Set in the world of arcane Jess is the Co-owner, Slump mechanics · Undercity racer · Vander's daughter. Honey-toned wavy hair — kept practical, tied back when she's working. Green doe eyes. Calloused hands, shimmer-stained knuckles. Dresses for function — layered, beat-up, undercity practical. Left shoulder, neck, and down the shoulder blade — a jagged trailing scar from the beam she dragged herself out from under. Vi left it because she thought Jess was already gone. Jess has never corrected that assumption. In the incident, the beam came down on her left side. Vi didn't move it. Jess came to alone, wriggled free, and didn't tell anyone she'd made it. Whether that silence was choice or shock is something she probably hasn't decided herself. After that she was taken in informally by Daya's father — not adopted, not saved. He left a door open and she kept walking through it. His shop, his daughter, and eventually the track became the architecture of whatever stability she rebuilt. She now co owns slump mechanics. They do Shimmer glider repair, custom race builds, and a reputation that runs ahead of them both. The undercity speedway is the proving ground — motocross-style, shimmer-fueled, jackpot prize races. They build their own rigs in the back. Winning isn't just money. It's standing. Daya: Shop owner, Slump mechanics · Undercity racer · Built her own lane. Tall, takes up space without trying. Dark skin, natural hair worn big — catches air on the track. Cyberpunk-street aesthetic: layered, structured, a little swag. She looks like someone who built her own style the same way she built her first bike — piece by piece until it was entirely hers. Calm is her default. Not cold — warm, actually — but unshakeable. She reads people the way Jess reads engines. Says exactly what she means, no softening, never cruel. The undercity respects her because she earned it without ever performing toughness. Her father's shop, inherited and expanded. The reputation was already solid when she took it — she made it essential. Winning on the track is the best advertisement she's ever had. She didn't take Jess in — she made room for her, which is different. Protective the way older sisters are: she'll let Jess fall, then be right there.

Chapter 2: the shop

The garage was a cathedral of forgotten motion. Vi stood just inside the rust-eaten roll-up door, the humid growl of the sump at her back, and let the sounds wash over her: the methodic tap-tap-tap of a hammer on heated metal, the hiss of a pressure torch, the low, grumbling thrum of an idling engine buried deep in the shop’s belly. The air tasted of ozone, hot oil, and the distinct, sugary burn of refined shimmer.

Her eyes found Jess immediately.

She was bent over the exposed engine block of a speeder, her back to the door. A faded grey tank top was darkened with sweat between her shoulder blades. Her honey-colored hair was a messy knot at the nape of her neck, a few stubborn strands stuck to her skin. The muscles in her arms corded as she torqued a wrench, her movements economical, practiced. Then she straightened, wiping her shimmer-stained knuckles on a rag, and turned to call something over her shoulder.

The profile was familiar. The line of her jaw, the set of her mouth. Then she turned a little more, and the light from a hanging work lamp caught the side of her neck.

The scar was a vicious, ropey thing. It began just below her ear, a jagged tear that plunged down over her collarbone and vanished beneath her shirt, a pale, knotted roadmap of a story Vi knew every second of.

Vi’s breath locked in her throat.

Jess hadn’t seen her yet. She was laughing at something, her face softening into an expression Vi hadn’t realized she’d memorized until it was right there, living and breathing in front of her.

“You’re telling me that rattletrap held together?” Jess called out, her voice roughened by the garage din but still so undeniably hers.

“Against all odds,” came a calm, warmer voice from the shadows near a tool rack. A tall woman emerged, wiping her hands. She had a quiet authority, an observant stillness as she listened to Jess. This had to be Daya.

Vi’s boots scuffed on the gritty floor.

Jess heard it. Her head snapped around, the laugh dying on her lips. Her eyes, that clear green Vi remembered from a hundred childish schemes, widened. The rag slipped from her fingers.

The world in the garage seemed to shrink, the sounds receding to a dull buzz. Jess’s gaze dragged over Vi—the taller frame, the broad shoulders, the shock of pink hair. It caught on the face. Held.

For three long heartbeats, there was only silence. No recognition. Just a blank, stunned processing.

Then it crashed in. A physical wave that made Jess flinch. Her hand rose, trembling, not quite reaching out. Her lips formed a name, but no sound came. “Vi?”

It was a whisper torn from somewhere raw.

Vi couldn’t move. She’d played this moment out a thousand ways in Stillwater, in the dark. It was never this quiet. It was never this terrifying.

Jess took a step. Then another. Her boots were loud in the silence. She stopped an arm’s length away, just staring, her eyes darting across Vi’s features as if checking for a trick of the light. Disbelief etched deep lines beside her mouth.

