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You’re being watched.
There is nothing that gives it away, at the very least. Maybe you heard a crank of machinery turning lenses towards you, maybe you heard the sound inside the building before you change ever so slightly, as if something is waiting to see what noise you will make. Maybe it’s just a knowledge of the person inside. Maybe it’s just paranoia. Either way, as you push open the wrought iron gate and step inside, you feel the hair on the back of your neck stand up on end in the telltale sensation of being watched. You close the gate behind you, latching it shut, and you turn back towards the door.
An assuming thing, especially with who supposedly lies behind it.
If you are truly desperate beyond all measure, your source had told you, seek the machine herald. Pass through the fog until you stand at the end of Emberflit Alley. You seek the house at the end of the lane, with the wrought iron gate, the metal door, and the mirror at its uppermost corner. There, in that place, you will find the Machine Herald, and he will aid you. But be wary: the Herald has a heart of steel. You will find no waves of emotion from him. He is naught but cold metal, just as we long for. Not the most specific of details, and certainly not answering the questions that you were there to seek. But you did as you were bid, wandering through the streets until you came across the foggy lane in question. The fog in question came from a vent billowing from the mines, and you held your breath as you walked through it into the lane. It had been a long time since you’d lived in Zaun, but your lungs remembered the taste of the air, the chemicals and the particulate. It almost smelled like home. Still, you walked on until you came across the house. If it were not for the gate to identify it, you would have walked right on past. But there it was - plain dark coloured walls, a metal door with rivets in it, and a wrought iron gate. No flowers, nothing else out front to make it noticeable or distinctive.
Well, if this belongs to who you think it does, then the lack of decoration fits.
Slowly, you walk up to the front door, your boots clicking on the stone, and make your way up. There is no door knocker, but you knock anyways, rapping your knuckles against the metal. It is the polite thing to do, especially when one is interrupting someone else’s work. The sound echoes for a moment, and you listen, straining your ears for any sort of sound in response. Not that you expect sound to travel through metal, but still, you wait. Are you in there, my love? You think to yourself. Have I finally gotten your tail, after all of these years?
There is nothing to answer you. Only silence. With that, you find the doorknob and hold the door open. Before you step inside, you pause. And then start going through your pockets. On a table by the door, you set down the knives that you carry with you for safety. A pistol, although it is up to anyone who tries to mug you to determine if you can actually shoot with it. The single bolo that you nicked from an enforcer. The spare ammunition. The handcuff lockpick that you were given as a gift, but you still have no idea if it works. You take off your jacket, hanging it on the table to show that you have nothing else to hide. As you do, you feel your necklace lift with the fabric, half caught, and then hit your chest.
“A gift,” your memory reminds you, the feeling of the pendant first hitting your chest. Brass with blue and purple gems worn through it. Not valuable, not by a long shot, but it had been the first big purchase from the first big paycheque. “A reminder of how far we can go. To the highest heights, you and I, always intertwined.”
You reach up to touch the pendant with your fingers, stroking the metal almost tenderly. It is a little warm from your skin, but the faint coolness of the metal soothes you as you squeeze it in your palm. Then, closing the door behind you, you start walking. An alarm sounds as you take the first few steps in, of course, but within a few steps, it goes silent. You walk down the hallway, turn the corner into the main room, and-
Oh.
Oh.
“What would you do if you got a lab of your own?” You ask, lying on your bed, flicking through one of your history textbooks. “I know Heimerdinger’s lab is wondrous and big, but you have to wonder!”
“I can wonder all I like, but until anyone takes my research seriously and not as an adorable pet project, there are no labs in my future.” His voice is serious, and you look over to see him in the middle of his own work, turning blueprints into a prototype.
“Well, I take you serious, so…what would you put in it?”
He finishes putting in a bolt and pauses, scratching an itch on his temple with the end of the screwdriver. Then he turns around in the chair, leaning on the back with an arm to look at you, and smiles for a moment. “If I had my own lab…well, I’d have a workbench, of course. A big one, enough for every project I could ever think of. Perhaps tanks if I ever lean towards biological comparisons. A chalkboard to cover an entire wall. Another wall covered in tools, with a window in the centre so I could see the world outside. A chair for you in the corner, because you won’t leave me alone in my work, will you?”
“Not a chance,” you climb off the bed and stand over him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’re stuck with me, Viktor.”
“You and I.”
“Why have you come?”
