Chapter Text
People are easy to read. The trick is to pay attention, view their actions through a lens separate from your own feelings.
Take someone like Finn, for example. Loud-mouthed and arrogant. Bad for keeping too close. Good for his influence and blind confidence. People flock to flash—Silco has never understood why. People say it makes them feel safe. He disagrees.
Finn is a jackass.
But a jackass with money and reach. Silco looks over Finn's files. His frown deepens. He's a loose cannon, and a thorn in his side. But Finn outside his influence would be more annoying than Finn inside it, and someone like him is easy enough to acquire.
So why not?
Finn is as simple as he looks. The newest chem-baron clawing up the ranks, desperate to improve his image. Fine new clothes. New facial tattoos. That ridiculous haircut. More than anything, he is predictable. The next step will be mechanical augmentation to replace that weak jawline. The budding partnership with Smeech will guide Silco smoothly towards his goal. And Smeech was another easy case. All he had to do was dangle the idea of combining Shimmer with the yordle’s mechanics, and the creature practically drooled.
Two timid knocks push Silco out from his thoughts.
With a sigh and an eye roll, he feels a headache coming on. “Come in, Deckard. Make it quick.”
Deckard is a young scrappy boy, raised on the streets of Zaun. His type is obvious, always felt like the bottom of the pile, so he takes the first opportunity to have someone—anyone—to look down on. As pathetic as an existence that is, he does feel bad for the boy. Had he been born in Topside, he would've had a quiet, basic life.
One day the children of Zaun will also have space to be mediocre…even if the road there must be paved with the bodies of the equally unremarkable youth that came before them.
“Ah well, Silco. Mr. Silco…sir. You see, the thing of it is…” On second thought, perhaps this is the highest a boy like him can reach.
Silco's words come out in a playful singsong tone. “Out with it now, or I'll cut it out of you.“ He points his knife at Deckard.
“Right! Okay!! So you know how I'm supposed to keep track of Vander’s kids?”
Silco only narrows his eye. This is the boy's second warning, he is running out of patience.
“Okay so! They went Topside, I think they were trying to rob some big shot or something. Anyway, an explosion happened, and Vi died!” His speech comes out almost too quickly to catch.
And he needs clarification, because if he didn't know any better…“Vander’s daughter, the prize of The Lanes, is deceased?”
Deckard nods rapidly, reminding Silco of a paddle-ball—that silly toy he's seen the youth of Topside play with. “Yes! All the enforcers are talking about it! No one knows what to say to Vander!”
“And what of the other children?”
“Arrested. For breaking and entering. Uhh, I don't know how long they're supposed to be locked up or what they're planning but—” The boy’s voice fades out.
He has more pressing matters in his mind.
He rises from his chair. His stomach turns. He swallows hard. This must be a joke.
After betraying him for a quiet life with the children. In the end, it was Vander’s own laxness that caused this outcome. And the enforcers, the very people he sold out Zaun for, had arrested his children. They couldn't even give Vander the dignity of telling him the news before it hit the rumor mill. Finally. He has concrete evidence on the futility of bowing down for your oppressors.
Everything that's happened was his fault—this was the very future Vander sleepwalked towards!
Vander…
His first and most harsh example: Don't let your fondness for a man—regardless of how handsome, and strong, and how much he made you feel understood—distract you from his actions. If he is prone to violence and shortsighted thinking, treat him with that knowledge in mind.
He understands that now.
“Uh, Mr. Silco. Boss guy? You okay?” Ah, there’s the fly still buzzing in his office.
“You may leave now.”
With the boy's usual stammering and scampering, he slams the door on the way out. If Deckard wasn't so useful, he'd have him killed by now.
~
Hours pass. Thoughts spiral. He shouldn't care. He knows he shouldn't.
Yet, he keeps on returning to it. He pores over the information gathered on the other chem-barons. He checks in on how the live testing for Shine was going. He even leans back to relax with a fine cigar. All his go-tos to calm his mind.
Nothing worked. And it’s too early to submerge himself into the Pilt River. Too many prying eyes. Too many questions he'd have to answer.
…tonight, perhaps.
Until the river grants him some reprieve, Silco remains here with his thoughts. And like exposed nerves, they scream out in agony. After everything they had, after everything they tried to build, after everything his dear old friend nearly killed him for. Vander will learn soon. The news will finish what’s left of him.
