Chapter Text
Excerpt from: The Eye - Encrypted Station 103
Transcribed by: Jayce Talis
06/27/xxxx
I know the big man in charge doesn't like me talking about my own, personal solutions to the current Piltie crisis. 'Violence isn't the answer, Jinx,' he says. 'You'll get us off the air, Jinx.' But honestly, screw it! I don't like playing safe for the sake of some gold ballroom, fancy finger food tyrants. One big boom, one flash; a lotta problems are gone. Also, think of how cool an apocalypse would be. Let's see how they deal with their air being shit.
In the weeks he spends as a double agent, Jayce comes up with many justifications to his predicament. Enough to fill a notebook — maybe even a binder, if he really let his mind wander.
On one hand, in defense of Piltover, Jayce does not wish to lose his job. It's a necessary public service, a privilege he does not take lightly. Which is why he continues to carry out his assignment behind the closed door of his apartment, never mentioning it to Viktor. He'd much rather a positive, hard-hitting narrative story about The Eye, about Viktor, hit the front page than a slanderous exposé that threatens his livelihood, and those in Zaun who benefit from it.
Even if Jayce reveals a name or two, he's confident Viktor will be just fine. After all, Jayce is actively helping him strengthen protections so the broadcast is only heard by those who need it. They can continue their mission. No harm, no foul. And despite the bias from the perspective of the Eye's hosts, Jayce knows that if the truth of their cause was released, not everyone in Piltover would find joy in their downfall. Not even everyone within the Council. Mel wouldn't, or Heimerdinger.
He just doesn't have what he needs to show them the good that Viktor's doing. Or, better yet, to coax Viktor into trusting anyone near the Council who's not his own cryptic sources. Not yet, anyway.
On the other hand, there's Viktor.
At first, he's held at arms length. He babies the project like his— well, baby. Any questions that Jayce wouldn't be able to sniff out himself go unanswered. He never receives a last name, though he's unsure if Viktor even has one. If he pushes incessantly, Viktor goes quiet and snaps with more frequency. He's a collage of mystery. It drives Jayce up the wall.
"What would you think of expanding your scopes? Getting people outside Zaun to listen?" Jayce asks, one day, knee-against-knee with Viktor at his desk. He had hauled up a stool from the Last Drop so he could watch Viktor solder a circuit board, thick, bug-eyed safety goggles covering both their faces.
"I don't consider things. I do them," Viktor bites.
The answer makes Jayce shrivel up in embarrassment. He nods, clears his throat in apology.
But then, Viktor sighs. He purses his lips, the sparks from his iron creating a steady background buzz before he finally sets it down.
"I believe I told you, the goal was never to cast to Zaun only. But one would be dull not to consider the dangers of flaunting an illegal radio show to the very people who made it illegal."
So much for breaking the news of the ban before it reached Viktor, he thinks, biting his cheek.
"I didn't mean to imply you were stupid," Jayce says, softer.
"I know," Viktor replies. "Forgive me, I'm learning how to be seen and not just heard."
Jayce has worked with sharp minds before, but none have ever held a brilliance like his. The initial pitch of creating a better encryption expands into creating a stronger system entirely, once Jayce gets his hands on it. Working alongside Viktor, throwing out equations and sketching prototypes of different radio designs, sleeker and effectively more portable, makes Jayce feel like a kid again — excited to meet a friend who isn't frustrated by his racing mind.
There's a chemistry to it Jayce doesn't quite know how to name.
Alongside Viktor's mind, is a softness Jayce wants to crack open. His willingness to trust those he believes want to help his cause, his passion for those who rely on him. It's commendable in a way Jayce doesn't think he's ever seen in anyone else.
One day, when Jayce is building off a sketch given to him by Viktor, they're interrupted by a panicked shout from downstairs.
They're here, it says. Queue it.
Viktor moves with an urgency Jayce wouldn't expect. He pulls the gramophone as close as he can to his microphone, interrupting his prerecorded segment, and lifts and sets the needle down the same record that always resides on top of it. The same record he heard three times in one night, when he first discovered the broadcast.
