Richard wasn’t sure whether he should kill the old man. But SI was. Knife in his back, the aged Noxian said goodbye with his hands, reaching softly for his killer’s face.

His first day in Bilgewater had been odd. Spawning within the body of a young Ionian teen in the market slums, its previous resident was clearly useless. Weak and hesitant. His street family took him aside and gave him an ultimatum; kill an elder or take the stipend and never return. That’s it.

Out in the streets, SI had to acquire things like what an ‘elder’ was, where one might be and when might be a good time to assassinate them. Then he had just enough time to pick up a dagger and descend on the flat roof of the teahouse. Up until he stuck in the blade he had been playing mechanically, moving forward step by step. Up until the old man went limp he hadn’t really thought about what he was doing here and why.

But as the gout of blood stopped, SI faded away. The façade. His streaming and Youtube personality. The pressure of performing for an audience, making engaging content and the niggling comments telling him “You’ve fallen off” disappeared and all that was left was Richard, spilt tea and a dead elder.

Why the hell did I do that?

He sat on the floor, elder wrapped in his arms, and let his heart beat, his breath rise and wheeze through his half-blocked nose. He watched the green tea soak into the wood, drip down towards the open wall overlooking a waterfall that rushed on and on, mindlessly. His eyes and ears and nose were drenched in a sickening peace. It was a such a tender scene, the teahouse vacant just for this codger -Richard realized he wanted his murder to be discovered. To be caught and shamed for what he had done. It would have been so easy to walk away, but how could he?

Pushing the old man forward, Richard let him ‘rest’ in a bent lotus position as he got up. He could feel the thoughts creeping back into his head, SI returning -the knife was around here somewhere. Richard slipped on the blood or tea or salt spray, whatever it was and cursed. Looked for someone to blame. Holding on uncomfortably to a square support beam, he looked at the mess. He was so frustrated. Why was it still there, why hasn’t someone cleaned it up, why –why haven’t I moved on to the next level?

That was it, wasn’t it? He had been treating this experience as any other game. By a measure of points and objectives and evermoving pixels. But the corpse here stayed instead of de-spawning. The mess, somebody would come and clean it eventually, to prepare for a new day of service. Richard decided he already had enough guilt.

In the fading light he found cleaning equipment behind one of the backdoors and set to work: Brushing away crumbs, dust and fragments of china; dabbing and buffing out fine stains with vinegar; lightly mopping the porous wood. Once finished, Richard found himself thirsty, and so poured out two cups of long-cold tea. He sipped, again listening to the waterfall slosh down the cliffs in the dark, trying to convince himself the corpse opposite the low table was just asleep.

Why him, why an elder? The body he inhabited, as well as the gang he was a part of were made up of Ionians. As much as Richard knew about the lore of this world, they were a nature-loving, peaceful people not native to the pirate nation of Bilgewater. So, who were these people that he met? Traders, criminals? Refugees, or descendants of refugees? The old man’s robes were wrapped in the criss-cross Ionian style, but were a deep red. Noxian, then? Somewhere in the back of his head he did recall an invasion. But when and how this all happened, especially relative to this context, all this slight knowledge did was make him feel like an outsider. A foreign species upsetting an otherwise stable equilibrium. Putting down the cup of tea he bowed to the dead, then got up, sniffling, understanding a little of why he had felt compelled to leave this place clean.

“Damn! I missed a spot,” Richard muttered, kneeling under the table. Scuffing the stubborn thing hard, he noticed a jewellery box on its side. Velvet black and intricately stitched with bright pink vines. He could see the old man’s withered empty hands on the other side, and put the sequence together. He took it and left. Perhaps it was valuable, perhaps he could use it as proof. Perhaps the gang would leave him alone after this.

*

The slum district felt almost exactly the same at night. The atmosphere of it, that was. In truth, Richard had no idea where he was going, tensing his shoulders as every group of nightlife passed him by.

He was completely lost. But that was exactly how he had started, so it wasn’t wholly unfamiliar. The random stacks of buildings on either side flickered with flame and laughter. With the darkness to hide it, you could barely tell that this even was a slum. This was useful, though, as the ebbing light rarely lingered on Richard enough to expose his bloody robes, or more importantly, his velvet box. He had circled the district several times already, but none of it seemed familiar. Then again, he was looking for a gang hideout. Why would that be easy?

As the night went on Richard drew more and more stares. The fires and laughter snuffed out and shutters drawn; it’s like they knew who he was. With every passing in the dark, Richard reached out and donned his façade. SI was more useful here, and they had to survive the night -what would my fans think?

Someone else passed. Black on black but SI swore he saw them turn. With suspicion. Aggression. SI felt at his chest; the fuzzy box still safe under his robe. He slipped down and gripped his dagger.

His hand was yanked back. Grabbed and twisted by the wrists, the dagger fell to his assailant, who hissed, “Don’t tell me you’re this stupid. You should be on a ship right now, halfway to another continent. What are you doing back here?”

He dragged SI to the side, where reflected moonbeams lit them. Robes folded in the Ionian style. A low hood. Swirling blots of red tattooed under their lip like royal seals. His gangs signature.

I found them. I knew I would.

