Arcane: In This New World

Vander sat slumped on the worn-out couch in the dimly lit basement of his bar. His eyes, hollow and bloodshot, were fixed on the urn resting on the table before him. Powder clung to his side, her tears soaking through his shirt as her small frame trembled with grief. Across the table, Tarren stood with his arms crossed. Claggor and Mylo sat silently on a separate couch, their eyes cast down, lost in their own thoughts.

The oppressive silence hung over them like a storm cloud, broken only by Powder's quiet sobs. The urn seemed to draw everyone's focus—a cruel reminder of what they had lost.

Vander clenched and unclenched his fists, his mind awash with guilt and self-loathing. The weight of unspoken words pressed against his chest, and he struggled to find its voice.

Finally, Tarren broke the silence. "Say something," he demanded. "I thought I told you—"

"I know," Vander interrupted. "I know."

He turned to Powder, gently pulling her away from his shoulder. "Powder, sweetheart, I need to talk to Tarren alone for a moment. Can you go upstairs with Mylo and Claggor?"

Powder sniffled and nodded silently. Vander motioned to the boys, who rose from the couch and guided Powder up the creaky stairs. The sound of their footsteps faded, leaving only the two men in the room.

Vander let out a long, shaky breath. "How did you bring her here so quickly?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Professor Heimerdinger," Tarren replied. "He smoothed things over. Didn't the sheriff tell you what had happened?"

"She did." Vander nodded faintly. "Sorry. And thank you."

"Don't thank me," Tarren said bitterly. "Don't say sorry. I failed too."

"No," Vander said firmly, shaking his head. "You tried to stop her. You warned me. You did everything you could. This is on me."

Tarren didn't respond, his expression stiff as Vander continued.

"She was always so eager," Vander murmured, his voice breaking. "Eager to prove herself. To make life better for Powder, for all of us. That was my job. I was supposed to protect her. I should've given her a better life, a better chance. I failed her."

The room fell silent again, save for the faint creaks of the old building. Vander buried his face in his hands, his shoulders trembling.

"You were right," Vander said suddenly, his voice tinged with bitterness. He looked up at Tarren, his gaze filled with self-reproach. "What you told me and Benzo the other day. We've grown soft, hesitant. We've forgotten what it means to live down here. This isn't a paradise. It never was. And I was a fool to think we could pretend otherwise."

Tarren frowned. "What are you getting at?"

Vander leaned back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "This isn't Piltover's fault—not entirely. It's us. The Undercity doesn't need Piltover's validation to survive. We don't need to depend on them. We need to fix ourselves first. From the inside. That is the core of how our dream, the nation of Zaun, should be built upon."

Tarren's expression darkened. "Vi's dead," he said flatly. "And you're talking about this… 'Zaun'?"

"That's exactly why I'm talking about it," Vander shot back. "So kids like Vi don't have to grow up hungry for change, desperate for something better. So they don't end up…" He gestured to the urn, his voice faltering. "Like this."

Tarren softened, his anger giving way to exhaustion. "What are you planning, Vander?"

Vander's eyes burned. "I've gone soft, Tarren. But no more. I'll make the Zaun that should be, this place, into a place Vi would've been proud of. A place where Powder and the others can grow up safe. But that requires blood on my hands."

Tarren stiffened. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying it's time for the adults to step up," Vander said. "You've done enough, kid. You killed Silco's mad scientist. That's more than any boy your age should've had to do. Go topside, Tarren. Don't come back for a while."

Tarren scoffed, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "You're planning another rebellion, aren't you?"

"No," Vander replied. "I'm cleaning the streets."

Tarren hesitated, searching Vander's face for any trace of doubt. "Fine," he said at last. "But don't let the others get involved."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

—

A few days have passed. Upstairs, the muffled sounds of voices and movement signaled the beginnings of a plan taking shape. Back in the basement, Vander sat alone with Mylo, Claggor, and Powder. He wrapped his arms with bandages, his movements slow and deliberate as if preparing for a battle only he could fight.

"We can help," Mylo said suddenly, breaking the silence. "We're not kids anymore. We can fight."

"No." Vander's voice was calm but firm. "This isn't your fight. I'm doing this for you. For all of you. As a parent. I've failed you before, I'm not going to again."

"But—" Claggor began, only to stop when Vander raised a hand.

"Please," Vander said softly, almost pleading.

The three of them fell silent, their expressions conflicted but resigned. Vander stood, walking over to the small shrine they had set up for Vi. He rested a hand on the urn, closing his eyes as he whispered, "I'm sorry, kid. I'm sorry, Felicia, Connol, I couldn't protect your kid. I lost sight of our dreams. No more."

He stepped back, strapping on the massive iron gauntlets that had once struck fear into the hearts of Piltover's enforcers and the gangs of the Undercity alike. They felt heavier than they used to, but the weight was a comfort—a reminder of what he was fighting for.

When he climbed the stairs and stepped into the bar, the room fell silent. A group of hardened men and women stood waiting, their eyes filled with a mix of hope and tension.

Vander's stern gaze swept over them, his presence commanding. The Hound of the Underground was back, and there was no mistaking the fire in his eyes.

"Let's go," he said. "Let's clean the streets."