Jayce doesn't have to ask who, exactly, they are. His suspicions are confirmed the next day, when he overhears a group of enforcers mentioning a failed raid in the undercity.
He'd been correct. It was code, intended to warn and protect anyone listening.
When the song ended, Viktor moved the gramophone, resumed his segment, and returned to their work like nothing ever happened. Jayce didn't question him. In return, after a moment of uncertainty, Viktor relaxed his shoulders. They brushed against Jayce's.
They develop a routine of sorts. Jayce arrives at the bustling Drop, he greets Vander, who is steadily growing used too, but not less weary of him. On occasion, Viktor will be there, waiting for him with a drink in his hand and an consistently surprised, "James," as if he was expecting Jayce to stand him up.
He's led through the hallway of creaky floorboards, into a room of never ending equipment; which he learned was once Viktor's bedroom. He sits on the floor, crisscrossed. Viktor takes the swivel chair. He says Brilliant and Yes with an almost shy smile when Jayce mentions ideas he finds worthy. He laughs when they're not worth trying. They talk and work until the early hours of the morning, when Jayce peels himself off the floor, out of Zaun, and into his own apartment, where he promptly falls asleep on the couch after a couple hours of note taking his evening from memory.
He's become a bit of a night owl, much to Caitlyn's dismay.
There's a few breaks in routine, but they always come with new revelations — Firefly and Jinx, whom Jayce realizes is the only of the three hosts who goes by their radio pseudonym in person, being two of them.
"Boss!" Jinx says one night, interrupting one of their meetings with exaggerated glee to swing around the doorframe one handed. Her long, blue braids swing so aggressively they brush against Jayce's back. "Oh, is this the very reason you don't hang out with the family at night now? In the flesh?"
Viktor glares daggers at her, grip tightening around his notebook, full of sketches and equations the two had thought up over their shared time together. "Jinx-"
"Uh, I guess!" Jayce lets out a stiff laugh. He stands, extending a hand to her. "I'm-"
"I know who you are," she says.
Every vein in Jayce's body freezes. He feels his feet root to the floor in terror. He'd been so careful, how could she know-
"Radio-Robo yaps when he drinks liquor," she scoffs, "It's fun to watch. You should see sometime."
Jayce hopes the relief doesn't show on his face. He goes a little warm, knowing Viktor talks about him.
"That's quite enough, Miss Jinx. What do you need?" Viktor's brusque tone is undermined by the red splotching his sharp cheeks.
"It seems Mr. Firefly will not have a prepared segment for tomorrow. Big strike against a baron, they need all hands on deck." She crosses her arms. "Apparently, I'm banned. No violence, or whatever. As if that will get anything done."
Viktor sighs. "Alright. That is… quite a lot of time to fill in, but his presence is necessary if the Firelights are called. You cannot leave me to man the station on my own, anyway."
"Wouldn't dream of it, boss." She blows a kiss, big and exaggerated. "Say hi to Sil soon though, he'll get fussy if he finds out you're only talking to Vander right now. I can only take so much bitching."
With that, she's gone. The sound of her boots on the floor echoing through the hall. Jayce turns back to Viktor, frazzled from the frantic interaction. Viktor looks unfazed, returning back to his pages like nothing ever happened.
"So, are you two... family?" Jayce asks, when he finds he can't hold back.
"In all but blood," he responds, following it with, "Do you think the prototype could be made with similar materials to the radio mast in the promenade?"
Jinx becomes more of a frequent character, after introducing herself to Jayce. It confirms two things: yes, she's always like that, and yes, she holds the same level of intelligence and passion as Viktor, only in different fields.
When Jayce suggested finding a way to non-harmfully weaponize the radios, so they become unusable upon finding the station in certain regions, Viktor's response was, Ask Jinx. Though she was annoyed, once again, in the no-harm aspect of the concept, she came alive with ideas in a way that made her eyes sparkle. By the following week, Viktor had a stack of colorful, graffitied sketches to present. All of them as detailed as they were fool proof.
Jayce has yet to meet Firefly, but he does, when alone, make a list of possible names.
Sil, Echo Ekko, Scar
Jayce's investigation doesn't dig any deeper. He knows they hold a position of power within the Firelights, infamous within both Piltover and Zaun. They take part in the organization of protests. They're a friend of Viktor and Jinx.