What an unsatisfying end.
Nostalgia leads him there. Or perhaps the thought of a once-valued ally so reduced. Or maybe that disgusting sentimental piece of himself he tried so hard to kill. In any case, he goes to the hideout. Where the seeds of an independent Zaun were planted and took root. Buried in a quiet nook underground is a corner of the earth for the two of them. Their hideout—when enforcers were after them, when they were too tired to make the trek home, when they needed somewhere discreet to plan.
The air here is cool and still, thick with the smell of wet stone and old wood. Hidden in the darkness. Only mushrooms to light the way. The first time Vander showed him, he’d thought it magic.
~
“It's nearly pitch black, why did you even bring me here?” Silco’s bones ached. After a twelve-hour shift, covered in dirt, drenched in sweat, the last place he wanted was to be underground.
Vander grinned. “Well, I wanted to give a round of applause to my favorite miner-slash-revolutionary!”
Silco opened his mouth to complain—and maybe kick Vander in the shins for good measure—but Vander clapped. And the world lit up around them.
“Bioluminescent fungi...?” His voice wavered. “You don't see something like this every day.”
“And that's not even the coolest part!” Vander took his hand and led him past a conveniently shaped entrance to a small alcove. It's quiet and tucked away. Just for them.
His heart pounded. His face flushed.
...he wanted to kiss him.
“This is interesting. We'll need a door. Or some kind of barrier behind us. Topside stores are out of the question. Obviously. The traders by the port, though—if we can spot Ionian ships, that's our best bet for decent furniture.” Instead Silco's thoughts latched onto the situation at hand.
He was rambling. A fun project always did this to him. “And if that’s still too expensive, we can get the raw lumber instead. What about Rendel? He does freelance carpentry now. He's still building his reputation. The guy will undercharge us, if anything!”
Silco paced. He mumbled. His exhaustion completely gone. “And we won’t need imported lumber for the walls either! There's loose planks by the shore, if it's not too water-rotted, it’ll do the trick.”
Vander looked at him with that stupidly endearing smile. “You know, Rendel owes me one. We can probably get him to make us something for free.“
~
Now, the hideaway is sparse and dust-covered. Everything is roughly where he remembered. One big cot in the corner, they’d learned the hard way—that shoddy thing wasn’t built for certain activities.
Not that it ever stopped them.
Their jackets. Hung on the wall. One tucked into the other. When he’d first started doing that, he’d insisted that it was practical.
'We don't have much room here, we ought to be creative with the space we have.'
Vander never bought that flimsy excuse. Silco had just wanted to carry his partner’s scent all day. Down inside the dark heart of the earth for long hours. His back aching, and risking life and limb with demolitions.
A man needed something small. A reminder that there was someone to come home to.
He turns away from the jackets. Leaving the dust undisturbed.
The flag of Zaun hangs before him. Frayed edges and washed out colors. For a time, he loved it. Now? He sees it could use work. Blue? Red? Stripes? The symbol itself feels cobbled together.
Probably because it was.
If he could redesign it, he'd make it simpler and more to the point. Green, for their hardships—the poison air they were forced to breathe, the gloomy skies they endured. Gold, for light and triumph. History and hope. And a more flowing symbol. Something organic.
It's not the time for vexillography though. His gaze catches on the one item not covered in dust. A simple envelope left on the table Rendel built. Aged, yes, but newer than everything else here. He opens it with steady hands and—
How incredibly infuriating!
The man Vander was died a long time ago. Betraying him was one thing—Vander always had a short fuse, it was only a matter of time. But this? Watering down his own actions. Pretending what they’d done was equal. If the eye and scar were the injury, this is the insult added. Right now, Vander is barely alive, and now he has two paths left. He can rot away in that hovel, or die by Silco's hands in one last brilliant spark.
Time to pay his friend a visit.
~
He avoids The Lanes these days. There's too many bitter memories. He wasted his youth in Vander’s shadow.
Vander was the face. Vander knew everyone’s name, everyone’s story. Vander used his brute strength to protect people. But it was Silco keeping things moving. Silco who came up with the idea to build their businesses there in the first place. Silco who made the legitimate connections—traders overseas, products, building materials, fair prices. Silco who followed those connections into less legitimate territory. Drugs. Banned cigars and alcohol. And of course, the occasional fur coat from some endangered animal or another.
