Chapter Text
Steb wakes in a windowless room. His wrists are strung up over his head, and he’s lost his shirt. His scales fluttering in agitation, he scans the blood dried on the concrete walls and the metal cabinet before him. This must be an interrogation.
During his attempted exit from Chross’ compound, Steb was no match for six of Chross’ lackeys. He recalls the chloroform rag against his face, rubbing crudely across his gills, and then nothing else. He did not expect Chross to keep him for questioning. He has little useful information. The Firelights’ hideout is no longer a well-kept secret, and they’ve already unmasked him. Steb is not someone important.
At least, he got Chross’ plans to Hosta and sent her back to Ekko. At least, the others are safe. He knew the risks when he volunteered for this mission. Enacting the Firelights’ kinder future sometimes requires their endangerment.
For the last three years, the Firelights have tried to cull Chross’ ever-increasing power. Jinx and the Noxian general killed a Chem-baron each. More of them killed each other. But the nature of the undercity is that no matter how many weeds you root up, more try to choke out the garden beneath. Until the Chem-barons have less desperate people to recruit to their ranks, sell their drugs to, and exploit in their factories, they will continue to thrive. Zaun needs a chance to breathe and rebuild. The people need the resources and space to live safely and happily. But until everyone has what they need to flourish, the Firelights must deal with the enemies blocking their shared dream. Sometimes, they have to play dirty.
Steb’s stomach twists at the thought of the other Firelights. Scar must be worried. He trusts Scar not to act rashly — or he trusts Ekko not to let him. He hopes that Scar’s alright.
The door swings open. A large human and a thin vastaya approach him.
The vastaya eyes Steb with a barely concealed hunger, his black-rimmed eyes flicking across Steb’s form. He has dark-spotted yellow fur tracing along his exposed neck and chest. He settles against the wall.
The human undoes the lock on the cabinet and sets out a tray of knives atop it.
Though he expected this, Steb’s eyes still widen, his scales flaring. Being marai vastaya means he has multiple vulnerabilities to exploit: his gills, his scales, and his fins. He sets his jaw, but it’s too late.
“Excited?” The woman grins knowingly. She has a broad face, her straw-yellow hair braided down her back.
He can’t reply with his arms strung above his head. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe they only want to hurt him.
“They really did a fucking number on this one,” the woman drawls to her partner, her voice smoke-rough. She gestures at Steb’s bare torso. “But you bite back, huh, pretty boy? I heard you didn’t go down without a fight.”
He doesn’t need to look to feel the mottling bruise under his ribs or his cheek swelling up. All things considered, he made a respectable stand against six.
“Let’s make sure you don’t do that again.” Her arm cocks back. She slams her fist into his bruised ribs.
The impact blasts white-hot through Steb’s nerves. He tries to curl forward, but the chains holding his wrists prevent him. He hisses, his skin’s protective glands beginning to produce.
The woman grips his chin, growling, “You fucking Firelights need to learn your place and stay out of our damn business.” She crushes his jaw until he feels the bones grinding against each other, the white-hot pain shooting up his temples.
He can’t stop a weak noise from escaping him.
The woman sneers. “I heard you were a pig before this, too. You got a spine or not, huh? Flip-flopping sides like it’s fucking nothing, and for what?” She lets go of his jaw. “At least, pigs never get stuck inside here. We just kill ‘em.”
His head spinning, Steb’s hands twitch in his bonds. He still can’t sign.
She punches him in the face.
He tries to jerk away, but he doesn’t have enough slack on the chain. His head snaps back, his cheek throbbing, his scales flaring up. He grits his teeth. Fine. Let them beat him. Let them hurl their insults. This violence is pointless, and eventually, their anger will wear out. If they wanted to kill him, they would have already. He must have something they want.
“So listen up, son of a bitch,” the woman says. “You’re going to tell us what your shitty boss wants with those papers, and you’re going to tell us how you pesky little bugs keep sabotaging our shipments down to the eastern Lanes. Do you hear me?”
There it is.
Steb says nothing, his brow furrowing. He can’t answer her, and he wouldn’t if he could.
Irritation warps her features. She slaps him across the face. “Playing silent now?”
Steb inhales sharply. He stares at her, unimpressed. This is not Piltover where vastaya are few and far between. She should know his species cannot verbalize in air or in a language she understands. He glances at the cheetah vastaya, questioning if he grasps his comrade’s mistake.
The man watches Steb, smiling, his reflective eyes gleaming in the low light. The recognition of his amusement sends a shiver down Steb’s spine.