He doesn't feel the need to dig any deeper.
After 3 in the morning, the stairway to Jayce's flat feels more like a punishment than a means to an end. He's gotten used to the trek back the Piltover, though it does make him weary to walk anywhere at night. Viktor's given him tips to avoid being robbed, or scammed — which he now learns he was when purchasing his first Eye radio.
"How much did you pay for this?" Viktor had asked, turning and twirling the machine in the light, as if examining all the dents and bruises. "It seems you were initially given a lemon."
"A what?"
"You know, a bad product disguised as a working one," Viktor said, gesturing as if his statement was extremely obvious.
"I… gave Benzo and Vander all the gold I had brought. But I knew it wasn't working, and that included the fee to examine his working radio and…" He trailed off as Viktor's gaze sharpened.
"Benzo and Vander," Viktor scoffs, incredulous, "charged you to look at something?"
The burst of shocked laughter informed Jayce that that was not, in fact, a normal or reasonable thing to do. The grumbled apology from Vander, the following day, did the same.
Kid tore me a new one after you left, he'd said, clapping a huge hand on Jayce's shoulder. No hard feelings, just how we do business.
Jayce keeps his hands over his pockets on the walk home, now. He doesn't bring his satchel anymore, not after the button keeping it closed popped off. He tries not to carry too much coin, and he hardly runs into any issues. The last thing he expects to scare him, after all of that, is Caitlyn Kirraman sitting, legs crossed, on his living room couch. Just partially obscured by the explosion of metal and wire that still lingers throughout his apartment.
"Gods — what the fuck, Cait?"
"Oh, I see you've finally arrived," she states, her nose upturned. She uncrosses her arms to lay them in her lap.
"How long have you been here?" Jayce gazes around his disheveled apartment. Nothing seems out of place.
"Where are you going every night?" Her eyebrows shoot up, as if interrogating him.
Right to the chase. She's not changed a bit since he first met her.
Jayce blinks, incredulous. "I… what?"
"You leave for the undercity around six, stay gone for hours upon hours and arrive in the morning like nothing happened. You've been to the office a couple times, Mother says she hasn't seen at all-"
"I'm working, Cait-"
"I'm not finished yet!" She says, standing. "You stay cooped up in here all day until it's time to rinse and repeat at six the next day. It's… unlike you, Jayce."
Jayce takes a deep breath. "I… can't tell you. Yet. It's for The Eye piece."
He wants too, desperately. Once he's written and published everything, hopefully enough will be exposed to confide everything in her. Her face drops, it makes Jayce feel like the worst human alive.
"I promise, sprout. I know it looks weird, but I'm really the last person you need to worry about."
Caitlyn gives him a half smile. "You're like… you are my brother, Jayce. I always worry."
Jayce lets the sentiment distract him momentarily. He hugs her, squeezes her tighter when she acts like she won't reciprocate. It makes her laugh.
He pauses, repeating her words to himself. Gone at six.
"How did you know that? The exact times?"
Caitlyn sighs, pulling away from him. "Don't kill me for not telling you earlier."
"Cait."
"I was doing paperwork for a public intoxication incident and saw a report that you'd been flagged for suspicious behavior by enforcers on the bridge. They spot you leaving and coming back every night. They don't see how a successful Piltovian citizen has a reason to travel between the undercity and Piltover, unless those reasons are…"
"Not in support of their agenda?" He asks, admittedly cutting.
"Nefarious." She bites her lip. "I've defended you as much as I can, and as far as I know, you're protected under the guise of business. But it's only so long until that excuse runs dry."
Jayce huffs a laugh. "Excuse? That is what I'm doing."
"Come on, Jayce," She moves to grab water from his kitchen sink. "I trust you aren't brothel hopping or consuming shimmer, but surely this isn't all research. Have you even caught your suspect yet?"
"No," he lies. The instinct is beginning to come far too fast.
"Exactly," she chugs half the glass. "So, who is she?"
It's Jayce turn to laugh, only it sounds much more manic. "That is so not what's happening here."