The basics.
He was the only one willing to get his hands dirty. And they all benefited from it. He accepted that. The price of community, and all that. But, when it counted, every last one of them took Vander’s side.
No matter. He'll own it all soon enough.
Ducking through the alleyways, sun setting on his back. Another wave of nostalgia hits. A strange and unwelcome one.
It's a path he took so often he doesn’t think about it anymore. Broken glass underfoot. The yowl of a stray cat. Distant arguments drifting from half-open windows. He can't count the number of deals he made back here.
Some turns are tighter than he remembers. He dodges an errant pipe. His rooftop shortcuts are blocked to him now, thanks to the impaired vision, and the simple passage of time.
Thinking about the jumps he used to make sets his knees aching.
Two more left turns. Then an undignified squeeze between a dumpster and the back wall of a tattoo parlor, if the hastily placed flyers urging people to ‘get inked around the front’ are anything to go by. Some graffiti is near the flyers. An eyeball. It's a black sclera, with fiery red iris staring forward. The words above: Beware the. And below: Eye of Zaun.
Silco smirks. “Cute.”
That's right, things are different now. No longer the overlooked sidekick, he’s making his own name. His old friend is about to meet the new him.
Behind The Last Drop is as pleasant as it always was, with the smell of dead vermin and spoiled food thick in the air. Not to mention the swarms of flies, which are buzzing too close to his ears. No matter how much he swats at them.
Instead of standing with the pests, he could walk in through the front like any customer would. It would be an entrance. All eyes on him. Standing tall in his imposing jacket. His strong voice putting Vander in his place. Letting those oh-so-loyal customers know the fearsome Hound was nothing but a coward. Can’t fight for The Lanes, can’t even fight for his own children. Too busy licking enforcer boots. And Vander, for all his magnetism, would finally lose a room.
It would be delicious.
...so why doesn’t he?
Instead he waits by the back door. Feet glued to the ground. From anticipation—or perhaps the juice from the overfilled trash cans.
Some situations need to be resolved between the two men who started them. That's a decent enough reason.
He won't have to wait long. Vander’s dream was to run a pub, with all the complications food brings. Some nights Silco ended up disposing of trash more than anything. Vander will be out. It's only a matter of when.
When, in this case, is about twenty minutes. Out comes a familiar figure, holding two foul-smelling bags. Vander looks worse for wear since they’ve last spoken. He supposes that makes two of them.
“Whoa!” Vander catches sight of him. He drops the bags, and nearly spills them. Makes no move to clean up.
“What's the matter, old friend? You look as though you've seen a ghost."
“I—you—why—”
Stammering is all Vander can manage. Too much between them. Too much to say. And the need to get it all out at once.
Silco lets him craft the first statement.
“What are you doing here?” Not gruff. Not aggressive. Vander sounds hushed and hurried.
Is he scared?
...good.
Hand in his pocket, Silco grips his knife, and looks into Vander’s overcast gray eyes. Time to ruin his day. “Nighttime is swiftly approaching.”
Vander’s furrowed brows quirk. “Um. Well, yes. But I’m gonna take a shot in the dark and say you didn’t come all the way here just for small talk.”
“You’re right. But first, a query. Those enforcers you love so much, the ones who buzz around here when they want you to sell out your own people. Have they visited you today?”
“How would you know who buzzes around The Last Drop?” Vander raises an eyebrow.
“The Eye of Zaun sees all.”
“..okay? Sure. No enforcers visited today.” Vander’s eyes narrow. Arms fold. Shoulders square. Looking exactly the wall of muscle he was in his youth.
“My condolences, then. The blue bellies are abuzz with the news. It seems they can gossip among themselves before telling you—”
“Out with it!”
“Violet, your eldest, is dead.”
Vander’s face changes. Slow blinking. A trembling lip. Then his jaw clenches. “Did you do this?!”
Vander charges.
Silco sidesteps. Taking two quick steps, staying light. Vander’s a brawler—he's all about telegraphed swings, and heavy footing. Silco slashes at his arms. Once. Twice. The cuts surprise Vander. He stumbles, he's off balance.
But his eyes say it isn’t over.
“Blaming me for another death? If you kill me this time, will you tell yourself that the ‘dirt was on both of our hands’ again?” May as well leave nothing unsaid. “You’re right. I do know where to find you. In the same place. Content to rot!”