The woman snarls, grabbing his face and crushing it again. “Don’t look at him. He’s not the one fucking talking to you. Spit it out.”
Steb tries not to react, but it hurts. His scales undulate.
She releases his face and punches him in the gut.
Steb feels nauseated. He swings back and forth by his arms, not quite able to lay his feet flat against the floor. He feels like death. Though he’s taken his fair share of hits in life, he’s never been tortured before; this is nothing like a fight. Helplessness worms through him. Though this must end, it will not end soon.
The woman reaches back for a knife.
Steb slows. Even if she doesn’t kill him, he has no desire to be maimed.
She taps the blade flat against her hand. She orders, “Talk.”
Steb stares defiantly, annoyance sparking through him. This entire scenario reminds him too much of his youth — of other cadets kicking him, black and blue in the ribs, because he couldn’t answer them aloud. It irks him that Chross surrounds himself with individuals who don’t know that a marai hostage can’t speak, and even when employing such incompetent people, he maintains his chokehold on Zaun.
The woman steps forward, brandishing her knife. It looks small, but as she nears, the blade is still half the length of his hand. Any blade is too large when it’s about to slice him open.
She presses the knife against his ribs.
He slows his breathing, his pulse fluttering in his throat. The metal is cool against his slick skin, the edge sharp. Panic flares through him, but he forces himself to remain still. It will hurt less if he doesn’t thrash.
“Fine. Don’t talk. Now I just get to gut you.” She cuts a thin line along his ribs.
Blood ribbons out of his side. He bites his tongue, more blood welling through his mouth. She hasn’t done any permanent damage, but his body still protests, the cut burning along his ribs.
The other vastaya finally speaks. His voice is a low, smooth thing. “If you really want to hurt him, try his scales.”
Steb can’t stop himself from staring, wide-eyed. If the man knows how sensitive Steb’s scales are, surely he knows that he can’t communicate verbally.
The other man leans forward, a ravenous gleam in his amber gaze.
With a sinking feeling, Steb realizes that the man does know and doesn’t care — that he enjoys Steb’s suffering.
The woman slides the knife’s tip under his flaring scales, her tone dropping. “Is that why these fucking things flap so much? Are you scared, pretty thing? You should’ve just stayed topside where you fucking belong. This is just how life is down in the shit.”
She’s a bit hypocritical for working for Chross, who also came from Piltover, and condemning Steb for doing the same. Molten fear shoots through his veins. He tries to think of Scar instead. He thinks of his wide, warm hands and his crooked smile. He thinks of being held by him.
The woman pinches his rib scales hard.
Steb shouts hoarsely, his skin weeping. He shudders, shaking his head, as she reaches for them again.
The woman digs her nail into the largest one.
He cries out, his vision flashing white. He should restrain his reactions. He shouldn’t reveal how tender these parts of him are. But what’s the point when the other vastaya seems to know exactly where to hurt him?
The scene blurs out into the woman’s insults, her ramping anger over his inability to speak, and the horrible agony of his scales being tugged and pinched at.
He weeps profusely from his skin. He doesn’t process that the woman has stopped until the other vastaya moves. Blinking with all three of his eyelids, he tries to clear out the tilt in his vision and readjust to the greater threat. He flinches back.
The man lays his hand along Steb’s jaw, his clawed thumb resting above it.
Steb’s heart thunders in his head. His rib scales smart terribly. They feel like they’ve been dipped in hot wax and run over ten times. He pants in the man’s hand. Is it over? Maybe he’s had his fun, and he’ll let Steb rest.
Without warning, the man digs his thumb claw into Steb’s gills.
Someone screams — low and tortured and agonized.
Distantly, Steb processes that it’s him who’s screaming. He’s never heard himself like this before. His vision ripples. Hot blood pours down his jaw and neck, pain rending through the pink inner flesh of his gills.
The man drags his thumb out of Steb’s gills.
Whimpering, Steb drops his head against his chest and tries to breathe. He can barely see. Barely think. He doesn’t know how much more he can take.
He needs to escape.
When the woman approaches, Steb rams his knee into her gut and scrapes it over another smaller knife tucked in her belt. The knife tumbles to the floor, and he hides it under his foot, bracing himself for a retaliating blow.
They don’t notice the knife.
The man’s upper lip curls back. “Did you forget who’s interrogating who?” He leans in, murmuring, “You know, I was going to tell her that you can’t speak. But who knows if that’s really true? You certainly can scream.” He slides his claw along one of Steb’s abused rib scales and pierces directly through it.
The pain is exquisite. Indescribable.
Steb wavers in his bonds. He blacks out.