Her eyes narrow, hurt crossing her face. They never lie to each other. In their near decade of knowing one another, Jayce knows there are very few topics they haven't breached. Sure, there are things they just don't share, but this is different. Jayce can tell she knows it.
"Okay. If you say so."
Jayce feels defeated, watching her walk back to his couch. "Cait-"
"I'm crashing on your couch, by the way. Feel free to sleep until the afternoon, I have work in four hours." Her tone leaves no room for conversation. He doesn't try to make any.
His notebook in still in his satchel when he gets back to his room, untouched. The palpable relief makes him only feel slightly guilty.
Jayce reaches a standstill the following day. He has collected enough information to write a well-rounded piece. He's managed to gain the trust of his subject in record time, knows the ins and outs of every inch of machinery within The Eye’s headquarters, which is just some tiny bedroom over a dingy bar. He has no real purpose in returning to The Eye, Viktor will be completely okay without him. The biggest story of his life lays in the palm of his hands. His only problem now is the fact that he physically can't get it out.
Caitlyn is gone by the time he wakes, around one in the afternoon. He can tell she tidied before she went — his wrenches are in neat lines, ordered from smallest to largest on his cluttered dining room table. He smiles to himself. She was right, his appearances around the Gazette offices have been sparse. It's not necessarily a reason to sound the alarm in and of itself, but despite being told he had no time limits, he knows his higher-ups are expecting something, and soon.
He grabs a cup of coffee and heads back to his bedroom, where his desk and typewriter haunt the corner like old spirits. The keys are coated in a thin layer of dust. He begins.
One might not expect a mind like Viktor's to
Too strong, he needs to establish who Viktor is to begin with.
In the lanes of Zaun, lays a mind like none I've ever met. Viktor is
It's a nice start, he lies.
Jayce rips the second paper out of the machine, tossing it into the paper bin next to his desk. He scrubs his hands down his face with a groan. Who is Viktor, exactly? He's a radio host. He’s an activist and a rebel. He's a genius.
He's become a friend of Jayce's, when he was supposed to be a subject. Someone to view behind a glass wall, like a researcher with a control group. Jayce doesn't want to stop seeing him, helping him. He doesn't want to lie to him anymore. And isn't that fucked? How Jayce got so distracted by the work he only agreed to do in order to write an article he now can't even muscle through?
He tries a few more sentences, makes his way to around a paragraph, but consistently trips over a single word. A name. Viktor.
Jayce walks back and forth between his kitchen and bedroom in an anxious haze. He grabs the booze he never drinks from his cabinets and takes hearty swigs to stop the sick feeling that starts swirling in his gut. It worsens it. The light outside darkens into night.
He speaks ideas aloud, because sometimes, when he actually goes into work, he can hear his pretentious cubicle neighbors doing the same with the articles they write. He says the words Viktor is approximately 500 times.
Viktor is. Viktor is. Viktor is.
When that doesn't work, he stands in front of his bathroom mirror, the walls spinning around him. He conducts a mini-experiment. Is this randomly brought on writer's block affecting all of his abilities, or just a product of Viktor and his big, distractingly-beautiful brain? He tries another name.
Jayce Talis is… a fucking moron.
Jayce Talis is a journalist.
He bites his bottom lip until he tastes iron.
Jayce Talis was a journalist. Now, he doesn't really know what he is.
It's a bad idea to cross the bridge so late, especially after what Caitlyn told him. But Jayce has never been one to make a rational decision when intoxicated. The enforcers posted are not who he usually spots. They don't look twice when he crosses, Talis emblems on the sleeves of the coat he grabbed on his way out the door. He didn't even think to question it.
The streets of Zaun are as lively as ever, but his vision tunnels to the door of The Last Drop. He fits right in with the mumbling, liquor-breathed regulars that crowd the entrance. Unlike them, he doesn't head towards the bar. He makes his way up the stairs, ignoring Vander's shout of Hey, what's up with you?
It's while he's attempting to avoid the creaky floorboards that he realizes he doesn't even know if Viktor is here.
Sure, when they have their meetings, this is where they'd be at this time of night. But Jayce didn't show up as usual. He stood him up, like Viktor seemed to always think he would.