The laboratory is everything and more. Not the same colour scheme as the academy, whites and golds and clean metal, all symmetry and curves. No, this is a laboratory of Zaun. The dark walls, asymmetrical pieces, the wall covered in chalk and another wall covered completely in biological specimens in vats of green liquid (human, from the look of them, although anatomy wasn’t exactly your field of study), the lights above, the gurney covered in blood…and there, in the center, on a workbench assembling some piece of intricate engineering, is a man, covered in metal. You can’t see a face, but you know that hair.
Oh, Viktor. Oh, my love.
“I will not ask again. Why have you come?” The voice vibrates with mechanical tones. Little whirrs, the buzz of an augmented voicebox. Or perhaps it’s something in the mask. He doesn’t look up from his work. There is an object beside him with lenses that looks an awful lot like an iridiscope, so most likely, he knows who you are. He doesn’t need to look up, and based on what rumours you’ve heard of this Machine Herald with his heart made of steel, he doesn’t care.
“I…I came because I heard a rumour and I needed to see if it was true,” you reply. “A funny thing, rumours. They always have a little kernel of truth in them.”
“And so you came down to see. You didn’t ask anyone to do it for you,” he still doesn’t look up from his work. “An unnecessary risk.”
“A risk worth taking. This is information I need with my own eyes and ears,” you reply. A laugh huffs out as you try not to completely lose your shit. “A fascinating rumour that the Machine Herald, the harbinger of the Glorious Evolution, lived right in Zaun.”
He doesn’t snort, but you think he comes close. “Delusions of sentimental fools desperate for something to believe in. More emotional foibles that deprive them of their sense. I am no Herald, no saviour.”
You can’t stop talking. Not now, not when all you are waiting on is a single moment of confirmation. “And not only that - he knows Hextech so well you could swear that he was one of the inventors. You can imagine that I would check that out.”
His head turns ever so slightly to look at you. “You were always curious.”
Your next laugh is a little wetter. “Viktor.” You finally manage to say. “Oh, gods preserve me, Viktor. ”
“Hey! You’re Viktor, right? That’s a great boat!”
Viktor looks up as you slide down to the water to look at it, nearly falling into the stream while doing so. You’re missing a tooth by your canines, but you smile bright as you look at it. “Where’d you get it?”
“I made it,” he says quietly.
“You did?” Your eyes widen. “How? How? This is so cool!”
“You…you think so?”
“Yes!” You immediately kneel beside him. “You must be real smart if you can do that.”
“...I don’t think so.”
“Well, there’s no other boats here, so that means you made something no one else did. That means you’re smart!”
He blinks and smiles, ever so slightly, and you can see a little gap between his front teeth. “Thanks.”
“You gonna send it down river?”
He nods and starts winding the key. “Do you want to see where it goes with me?”
“Sure!”
Viktor winds the key until it gives resistance, and he draws it out. There is a little puff as the motor starts, and he sets it into the water. Off it puffs, and you run after it, Viktor hobbles behind you. When he trips, you slow down, although you don’t stop.
“I can never keep up.” He grumbles.
“That’s okay! You think quick, that’s important too.” You smile. “And besides, you don’t have to always do it by yourself.”
The rest of the day is spent sprinting after the boat with Viktor on your back. He is begrudging about it at first, of course, but before long, he is laughing with the wind in his hair, bouncing on your back as you run after the boat. As you walk him home, your hands in your pockets while he carries the boat, you ask if you can come out with him again. "You'd want to?"
"Of course!"
"What if it's not just with the boat?"
You grin. "What else do you like to do?"
"I like to read, and study, and-"
"Me too! Maybe we can study together."
The first of many, many happy days together.
“Hello, little one.” Finally, Viktor turns to look at you fully. He makes a striking image, you have to admit. He is a work of art, his metal suit something out of an old story. The amber eyes of the mask glow, and as you stare at him, you realize, more than ever, how a cult of desperate believers would have looked at him and saw a god, saw the key to their salvation.
You swallow around the sudden knot in your throat. You want to throw yourself into his arms, to hug him and hold him tight, or maybe to rip off his mask and slap him across the face. Or both. Both are excellent options. Either way, you have…no idea how he is going to respond. You stumble back a little until you find a workbench and lean on it, gripping onto the edge of the table. “You…you look good?”
He pauses. “You came all this way to say that?”