The ganger wrangled with SI’s arms. “We told you, Crumble,” they said, almost pleading, “We gave you more than enough for safe passage! There’s no place for you here!”

SI broke from the hold and withdrew his stolen box. “I did what you said. I killed the elder.”

While the ganger processed his shock, SI kept himself loose, ready to pull back the box before it was snatched.

“That was a figure of speech. We weren’t actually asking –” They missed their first swipe, and their second.

SI put distance between them, a hop at a time until the ganger acquiesced, putting his hands up.

“Fine, fine,” he said, but SI wasn’t convinced.

“This is my proof,” SI told him, “And you won’t take it from me.” Picking up and pocketing his dagger again, he cautiously stepped towards the ganger and this time the moonlight exposed his robes.

The ganger stumbled back into the wall, horrified, and SI looked down at his bloodied linen with a smile; I should have started with that.

“Y-You really did it?” He crept over, and SI nodded to allow him to admire the damage.

Even crouched over in disbelief, the ganger towered over SI’s frail body. Yet so easily did a blade cut through a hierarchy. “Keep your back straight,” SI muttered, coming close to an order.

His re-entry into the gang was certain, but the outlooker hesitated, fiddling with a half-hidden latch. Perhaps worrying about his own position, now? Well, a quick slice with a dagger could easily—

“Fine, I’ll let you in. Given the… circumstance.” The ganger peered back into the street then opened the way. “But, uh, don’t expect everyone else to be happy about this. An elder, by the bearded lady—"

They staggered through several longhouses worth of low cellar. Every inch crammed to the top with crates and barrels with just enough room for them to a manoeuvre through, single file. SI went first, as fast as he could so as to pretend it wasn’t his first time. The wares jutting out were like a damp railing then, guiding him forward while the ganger kept murmuring on about how unbelievable this was, until they finally reached a glimmer. A room beyond.

“—Well kid, welcome back to the Red Stomata.”

After the dripping darkness of the cellars, the firelight made everything fuzzy for a moment. He heard a gruff voice telling him to sit, and moved on instinct, arms miraculously finding a chair. This was a circular meeting room with a table and a few chairs, and of course the lit hearth. It could comfortably fit maybe six, and currently three pairs of tattooed lips were taking in the sight of SI’s prodigal return.

Two were seated, half-asleep in their drinks. The other stood with his arms crossed next to the fire. The leader, likely, though SI could barely remember the difference in red lip markings to be sure.

“I’ll admit to being wrong about you,” said the leader, “But you need to tell us exactly who you’ve murdered.”

“The whole bay is rolling with rumours,” said another.

“And to think it was all you,” added the third, “You’re a ruddy demon, kid. It just doesn’t make sense.”

SI frowned, leaving the velvet box on the table. “I only killed the elder. What was asked.”

One of the gangers spluttered his drink. “Only?”

The leader grimaced at the mess, and paced away. “Over a dozen as of last count. No, it couldn’t have all been you. Perhaps just a busy night.”

The gang conferred amongst themselves while SI let the fire warm him. He pinched his runny nose, lacking a tissue. This hideout was not beneficial to long term health, but that alone wasn’t a reason to hate elders. Especially, as he realised, elders that wore a similar red. Was that old man wearing garb of the Red Stomata or Noxus? All this politics, all the things he didn’t know about this place were giving him a headache.

Grabbing the velvet box, SI interrupted the gangers by asking, “Is this of any importance to you?”

Turning, two of them studied it while the other simply said, “Depends. What’s inside?”

That’s what they said, but all of them leapt towards it. SI wasn’t about to be left out of that discovery. Swiftly popping the lid to reveal a stash of pink petals, SI felt a sneeze come on and before he could help it, had sprayed every person in the room. After a moment of recovery, they came at him all at once.

“What a great discovery!”

“Of course you’re back in the gang, Crumbles!”

“You know we were joking all along, right?”

SI quickly shut the box and leapt out of his chair. The gang leaders were practically prostrating at his feet. They kept complimenting, smiling, suggesting things. He sent them for food and drink just to keep their loving gestures away and they rushed to obey. This was the power of the box.

He wanted to laugh. This is what he’d been carrying all this time? A good reason as any to kill a man. The ridiculousness reminded him of why he was here; for the Battle Royale. With a power like this he could already see himself in the top 10. It was so easy, so safe. Another SI victory, just like that.

But was that right? And… was that what Richard wanted? He could take this box and use it in a malicious way, blowing through the competition. According to the leader many others didn’t have a problem doing just that. What was the sense in taking risks?

The gangers were coming out of the charmed state, still in a daze. SI had been put away in his own mental box and Richard was there now, watching these gangers, these fellow Ionians push through together. He realized now that neither one of them was the leader, that they were a family underground in a difficult place. Richard knew that once too. It was the same type of story he had to pull himself out of. Looking back on it, he remembered doing the work, having the drive. But nowadays it felt like he had lost what it truly felt like. Could he do that again, if he had to?

Richard stared inside the box. There were still plenty of petals. Should he use it again, charm the gang and take the easy road? They were standing now, he had to make a choice.

Pushing the box gently forward, he kept it open so his gang could see. “Pretty useful, eh? We should use it in our next mission.”

Richard still wasn’t sure, but he had decided to find out whether he could do better.