Jayce, who feels a bit like the walls are stretching, stands straight. He's making this worse, he's becoming the asshole Viktor always thought he was. He imagines leaving, walking past Vander in shame, leaving to go back to his den of scrap paper and failure.
He moves to do just that, then steps on a floorboard so loose, it's slam back down echoes over the commotion downstairs.
"James?"
Fuck.
"Oh, hey. Sorry, I'm late," he tries for casual. It's only slightly slurred. "What are you still doing here?"
Viktor snorts. "I am always here. Literally and figuratively. I sleep on the couch in the room next door. When I can sleep, that is."
"Jinx's room?" Jayce asks. He flinches at the mental image — that's got to be hell on Viktor's back.
"It is either the couch or the floor in here. I moved my bed out to allow for more equipment. I cannot sleep in the bar so… a worthy sacrifice." Viktor leans on his cane. "I am still working in here, if you wish to join."
Jayce gulps, nodding. He attempts to stand straight, but the way his body sways makes him nauseous.
"That is a fancy jacket you have," Viktor says, as Jayce plops down in his usual spot. "Very… red."
Jayce smiles, lopsided. "My mom made it for me."
"Cute," Viktor says. "It… looks nice. Did you go somewhere?"
Jayce, unable to comprehend anything except his own thoughts of do not look drunk and do not throw up, blinks at him. "What?"
"Fancy coat, liquor breath," Viktor starts listing off his fingers, "My conclusion? Party."
The answer is much more pathetic. Jayce would rather not confide it, at the moment.
"Get together with some friends. Sorry, I forgot to mention it last meeting."
Viktor snorts. "I am not your mother, James. You do not have to come every night."
"Still," Jayce adds, fiddling with his fingers.
It hits Jayce, with the subtlety of an airship, that he isn't sure why he came. He's in no headspace to work, clearly. He just felt the need to exist next to Viktor. Closure, maybe. A last hurrah.
"I need to tell you something," he starts.
Viktor freezes. He furrows his eyebrows, in a tic so Viktor it makes Jayce want to smile.
"I… won't be around much longer to help, I think. I was given a big opportunity at work. It'll probably be a while before I have time for myself or any other projects." This is okay, he can work with this. At least he can say goodbye now, before the truth is inevitably revealed.
"Oh," Viktor says. His eyes widen. "Thank you for telling me. Your assistance has been greatly appreciated. You… will be missed."
That warms Jayce more than the alcohol ever could.
"Though, I thought you said you were freelance."
Shit.
"I was. I needed something… stable. So." He stares at the ground underneath his legs. He traces the notches in the floorboards with his nail.
"Well, good for you," Viktor clears his throat.
A harsh, uncomfortable silence passes. Jayce can't decipher it. He hates it.
"I'm glad I got to help. It was fun."
"Yes, me as well. Do not be a stranger."
Jayce doesn't move to leave. The pounding in his head increases, as he begins to sober up. He groans, laying back. He must look as ridiculous as he feels, star-fished on the ground in Viktor's already crowded recording studio.
Viktor chuckles. "Would you like headache medication?"
"If you have any."
"Please, I have all of the medication. You should know this," Viktor says, grabbing his cane and walking out the room.
Jayce sits up again, takes in the same surroundings he's been living around for weeks. He thinks of Viktor working his fingers bloody crafting equipment, radios. Sleeping on a spring riddled couch for months, all for a passion project that was never guaranteed and always risky.
When Viktor returns with a glass of water and a couple of white and blue pills, Jayce keeps his gaze on the same blinking light from the sound board.
"These are very strong, I'm afraid. Tread lightly," he places the pills in Jayce's palm, who finally looks down at them. He pops them into his mouth, swallowing with a flinch.
"Would you tell why you started all of this?" Jayce asks.
"I believe I already told you that. After Vander nearly killed you?"
"I know. You trusted me." Jayce wants to cry saying it, for some reason.
"I like to think I can sniff out the good ones."
Viktor's playful. The stab to Jayce’s gut is anything but.
"Remind me again. I forgot."