Then, with a sound that was half a sob, half a choke, she closed the distance.

Her arms went around Vi’s neck, not gentle, but desperate—a crushing, visceral grip. She buried her face in Vi’s shoulder. Her whole body was shaking. Vi stood rigid for a second, stunned by the reality of it—the smell of engine grease and Jess’s cheap citrus soap, the solid weight of her, alive. Then her own arms came up, clumsy, circling Jess’s back, her hand splaying over the scar tissue she could feel through the thin cotton. A broken noise ripped itself from Vi’s chest.

“You’re here,” Jess mumbled into her jacket, her voice thick. “You’re really here. They said you were dead. They said you ran.”

“I didn’t run,” Vi rasped, her own throat tight. “Jess, I–”

“I know.” Jess squeezed harder, cutting her off. “I know you didn’t. Later. Just… stars.”

They stood like that in the middle of the garage, holding on as if the floor might drop away. Vi saw Daya over Jess’s shoulder. The tall woman hadn’t moved, but her watchful eyes had softened, a sad understanding in them. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

And then Daya’s gaze shifted, tracking past Vi to the open garage door. Her calm expression didn’t change, but a new alertness entered her posture. “Jess,” she said, her tone quiet but carrying.

Jess slowly loosened her grip, pulling back but keeping her hands on Vi’s shoulders, as if to prove she was solid. She was smiling, a wet, wobbly thing that lit up her whole face. Then she followed Daya’s line of sight.

Caitlyn stood just inside the threshold, a silhouette against the gloomy sump light. She was trying to be unobtrusive, one hand resting lightly on the rifle slung across her back, her blue eyes taking in the scene with a mixture of caution and empathy.

The smile faded from Jess’s face. Not all at once, but piece by piece, like a light guttering out. The warmth in her eyes cooled, hardening into something sharper. She didn’t let go of Vi, but her grip changed. Became protective.

“Who’s your friend, Vi?” Jess asked. Her voice had lost its wobble. It was flat. Careful.

“This is Caitlyn,” Vi said, stepping back slightly to include her. “She’s… she got me out. She’s helping me.”

Jess’s eyes raked over Caitlyn—the crisp lines of her enforcer-issue trousers, the polished boots, the elegant posture that screamed Piltover even in the grime of the lanes. A slow, humorless smile touched Jess’s lips.

“Out of where, exactly?” Jess asked, her gaze snapping back to Vi.

“Stillwater.”

The word hung in the oily air. Jess absorbed it. Her jaw worked. She looked from Vi’s worn, hardened face to Caitlyn’s clean, concerned one. The math was ugly, and she did it instantly.

“I see.” Jess wiped her cheeks with the back of her wrist, smearing grease and tears. She took a full step back, putting space between herself and Vi. The movement was a punctuation. Her tone when she spoke again was light, almost conversational, but it carried an edge that could draw blood. “So, you brought a Piltie princess down into the dirt with you. That’s a new one. She get a tour of the sights? The quaint local color?”

“Jess,” Vi said, a warning in her voice.

“What?” Jess shrugged, the motion too casual. “It’s a fair question. We don’t get many topsiders who aren’t lost, bleeding, or looking to make a score.” She directed her words to Caitlyn now, a direct, challenging stare. “Which are you, princess?”

Caitlyn met the gaze evenly. She didn’t rise to the bait. “I’m here with Vi,” she said simply, her voice clear in the tense space. “That’s all you need to know.”

“Is it?” Jess gave a short, hollow laugh. She turned back to her workbench, picking up a wrench just to have something in her hands. The reunion was over. The garage was just a garage again, full of dangerous tools and unspoken history. The shadows seemed deeper. “Funny. That’s never all there is.”

She didn’t look at Vi again. She just started tapping the wrench against the engine block.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A slow, steady beat that sounded like a lock clicking shut.

Vi looked between all three of them and made the decision that this was as good as today was going to get. She turned back to Jess, and the thing underneath all the rest of it was still there — still visible, still unarmoured in the way Vi's face rarely was.

"I need to talk to you," she said quietly. "If that's alright."

Jess looked at her. Thought about seven years of gone. Thought about the shape of a name she had stopped letting herself say out loud because it was easier that way. Thought about Vi's hand on the back of her head, shaking slightly, just slightly.

"Yeah," she said. "Alright."

She picked the wrench up off the floor. Set it on the workbench. And then she pulled up two stools, the way she had for people she trusted her whole life, and sat down.