Vander's shoulders jump, he blinks quickly. Silco steps in. It's a simple plan—stab the chest, twist, and pull. Then he’d be free. They’d both be free.
Vander’s hand shoots out faster than Silco expects. He grabs Silco’s wrist and squeezes.
The knife clatters to the ground, the glare hitting their faces for a moment.
“You found my letter..." Vander gets to his feet. “Look, I don’t want to do this. I am sorry. I’ve regretted what happened every day of my life.”
“And yet.” Caught in Vander’s grasp, Silco grins. His eyes and smile wide. ”When the opportunity presented itself, you only proved how little you’ve changed.”
He knew Vander had it in him deep down.
“And can you blame me?!” Vander’s voice shakes. “I haven't seen you in five years. Then on a random day you slink out the shadows, and the first thing you tell me is that Vi—” He loosens his grip. Silco retrieves the knife.
The silence is heavy and taut.
They stare at each other. Neither breaks eye contact.
He waits for the tears, for the yelling. There is only silence.
“...and what about my other kids? Where are they?”
"Arrested for breaking and entering.” He pauses. “If they're really unlucky, it's possible they'll be charged with Violet's death.”
“Why would they—”
“Because that's what they always do! You used to understand that!”
He has no room for enforcer apologism. Especially from Vander.
“Okay.” Vander takes a few deep breaths, and looks down at Silco. Eyes narrowing. “And why should I believe you?”
“You don't have to. I've given you the information. Do what you wish with it.” Silco finds his knife, and grips it hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
“Well then, I wish to verify this information.” Vander strides towards the backdoor. Shouts, “gonna need you to keep a handle on things a bit longer, Benzo!”
The trash bags sit where they fell. He ignores them, and slams the door. “And just to make sure you're not trying to pull anything, you're coming with me.” He holds out his hand—
Silco’s knife opens another cut across his hand.
“No, no, no.” Silco's voice is satin. “That's a bad dog. No touching.” He looks Vander over. He’s a mess. Bleeding from a dozen cuts, and breathing heavily.
It’s enough to bring a smile on his face.
“First, clean yourself up. You look awful.” He pulls a handkerchief from his vest—wine red, with fine patterns. He rolls it up in a ball and tosses it. Vander catches it, and presses it to the slashes on his arms. The silk blooms darker. “And where exactly are you planning to take me to verify this information?”
“We're going to the best place for info, of course." Vander smiles. "Babette's.”
~
Vander marches forward, only taking the occasional glance behind him towards the ghost. That's what Silco is, after all. He slinks in Vander’s shadow, pale as a specter. The occasional passerby pointedly avoids his gaze. His reputation is growing.
They reach Babette's.
During the daytime it’s an unassuming, albeit brightly colored, three-story building. Night is when it stands out. Now the large windows are filled with warm, inviting lights. Their doors are open, letting their smooth jazz songs flow into the streets.
Two workers flank the entrance, calling out to passersby.
"Why hello there, handsome." She makes eye contact with Vander. “Are you here for some fun?” The woman is curly-haired, her curvy figure covered in fine silks, her gold eye-shadow making her green eyes catch the light. And she hands him a packet of…something. “You could use this with me, if you’d like.”
Vander pockets it with a slight smile. "I'm actually not here for that." He gestures toward Silco. "We're here to speak with the madam of this house."
"Oh?" The voice comes from her coworker. Pale. Lean. Sharp eyes. Fine features. Long legs. Pretty. ...unmarked. The kind of man who knows exactly what he looks like. “You don't have to talk to madam Babette. If you’re looking for a room, we can arrange it. In fact—” he winks “—I could join. I play well with others.”
Vander opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
That old dog, becoming undone for a man half his age. Disgusting.
Silco has seen enough. "We're not interested. We're here on business. We have questions." He angles his bad eye at this man who is too close to Vander. Far too close.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. "Well, why didn't you say so, sweethearts? Come, come." He takes Vander's arm—hand lingering on the bicep—and leads him inside. "Oh, those cuts look fresh. Poor baby. Too bad you're only here for business. I could patch you up real good."
Silco follows. Frowning.
~
The smell hits first. Perfume. Layers of it. Gentle florals, rose, jasmine, yiang-yiang, and tuberose. Then the decor—dark hardwood and flowers on every surface. Growing anything in Zaun is hard enough. This many bouquets, fresh from Topside, tells the clientele one thing: We can afford to waste money.