In reality, Jayce wants to hear Viktor unfiltered. He knows he was told a censored version, the automatic elevator pitch Viktor has on standby. He wants the version with heart.
Their friendship is built on a lie, after all. He wants some truth between them, no matter how selfish it makes him.
"Okay. I grew up in Zaun, obviously. I watched my parents suffer, I watched my Mother wither away from a disease I likely do or will eventually carry some trace of. I would hear echoes of politics from Piltover, when it was a big enough story to reach here. Or when the revolutionists would talk of the wealth the Council had and refused to share. But we never knew enough to prevent the legislation that would harm us until after they took affect. They purposely withheld information that was vital to us. It made me so angry I didn't know what to do with myself."
Viktor sinks into his chair, raising his non-braced leg to his chin and hugging his arms around it. "Once, my mother went to a local pharmacy to pick up my medication. It was winter, I had developed severe Bronchitis."
He clears his throat. "This was common for me. It happened just the previous winter. Only this time, the medication was gone. The movement of medications from Piltover had ceased by law recently because of fear they were being abused. I somehow got better with home remedies and medications smuggled into Zaun, though I can't say the same for the others sick and dying."
Viktor's face grows pinched. Jayce thinks of a baby Viktor, cheeks pink from fever. He thinks of a woman, with sharp cheeks and bright mind, desperately pleading to a helpless pharmacy clerk. Viktor continues.
"I met Singed as a child, I worked with him when he in the early stages of radio design. It never went anywhere for him, but I knew it could go far. The potential was not easy to miss. When he died, I decided to dedicate myself to my people. I couldn't fight in a war or revolution, but I could blow the whistle. To make life easier for them, even if it meant informing them of nearby raids to avoid or the newest chembaron scandal."
Jayce feels sick to his stomach. The truth slides down his throat like a bitter pill: he can't reveal Viktor's identity. He'd be crueler than the people he's always sought to work against. He'd become them.
Jayce swallows around a lump in his throat. "That's a very admirable thing."
"I am not seeking compliments."
"I know," Jayce says, looking directly at him. "Still."
"Any other questions?" Viktor asks, raising an eyebrow. "Do you want my date and time of birth as well?"
Jayce's mouth gets the best of him. "Who is your source for the leaks?"
Viktor's eyebrows narrow. "Why is that a fixation of yours?"
"Curiosity."
"The answer is a lot less glamorous than you think. Boring, actually. There's enforcer corruption everywhere here, you can get them to talk very easily with the right people."
Jayce remembers Grayson's familiarity with certain Zaunites. Catching Marcus hand over a wad of cash to Silco, who pocketed the money immediately after handing him over to Piltovian authorities.
"I could've guessed that," Jayce sighs. "Who are the right people-"
"You've reached your question limit." Viktor says, spinning around in his chair. "I was playing back tomorrows segment before you drunkenly interrupted with your interrogation. I must get back to work."
Jayce lays back once again, the medication beginning to slow his spiraling head down to snails pace. "Don't let me stop you."
He hears the clicking sound of Viktor hitting play back. The tape spins softly, before Viktor's voice, not yet modulated, begins playing from his modified speakers. Jayce stares at the cracks in Viktor's ceiling, listens to his passion. Tries not to think of the anger in his voice directed towards him. He blinks. Once, and then twice, his eyes growing heavy. He doesn't stay awake to hear how it ends.
Jayce dreams of his mother. Her hair is in braids, like it used to be when she would get ready for bed, back when Jayce was small enough to crawl under the covers with her after a bad nightmare.
He knows it's a dream, though, because he's been making excuse after excuse as to why he's not been visiting.
"Jayce, my baby," she says, "You are an idiot."
Jayce opens his mouth to… apologize, maybe. Or to excuse himself. But she slaps him before he can get the words out.
Jayce jolts awake after that, with the worlds largest hangover, the sun warming his legs, face down against Viktor's wooden floor, and a newspaper across the back of his head.
"Wakey, wakey, Viki's Piltie."
"Jinx," Jayce groans, "You scared the shit out of me."
"Yeah, well. You scared the shit out of Sil, who came looking for Viktor and found a random guy face down and asleep on the ground," Jinx nudges him with her toe. "Vander's making breakfast, Viktor is getting dressed, and I think Sil wants to talk to you."
