and even his son-in-law finally seemed awake.

The gasps of shock among the gathered Piltovan dignitaries – the heads of several Clans, multiple Council members, famous artificers, wealthy entrepreneurs – became a low, rising hubbub of outrage. They had been willing to stoically ignore the chants from outside, but there was a limit.

“There appear to be some technical difficulties with our Hexcoustics,” he cleared his throat, “-generously supplied by Runford and Sons for this special occasion-”

::…Ooh, that burns, how quick they turn, eh Runny?:: screeched the hexphonic speakers feeding Sandvik’s audio to the rest of the hall, ::You gonna take that diss lying down?::

Runford made a small but sharply audible choking sound.

Salo chomped down his canape and lifted his eyes to a hint of movement above Sandvik’s head.

“Cut the feed!” Sandvik hissed to his aides, fumbling in a little crowd around him on the stage, “Cut it!”

He raised his voice above the faint scratching and squealing of the hexphonic stand and shoved it away from him, booming in his loudest concert hall tone, “Friends, I do hope you will forgive my sense of humor. A little comedic levity – a p-prank, all part of the show- now to reward your patience, let me unveil-”

There was something lowering from between the curtains above Sandvik’s position.

Salo squinted.

It looked for all the world like a very large water balloon, slowly descending as it filled from pipeworks somewhere above, pulled down by its own growing weight.

And something was buzzing around it like a large, persistent fly.

With the auditory mishaps seemingly under control, Sandvik straightened and beamed, returning to his script, his eyebrows bristling with self-satisfaction that was at least half genuine.

“…our new plan to put a Sandvik Industries Ring Rider in every Piltovan home…”

Salo squinted more. “Pardon me, Alysoun,” he muttered as he reached over her to snatch a mostly decorative multi-lens monocle from a yordle inventor on her side of the table.

Over the fellow’s protestations, Salo focused the lenses on what looked like a cartoonish mechanical mosquito with a grotesque painted grin, its nose a shiny pin.

“…making access to our workplaces…”

It poked the swelling balloon. Salo winced, but the snap of rubber only heralded the balloon changing color from garish green to blue as one layer tore away, revealing another balloon beneath.

But one that was swelling faster for the relieved pressure.

“…our factories, our places of leisure ever the more convenient…”

The pin pricked again. Another layer popped away. Green to blue to purple.

Others adjacent the stage had noticed now, but either did not quite deduce what was about to happen or feared to interrupt Sandvik’s speech.

They were, however, quietly backing away.

“…for every upstanding Piltovan citizen.”

Another layer vanished. The balloon was now bright, noxious pink, and had a grinning neon green monkey painted on its wobbling flanks.

Salo’s eyes snapped open. He lowered the lens.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need some air.”

The newlyweds followed him with their eyes and glanced at each other as the chants outside grew louder to compete with Sandvik’s speech.

Salo slid from his chair with a squeak that drew the attention of several dignitaries near him and backed up toward the buffet table. From the corner of his eye, he saw a few individuals converging, scuffling through the crowds, looking for someone. They were dressed as partygoers, but something about their strong builds and stiff scowls said Wardens.

Salo, distracted, jostled the punch bowl, and heard a clink.

He turned to see something floating in the punch that wasn’t a piece of Ionian silk-apple. It was chunky, metal, and had a purple underbelly topped by crude, grinning iron jaws.

Salo’s heart started pounding. Images of his cousin being reduced to a fine mist in a ball of blue fire slammed with thunderous clarity into his thoughts.

The Wardens were shouting at someone. There was a kerfuffle. It all seemed so far away.

Salo noted two more of the contraptions, nestled alongside the pears in the salad bowl, and a third clamped in the jaws of a suckling pig.

He slipped away from the table and fumbled for the balcony. Stairs out there, down to the garden, away, get out of here-

Salo backed into a skinny figure in a bonnet, one whose décolletage was no longer quite so ample. 

“Aw, c’mon, Sally-Two. You’ll miss the show!” Bonnet Girl purred into his ear.

Something cold pressed into the small of Salo’s back. Her hand was on his arm, strong as steel.

“N-no,” Salo froze like a rabbit, “-you-”

Count Sandvik had stepped forward to gesticulate toward the giant rolled-up banner upon the wall at his back, ignorant that he’d only stepped directly under the swelling thing above his head.

“In three, two…” she giggled.

Yurel Salo shuddered as the girl behind him bit her lip. Her eyes shone a demonic pink in the dark.

“…forty-six…twenty-eight…seven…” she rasped, “…one!”

“We are proud to announce our new plan of action, adhering to the Sandvik words, our motto, words that Piltover can live by now and forevermore…”

The banners unfurled, the bronze wheel gripped by a fist of Sandvik industries against a white field was drowned in comical faces of pink and blue paint – one with an undercut, one with a top-hat – poking their tongues and grimacing. The Sandvik slogan We Reinvent The Wheel had been utterly blotted out by two giant neon words:

EVERYBODY PANIC!