The entrance hall is draped in curtains. Teal. Amber. Scarlet. Thick fabric, with intricate patterns. Another import from Piltover. They block the inner rooms from view.
If Vander's looking for information on Topside, there are worse places to go.
They weave past girls with painted mouths rushing to and fro. Past a nervous customer pacing.
Toward the woman herself.
Behind a tall desk at the foot of an ornate staircase sits Babette, speaking to a large chirean man. "He's not supposed to sniff around here, I've warned him. My darlings have been complaining for weeks. Spend some time near the door, and make sure he doesn't get any smart ideas." She pats his arm twice, and sends him off. Her eyes then find Vander, crinkling softly. "Well now. I didn't expect to see you here tonight. But—" she glances at Ciel "—I had a feeling Ciel would be to your tastes. Good choice. Let me check for open rooms." She reaches for the large book on her desk.
"Actually," Ciel steps forward. "Our handsome friends are here to ask you some questions."
"Friends?" Babette peers past Vander. Her face hardens when she and Silco make eye contact.
Silco gives her a smile. A friendly enough one.
"Oh. I see... What are you here for?"
"I need to know if there were any enforcers in here today."
"Ah. Sensitive information." She hops off her chair. "Be a dear and keep an eye on things up front, Ciel. If anyone asks for Poppy, tell them he's visiting his aunt."
Ciel nods, and stands behind the desk.
Babette walks through the halls, hobbling and hopping. "If it's enforcer chatter you're after, I have one darling in mind. You know that asshole with the mustache?” Marcus. “He was here earlier. He has a favorite. Always comes for her." She smirks. "Although—I'm not sure if she ever comes for him!"
Both men stare at her.
"Okay…not in the mood, I see. Follow me."
Past the main hall, to the side of the staircase there's more of the same. Fresh flowers on the walls. Lanterns hanging from the ceilings. Curtains scattered about. The runner carpet beneath their feet is new though—a deep royal purple.
Babette stops, and turns left into the first open room. A large archway—no door—draped in even more colorful curtains. Two steps inside and they're in an intimate space. There's a sky blue chaise lounge near the entrance, carrying two figures in deep conversation, and round tables near the back. Men sit, enthralled by the women on the platform stage. Two of them up there are playing a light, jaunty folk tune on mandores. And the one between them dances, her long ponytail flowing with every spin. Her outfit leaving nothing to the imagination.
A woman with long vivid red hair, a smattering of freckles and a smile Silco could describe as...sweet, fills the glasses by the tables. "Not many people go for the top shelf stuff. You boys clearly have great tastes!"
The table erupts in laughter, and uproarious chatter. An empty compliment, well delivered.
"Oh, Honey! Can I borrow you for a moment?"
"Of course, ma'am!" Honey turns to the table with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, sweeties. I'll be back in a jiffy."
Babette heads back toward the staircase in the main hall. She doesn't wait. Doesn't look back.
Passing Ciel, she glances at the woman he's speaking to—a fox-like vastayan woman with red hair. She wears a large brown leather jacket that clearly has seen better days.
“Ah, what are you here for?” Ciel’s voice softens. “We have lobby rooms where you can meet and talk to our darlings casually. If you hit it off with anyone, they can come back here and take you upstairs. Or we can cut to the chase. You can tell me your type, and I can recommend a cutie for you.”
“I do prefer cutting to the chase! You got any big buff women I can play with?”
Ciel’s eyebrows shoot up, then he laughs—bright and genuine. “Let me see what I can do!”
“Don't dawdle now!” Babette says from halfway up the stairs.
The second floor is sparser. The bouquets and hanging curtains? Gone. Only the royal purple runner continues down the hall. There's fleur-de-lis wallpaper, and the floors are well maintained. But it isn't rosewood anymore. Poplar, maybe. Something cheaper.
Then there's the third floor. It's barren. Peeling wallpaper. Flickering ceiling lights. Creaking floors. Doors poorly maintained, some visibly cracked. No decorations at all. This seems like the kind of place Silco dwelled in, once. In his youth.
As they pass, the yordle gives a short nod to a buff blond man standing nearby. Must be security.
Interesting.