Jayce sits up. Sil has been a name that's come up in reference to the Eye often, but Jayce has yet to put a face to him.
He seems to have no choice now.
Jayce stretches, letting the cloudy, darkened daylight hit his body. He's not been to Zaun much during the day, but it doesn't shock him that it's only slightly lighter than night. The polluted air covers any ray of sunshine that could sneak it's way through the uneven skyline.
There's a ragged blanket across his lap, the holes from years of use covered by mismatched patches. He rubs the material between his fingers.
"Oh, yeah. That's Viki's too," Jinx bends to grab the blanket, ripping it off his legs. She scoffs. "Secret bleeding heart, isn't he? Sleeping with no blanket so a Piltie gets one. I'm never letting him live this down."
She throws it around her shoulders like a cape, swishing out the door. And then it's just Jayce — hungover and stupid, as always.
The walk of shame down the staircase is nothing short of humiliating. He has no belongings and the same clothes from last night, green in the face from nausea and feeling of dread lining his gut.
Vander takes one look at him and scoffs, placing a hot cup of something Jayce thinks might be coffee in front of him. "Rough night?"
"You could say that."
"Happens to the best of us," Vander says. He shrugs, downing his own cup of vaguely-coffee-substance.
The bar is empty, outside of the two of them, and Jayce realizes that without the bustling night rush, the place is actually… nice. It's like a Piltovian pub, just made with less fine materials and aged from years of service. He can hear the sound of the streets outside, without the gramophone music to wash it out. Vander's dishwashing serves as white noise in the background of his contemplation.
There's something missing though. Something off.
Jayce clears his throat. "Hey, where's-"
He's interrupted from his question by the sound of a door shutting, footsteps down the stairs, and a hushed argument.
"There's only so much information I can gather without raising alarm bells, Viktor. Subtly and patience is necessary."
"We simply do not have the time to wait for a whistle-blower." The sharp tone of voice of so undoubtedly Viktor, it makes Jayce crack a smile.
"Says who, dear?"
Viktor must have no rebuttal, the silence that follows is confirmation. But Jayce can sense the frustration.
Time must feel crucial, when you're someone used to not having any.
"Ah, there he is," the voice says. Jayce freezes, mug halfway to his mouth. "The Piltie you've allowed into our humble abode and headquarters for months without telling me! How lovely."
Jayce continues to stare holes into the bar counter. Maybe if he avoids making direct eye contact, the entire encounter won't feel as excruciating as it does now.
"Sil," Vander begins, sighing, "Let's not start this fight again. Not right now, at least."
"We'd be a lot farther in progress if we didn't. We must make some allies."
"What kind of an ally is too afraid to speak-"
"The kind that is listening to us argue about him in front of him!" Viktor plops down in the chair next to him. "James, you are free to leave whenever. You have proven your loyalty and don't need to be interrogated by anyone."
Jayce chokes. Interrogated.
Sil laughs. "You really are a mini-Vander sometimes, you know that?"
Vander huffs. "Is that meant to be an insult?"
"Of course not," Sil corrects, voice softening. "I only wish to meet him, if he's so important."
Viktor tap Jayce's leg with his cane. A gesture of you okay?
Jayce nods, finally looking at him. His eyes are dark, bagged like he's missed sleep. Jayce feels responsible for it.
"I'm fine," he says, earnestly. "Just a rough night. I'm happy to meet y-"
Jayce spins around in the bar stool, only to freeze halfway around. His stomach sinks to the floor, pulse in his ears. Silco.
Sil is Silco. And all at once, everything falls into place.
Viktor's anonymous connections to Piltovian law enforcement. The Canary. The man on the front page of the Gazette for his alleged crimes.
The man who was initially suspected of aiding Marcus, before he was cleared by Greyson. Who he came face to face with when busting Marcus.
Jayce has to hand it to Silco. His expression doesn't shift, upon seeing Jayce in person. So much so that Jayce considers the possibility that Silco doesn't remember his face, that he's miraculously once again flown under the radar.
But there's a slight raise of his eyebrow, a flaring of his nostrils that reveals otherwise.