The pin pricked, the balloon burst, and bright multicolored neon paint plummeted to drench Count Sandvik, splashed on the guests of honor, rendering them in vivid, toxic hues that glowed brightly in the dimmed lights.

“Showtime!” sang Bonnet Girl. Salo was shoved into the arms of a Warden pouncing after her, breath knocked from his body.

She flung aside her bonnet and sloughed out of her bustle with a flourish, revealing a stick-figure dressed mostly in striped stockings and bullet belts. The girl pirouetted on one booted toe, and with a flick of a hand that held a pistol, fired a single crackling bullet down the length of the buffet table, into the mouth of the suckling pig.

Chaos exploded.

One by one, the dishes detonated. The pig, first, a plume of hot fat and meat falling in ribbons to string itself all over the nearby guests; the tureen, pinging toward the ceiling like a land mine in a shower of beef soup; the salads flinging leaves and fruit at the horrified guests, the stuffed poultry bursting in puffs of feathers, all whilst the speakers blared a Piltovan operatic aria over the shredding shrieks of Zaunite metal.

Salo hit the floor as the screams joined the symphony. Wardens shouting, tables flipping, people covered in soup, pastry, fruit, and feathers scrambling in a torrent away from the exploding feast. Amidst it all something glinting gold spun end-over-end over the table, iridescent bubbles flashing around the guests closest to the radius of each eruption.

He was only vaguely aware of the girl stepping over him, matter-of-factly.

Salo looked up to see her bounding onto the ruined buffet table, wheeling amid the raining mess, gesticulating grandly as if she were conducting an orchestra of flame and food wreckage with her entire body, her pistol in one hand and a crag-turkey leg in the other as the baton.

Her long blue braids snaked after her as she twisted and twirled just out of the grip of food-splattered Wardens, Sandvik private security footmen, and panicked party guests tripping over each other to either pursue her or flee in abject terror of the scene.

Whilst she danced a wild ballet amid the carnage, she was humming along to the music.

Worst of all was her face. She wore a transcendent smile of bliss, her eyes shining in childlike joy, reflecting in the flashes of bright pink and green flame as more of her explosives went off in a chain reaction, leading to...

The cake. 

It went up like a rocket - perhaps because she'd somehow put a rocket inside it - in a soaring trail of fondant and cream. The flanks of the cake split apart, sloughing off like a collapsing mountain to bury the screaming Count Sandvik and apoplexy-stricken Nicodemus. 

Guests shrieked and slipped in the goo on the floor as they scrambled for safety. Count Sandvik resembled some kind of paint-and-cream monster, flailing his arms and roaring at the heavens from a swamp of sludgy dessert. Nicodemus, shouting orders to his troops, had lunged forward, slipped on the cake, and now slid helplessly across the floor, bowling down his own men like pins at an alley.

Two merchant family matriarchs shrieked for the blood of the culprit whilst a third stomped out her flaming wig on the floor. The chief engineer of Sungate operations had a giant chunk of green jelly wobbling on his bald head. The Marquis Runford was busy extracting half of a cooked goose from his screaming wife’s bustier. 

Somehow, Alysoun Sandvik, her eyes shining and her mouth wide open in awe, then furious determination, had acquired a protest sign - or had she had it with her all along? - and sprang to the front like a hero of the revolution, her pristine white wedding dress an avant-garde artwork in every color in the cookbook. Terenz stared after her like he was having a religious epiphany, and then started to laugh, and kept laughing and pointing, wild-eyed.

And at the heart of it all, Jinx, the Loose Cannon, the Terror of Piltover, the Ghost of Zaun, stopped atop the table, lit by the rocket fire, and turned to strike a pose of solemn, stiff-lipped salute as she followed her rocket’s majestic ascent.

The cake finally broke apart on launch, and the rocket, still covered in jam and chunks of sponge and fondant, crashed through the ballroom's massive skylight and out into the Piltovan night.

Security people swarmed the room, and all Salo could do was watch as Jinx grinned ear to ear, greeted them with a theatrical bow -

And from somewhere behind her, like the sun glinting as it came up over the horizon, spilled a flash of rainbow colors blending into white, blazing, blinding light.

When it was gone, so was she.

Leaving only the rocket, soaring into the heavens, where it burst high over Piltover with the whine, pop, and BOOM of spectacular fireworks.

An explosion in neon, painting the Piltovan sky with the sign of a grinning monkey.

“…so, it begins…” Salo muttered, and fainted face-first into a glob of cake.

ILL-OMEN'S GAME

~ Ill-Fortune & Illumination, Part II ~