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Snippet - Who's That? Who's That? - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

A few shopgirls spy a pair of distinguished shoppers.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

Today, the Skylight Commercia is an upscale amphitheater, licensed by Zaun's Cabinet and protected by its own army of blackguards. It also boasts a full complement of unionized staff: porter boys, seamstress girls, spoonymen, bakers, bartenders, watchmen, even medicks who specialize in the tragic malady known as shopaholism.

Already, the atmosphere is a profusion of bedazzlement. Clutches of people dot the pathway: early risers and late-night revelers. A few stop and stare at the couple strolling past them. An entourage of Enforcers follow them at a distance, footsteps echoing across the cobblestones.

"Lookit," are the whispers. "Lookit."

They make an unusual pair. A man and a woman, shoulder-to-shoulder. He is a blade of a thing: sharp in every facet. Sharp-dressed, sharp-eyed, sharp-built. He gives the impression that if you come at him wrong, you are liable to get sliced in half.

Yet he has a smooth, silky manner about him. A Zaunite's strut.

His companion is a lithe, languid, lovely creature in a charmeuse gown the color of midnight. It is intricately pleated and geometrically cut: a Piltovan style. Indeed, the woman is all Piltover, from the top of her beautifully gold-coiffed head to the soles of her shapely gold-sandaled feet. Some greet the sight of her with scowls; others with stares.

The woman pays no mind to either. Her head is held high. She appears serenely at ease in her strange surroundings.

"Who're they?" the shoppers whisper among themselves.

Rumors swirl. The man is none other than the Eye of Zaun, master of it all. Hard to credit. Most only know him by his trademark voice in radio broadcasts. The rest are still convinced the Eye is a myth, or a monster risen from the depths of shadow. This man is too real to be either. The scars on his face are crosshatched as deeply as mining seams.

And the woman? A Councilor, it is whispered. Harder to credit. Why would a Councilor dirty the hem of her dress across the pathways at this hour? Indeed, why would she bother to get out of bed (a bed the shoppers can only imagine is as sumptuous as a chocolate gateau) before noon, when most Pilties ring for their maids to serve breakfast?

"Who d'you reckon they are?" one shopgirl whispers to another.

"They say it's a Topside toff," her companion whispers back, "with the Eye of Zaun."

"Pffft. The Eye already owns the whole city!"

"Well, maybe he's out bargain hunting?"

"That's bollocks! Bet it's a chem-baron, giving his mistress the tour."

"A Piltie mistress? You're dreaming!"

"Am I? These days, every Topsider and their dog wants a sniff below."

A third shopgirl stares awestruck at the woman's elegant silhouette. "She looks a right prize, I'll say that."

"We'd all look right prizes if we never worked a day in our lives!"

They laugh in ribald unison—laughter being the main thing that has survived in the Fissures despite decades of hardship.

And so, inevitably, has gossip. In a few minutes, off on their break, they are at their usual haunt near the Big Brass, chattering away. The city bubbles with scuttlebutt: fads, fights, fancies. What is passe and what is posh. Who has gone up in the world; who has tumbled down. Who’s up to no good, and who’s met a bad end.

News is impossible to separate from natter. It is the lifeblood that pulses through the city's arteries. It suffuses the air with its own magic. And no one knows that fact better than the Eye, who has spent much of his tenure collecting it, distilling it, manipulating it.

Knowledge is currency—and the currency is the only thing that can be relied upon in a world of shifting sands.

Today's fare is the juiciest of the week. The shopgirls, on their third round of cavernfruit juice, are already aflame. The upcoming Expo is off to a promising start: the streets are cramming with tourists, and the shopkeepers are rubbing their hands with glee. Hotels are seeing a surge in bookings. Clubs have mandated fire sprinklers and escape stairwells. The air has been pleasantly pure despite the periodic Gnashers. A new dance, the Targonian Twist, is sweeping the Lanes. In Oldtown, rehab centers are running out of beds. The treatment programs are making headway. The Shimmer addicts are being weaned off their fix. And the medicks say a cure for Grey Lung is on the horizon.

The prototypes are currently undergoing tests at private laboratories. By this time next year, there could be a vaccine available for sale. No word on the cost, yet. Or whether the Cabinet will approve its mass-production.