"Well, James. A writer, Viktor said you were?" Silco starts, the words cutting through Jayce, "Let's talk somewhere privately, yes?"
If the walk down the stairs was humiliating, trailing behind Silco is an unexplainable dread. He feels like a man walking to a guillotine before lunchtime.
He could run away. He could flee and write his story and never see anyone from The Eye again. But he won't, because for as long as he possibly can, he selfishly wants to be seen as a good man by Viktor.
The room he leads him too is a bit like a lounge. There's old couches, a coffee table with various metal scraps laying around. Likely Jinx, based on the colorful contents. Jayce watches Silco's face morph into something dangerous in seconds.
"I can explain,” he tries, knowing there’s no use.
"Can you, Talis? Because I believe I've got a pretty good read on the situation now. Journalist cracks the case on illegal radio station. All hail the Golden boy, huh?"
Jayce raises both hands. "I want to help. If I wanted to expose him, I would've already. It might've started that way, but I… I admire the work he's doing. What you all are doing."
Silco considers him. "Or you're trying to rot us from the inside out."
"What would I gain from that?"
"Heroism, a metal and a statue commissioned by the Council. Think of the money, Talis," Silco says, his voice going catty.
Jayce huffs. "I have no problem criticizing politics in Piltover. I've done it before!"
"And threw Zaun under the bus while you did. Then, you published it with them. I may not have attended the trial myself, but I have eyes everywhere. Forgive me for my skepticism."
Jayce feels himself sinking deeper and deeper into the hole he's built. He worries this room will be the last thing he sees, that Silco's cold eyes cutting into him is enough to kill him.
In a last ditch effort, he pulls out the truth from the pit of his chest. It's warm in his throat, like bile. It makes a naked, vulnerable part of him squirm.
"I care for Viktor. I don't want him to get hurt. He's so damn smart, and he cares about his cause more than anyone I've ever met. Jinx is a genius, Firefly is an activist for people who are unaccounted for in Piltover. I worried if anyone else took the job they'd find and expose them without a second thought."
Silco stares at him for an eternity, eyes scanning his face for signs of dishonesty. He can't deny Jayce. It might've taken a hell of a lot longer, but The Council would've eventually found a way to them.
"Viktor told me you helped further encrypt the station from Piltover."
Jayce nods. "I did. At least until the attention from the Council blows over."
"And you expect it too?" Silco tilts his head.
"I expect the people won't care much if they knew the whole truth, not the one painting Zaun in villainy."
"Quite the optimist," Silco sighs. "Go. I won't tell him and you won't ever come back. No harm, no foul."
Jayce nods, relief coursing through him. Sadness alongside it. He knew this outcome was inevitable, he just thought he'd have a little more time. "Thank you, Silco."
"Thank me by proving yourself. If his name — if any of our names appear in a report you wrote, there is nowhere you can hide from the retribution."
A chill creeps down his spine. He nods, knowing the crumbled up drafts in his bedroom trash bin are playing with fire.
The back exit of The Last Drop kicks him onto the streets of Zaun. Silco slams the door behind him. He doesn't bother to greet anyone on the way back. Not even the enforcers on the bridge.
He dreams of Viktor this time. His mother isn't there.
Viktor sits behind his desk, his stack of notes piling over his head, about to tilt onto him. Jayce is behind him, only able to see the curls at the back of his head, the collar of his button up folded above his vest. There's a faint music in the background — the one that plays as a warning of incoming enforcers.
There's a knock at the door, and no one moves to answer. Viktor continues to stare ahead. The knocking grows more and more frantic, until it's a constant boom that shakes the room. Sends papers towards the floor, causes equipment to smash to the ground.
”You are part of this, Jayce. Don’t you know that?” Viktor’s voice is modulated, reminiscent of how it rings through the tinny, piss-poor speakers of the radio Jayce built before meeting him. It’s deep, and it twitches and rasps like he’s in pain.
The door bursts open with a force that jolts him, and Jayce wakes, grabbing at the cushions of his couch.
It's not the first nightmare this week. But it's the one that makes him dig into his nightstand for his writers pad and finally fucking write something.