Babette aims for Piltover clientele. Or Zaunites with Topside tastes, at least. However, it's a thin façade. Once a real parlor opens uptown, this place folds. In true extravagance versus false, she won't be able to keep up. Babette will fall into a death spiral when she tries. The locals can't float the business without the Pilities, and the Pilties won't stay once the veneer cracks. Then the regulars drift to greener pastures.
That's where Margot comes in.
Their partnership is still tentative. She's interested in Shimmer—as a party drug for her brothels—but she has one foot out the door. Shimmer is one drug among many. But this? Gathering intelligence. Learning weaknesses? This, she can only get from the Eye of Zaun himself. He'll tell her about Babette's precarious situation. About the visible cracks. Margot will swoop in, and that solidifies her hold on Babette. Which solidifies his hold on Margot. He could be walking through his future business right now. The first scrap of The Lanes. Returned to its rightful owner.
"The first floor is so lavish. It's surprising to see that image crumble so quickly." Silco pauses. "Money must be tight."
Babette freezes in her tracks. "Now, now. You didn't come all this way to discuss my books..."
Bullseye.
Margot will arrive, give her a few good hits, and sweep up the pieces. He should call her tonight.
They enter a small office. It's windowless, lit by a tall green-shaded lamp in the corner. The room is cluttered with large folders of papers. Various dusty tomes. And little knick-knacks—mainly small glass figurines. She has quite the extensive 'precious poros' collection.
“Sorry about the mess. When you live as long as I do, you tend to pick things up.” Babette drags out two mismatched threadbare chairs. One with light wood and an orange cushion, the other dark wood with a purple cushion. “Oh that's lucky! Normally my meetings here are one-on-one, I didn't think I had an extra seat.” She glances towards the two. “Would you boys like to take a load off?”
Vander accepts.
Silco does not. “Your employee over there has been on her feet for hours, no? It should go to her instead.“
Honey softly gasps and smiles.
Vander sits beside him. Honey settles next to Babette.
“Sorry for dragging you all the way up here." Babette says, "too many eyes and ears down there to gossip about enforcers. So, Honey—” she glances towards her “—that enforcer who came a few hours back. The one with the disgusting mustache? Did he say anything...interesting?”
“Oh, so that's what this is about!” Honey sits forward. “Interesting? Yeah, I'd say so. He was fretting about what to do, said that some Undercity kids got in trouble today. That his boss made things more complicated than it had to be.” Honey puts a deeper effect on her voice. “No, we can't just put them all in Stillwater. For now, keep them in the holding cells, we'll take them in for questioning. Things are busy, so I'll need you to break the news to their father. Especially about the girl.” If that's meant to be Marcus, she's doing a poor job.
Vander is a rubber band pulled taut. “I don't understand. Especially about the girl? What exactly was he talking about?”
“Well, I was quoting him, and he was quoting his boss. But he says that there's been a robbery in Topside. An explosion happened, and a girl died. He said it was unfair how he was expected to break the news when he wasn't the one who...” Honey makes air quotes “has an understanding with their father.”
Silco's eyes never leave Vander. His old friend has been unpredictable today. He attacks when he’s supposed to break down. He apologizes when he’s supposed to kill. He should snap, this should make him snap.
Instead Vander curls into himself, breathing heavily. Head in hands. “The girl who died. Do you have a quick description? Maybe a hair color?” Vander’s leg bounces. The grip on his head could kill.
Honey’s demeanor softens. “...pink hair.” She draws back, hands on her mouth. “Oh! Oh no. I'm so sorry.” She reaches halfway across the table. Not quite reaching him. “I wasn't thinking. When he went on about his day I wasn't really…I'm so sorry. Vi was a treasure. I can't even imagine what you're going through.”
He grabs her hand and holds it tight. “I'm going to kill him. I'm gonna kill Marcus.”
Silco gives Vander’s shoulder a good squeeze. This is promising.
Honey takes her other hand, and places it gently upon Vander’s. “I understand your anger, but I'd prefer you not kill my best John. He's not a bad guy, ya know. He's a gentleman. Loves whining a lot, but he's always been sweet to me. Always talked about running away and starting a family. It's..." she shrugs. "…cute, ya know.”
Vander's body stays tense. He doesn't move.
“Well then.” Silco says. “You have verified the information, now what will you do?”
He looks up, making eye contact. Finally—finally, with a spark of the fire he once had.
“I'm gonna get my kids back.”