But the talk is rife with optimism—the offspring of early progress.

What truly interests the girls is gossip to do with the Council. They lean in closer, their voices dipping to a hush.

"You heard what happened to Heimy, then?" one girl says.

"You mean the old Yordle?"

"Who else, daftie?"

"What about him?"

"Well, seems he's gone missing while on sabbatical."

"On what, now?"

"Sabbatical! Y'know. It's what the eggheads call it when you take a holiday."

"And he just vanished?"

"His secretary got a letter saying he was heading up to Demacia. He hasn't been seen since."

"How'd you know?"

"My second-cousin's wife, she's a maid at his house. Said Enforcers dropped by. They told her to keep her lips zipped."

"Zipped why?"

"Said the Council are keeping it hush-hush. Heimerdinger’s their former head and all. Don't want folks worrying."

"He was on the Council, wasn't he?"

"Well, there's something else..."

"What's that?"

"My aunt, she works at the Boundary Markets. She says that before the Siege, she could've sworn she saw him wandering about."

"You mean... here? In Zaun?"

"Yeah! And not alone. She said he was with some bloke."

"Who?"

"Janna knows. He had a mask on. Personally, I think she's exaggerating. She's a bit of a lush. The drink must've gone to her head."

"But what if it's true?" one girl says. "Maybe the fuzzball's hiding out in Zaun? And who's the man with the mask, I wonder? Could it be the Eye?"

"Why'd the Eye help a Councilor? He calls 'em A lineage of leeches."

"Maybe he's trying to make nice after the Treaty?"

"Or he's holding the old Yordle for ransom?"

"As what? Jinx's new pet?"

They share peals of laughter. Absurdity is also a staple of the Zaunite diet, and the notion that the Eye would keep a Yordle captive in his penthouse is enough to make anyone's sides split. They can picture it, clear as day. The Eye in a dark silk robe, the Yordle in a pink bow, the two of them dancing their own strange waltz around the lavish rooms. Maybe Jinx would serenade them, as her devotees do her: Come on, dance faster, just a little bit of energy...

"I keep hearing," a girl says, "the Eye's a vampire, and his flat's a dungeon."

"That's just the chem-burn talking, love."

"Well, I'd wager there's a grain of truth. Vampires don't breathe, right? And they don't need sunshine. The Eye's no different. Where else would he live but underground?"

"He's commissioned a dozen cultivairs' hothouses full of sunshine. Why'd he do that if he's a vamp?"

"I'm not saying he's a full vamp, for Janna's sake. But everyone knows the Eye has his fingers in the blood trade."

"The Shimmer trade."

"Same thing. I hear Shimmer's made of poro blood. That's why it's so dangerous."

"It's a drug, love. Drugs're all dangerous."

"Not always. My boyfriend got a thimbleful last weekend from the back-alley chemist. Cleared up his cough, it did. And gave him a cockstand so big—"

"Oh, shut it, I don't wanna know!"

"What I'm saying is, there's more to Shimmer'n meets the eye."

"Got that right. My uncle OD'd on it, remember? Died screaming. So did his missus."

"Didn't their kid run away?"

"Yeah. Joined the Firelights. Who are a bunch of crazies, if you ask me."

"Oooh. I can't stand the lot of them! Making a ruckus wherever they go!"

"I heard they're dying off. No one's seen hide nor hair of them since the Siege."

"That's not what my brother-in-law said. He's a blackguard at southside. He heard scuttlebutt that the Firelights were holed up in a secret lair. Somewhere down in Oshra Va'Zaun’s tunnels. The Eye's trying to wall 'em in—or starve 'em out."

"How long've they been there?"

"Don't know. Maybe years."

"What a load of bollocks. Where are their goods coming from, then? You'd have thought the blackguards would've sniffed out the supply lines."

"My brother-in-law says they've a secret way into Zaun."

"What? Where?"

"Dunno. Supposedly only the Eye knows."

"He's a crafty sod. Bet he's already filled it up with Jinx's bombs."

"Why not ask him? He was browsing for jar cakes an hour ago."

"That's not the Eye, you dumb tart!"

And etcetera.

Under the watery sunrays of the glass dome, pigeons flutter. The girls buy paper cones of birdseed, for the fun of watching the birds flock around them. They are still playing guessing games over who the enigmatic chem-baron and his companion are. But in fact, it matters little. The security detail has alerted them to the presence of bigwigs. They need to know nothing else.

Where the Gray sits, as the saying goes.

At the escalators, they spot the couple again. They have stopped with their entourage. A little girl lingers by the railing. Too scared to climb aboard the steps, she is blocking their path. The shopgirls tense as one of the lady's guards move to shove the girl aside.

That's Enforcers for you. Always throwing their weight around.

The sharp-dressed man stops the guard. There are quietly severe words exchanged. Then the man himself kneels. He is talking to the girl, a gentle hand on her shoulder. His manner is almost reassuring. Whatever he says is lost in the hubbub of the marketplace. But the little girl seems soothed by his words.

Politely, he proffers a hand. She accepts with caution, then smiles a little as they perform a box-step together, leaping onto the escalator. Playfully, the man lifts her off the last step at the top. The girl giggles and kicks her feet before he deposits her on the ground.

Below, the elegant lady claps. She has been watching with an intrigued eye. Her entourage, more grudgingly, follow suit. The little girl, titillated, performs a curtsey. She and the man exchange parting words. With a forefinger, the man taps the skin under his eye: the universal Zaunite gesture:

Fuck the police.

He gives the girl a finger wave. Beaming, she rushes off to her family, who've watched her progress with bated breath. A chem-baron and Enforcers cornering a lone child? In the Fissures, it's the beginning of a horror story.

With a dismally familiar ending.

"That was decent of him," says one shopgirl, licking her fingers.

"The best men are good with whelps," the second says. “It shows.”

"Pffft," scoffs the third. "One good turn and you're already fitting him for a ring, eh?"

"I'm only saying! He was patient. A lot of kids would've started blubbering."

"Maybe he's a chem-baron who moonlights as a nanny."

"Chem-barons have whelps, too!"

"And they pack 'em off to boarding school soon as the tit's empty."

"Maybe this one's special."

"You're daft," the first girl says, tossing a pigeon a last pinch of seed. "He's the Eye, for sure."

"What's got you so convinced?"

"Well, he's got a whelp too, doesn't he? Jinx?"

"Pssh. Jinx is his dollymop."

"Don't think so. I read somewhere he'd adopted her."

"I read he'd had a child by her."

"That's bollocks!"

"They say it's why she went into hiding after the war."

"Well, I heard she'd—"

"Ssh," the first shopgirl hisses. "They're coming this way."

Sure enough, the couple are crossing the plaza. Their entourages follow. Hurriedly, the shopgirls clean the clutter of cigarettes and paper-cones, straightening up. They give the couple wide berth, nodding respectfully as they sweep past. The aroma of hothouse hyacinths and bottled bergamot lingers in their wake.

The woman stares straight ahead, indifferent to the scenery. The man, on the other hand, appraises his surroundings with interest. They converse in soft voices: contralto and baritone. The latter has a graveled pitch that seems uncannily familiar.

A radio voice. The Eye's.

The shopgirls are too intimidated to eavesdrop. But suddenly, the rumor—that the Eye and a Councilor are on an extended excursion of the Skylight together—no longer seems so far-fetched.

A paper cone, caught in a shopgirl's fingers, slips free. It skitters toward the man's gleaming leather shoes. He stops mid-step, and the lady follows suit.

"I-I'm sorry, sir," the girl stammers.

The man stoops, picking up the cone. With an elegant precision, he hands it to her. For a moment, the three shopgirls are caught in his crosshairs. Up close, he's a fearsome-looking creature. The dapper clothes conceal a hard-edged physique like a miner's pickax. His right eye is the color of a lapis lazuli strung from the stalls. His left eye...

Roving across the girls, it gives off an acid-red glow.

The eye of a godling—or a devil.

The shopgirls’ skins break into gooseflesh. Their tongues go dry as Fissure-roots.

Idly, the man nods, and walks on.

"Shit," the first girl whispers, "what if that is the Eye?"

"If it is," the second whispers back, "then pray to Janna nobody gets their throat slit."

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