You glare. “Forgive me for forgetting everything I was about to say when I found out that the most important person in my life was, in fact, alive, half metal, and slowly mechanizing the world around him without ever having communicated any part of this to me.”
Viktor does not react to that. “You are being emotional. Do you require a moment?”
“Yes please.”
He gestures to the opposite side of the table to an empty chair, which you gladly stumble over to and sit in. There is no sound from him, nor any other reaction. He just returns to his work, fiddling away at the mechanism on the desk. Not that you are really paying attention, because now you are just trying very, very hard not to scream in rage. Or jump on him.
But be wary: the Herald has a heart of steel. You will find no waves of emotion from him. He is naught but cold metal, just as we long for.
Cold metal. Sure. You look through your hands to watch him work. At first glance, you wouldn’t have known it is him. A stranger certainly wouldn’t recognize it. But you know how Viktor tinkers. You know how he pauses with his tools and lets them pass over his fingers, sometimes spinning one like a coin when he can’t decide what to do next. You know how he pauses over an intricate piece, how he gathers himself to make sure he is about to touch it just so, press it exactly into place. You have watched Viktor work so many times that you know his processes by heart. That helps settle you just a little. The memory grounds you as you watch him assemble the piece, his fingers moving just so. One of his hands is metal, from the look of it. You can see how the fingers bend differently than normal, just a little. Not that you know anatomy. You just know Viktor.
“What are you making?” You finally ask, when your voice is only a little shaky and you think you're not going to scream at him. Or pounce.
“A larynx,” he replies. “You remember Malfalda?”
“The laundrywoman with the green hair and twins, yes,” you lower your hands a little bit from your eyes.
“The elder of the twins started working in the mine. Inhaled a stream of fumes more toxic than usual,” Viktor makes another adjustment of the mechanics. “Burned away most of his throat, including his voicebox. He cannot work in the mines if he cannot scream for help if needed.”
In the past, Viktor would have been angry. Or sad, because another child was destroyed by the industry of Zaun without the medical care to spare him such drastic disability. But this Viktor delivers the information with no shift in tone, as matter of fact as discussing the weather. Your fingers slide back over your eyes for a moment as you process that. “That’s…kind of you.”
“It is not kindness. Human error is what caused the injury. I aim to eradicate such error.”
“With hextech augmentations?”
“Yes.” Viktor pauses yet again, for only a moment, to look up at you. “Do you want to hear it?”
There’s really no other way for you to get answers. Besides, he has always been a good lecturer - never made you feel foolish for not knowing the answer. “Yes.”
Viktor puts down his tools this time to speak to you. “Of the accidents, injuries, and deaths that occur in Zaun as a consequence of labour, 95% of them are due to human error. Whether that is in the manufacturing of parts or in the execution of their use. Some are environmental, but the overwhelming majority. I pondered what would happen if we removed human error from the equation, such as through automation or more improved safety equipment.”
You nod, following Viktor’s train of thought to its usual destination. Even like this, he thinks the same. Perhaps drawing different conclusions, allowing options that he would not normally accept…but he thinks the same. “But it doesn’t get rid of everything.”
“Precisely.” As he speaks, you can start to hear shreds of emotion. Excitement. Thrill. Determination, perhaps. It fills his voice as he speaks. “Humanity itself is the source of human error. Our fear, hesitation, errors in memory and fumbling of hands. But if we corrected those errors, not only would accidents be reduced, but their work would improve.”
“If you say that the best step is then to mechanize as many people as possible to eliminate human error, that is a logical fallacy, love.” The word slips out without you meaning to, but your hands have fallen to your lap and you can look Viktor in the eye. He doesn’t respond so…at least it doesn’t ruin anything.
He scoffs. “A mechanized heart never misses a beat, and never falters with emotion. Why would anyone trust their life to a fragile muscle of flesh and blood?"
“I studied those questions for years, Viktor,” you reply. “Philosophy is still discussing it.”
“And yet I am answering it.”
It is such a him answer that you can’t help your smile. “You never did have patience for other options than your own to unfold.”
“That was a quality that you have said on multiple occasions you did not mind.” The words are delivered in a monotone, but you can conjure the memory of his wiggling eyebrows, the slightest suggestive drawl.
“Yes, yes, fuck, Viktor-”
He muffles a sound into your back as he leans on the bed, hips pounding into you. “You cannot say my name like that,” his hips snap again, dragging against a spot inside you that makes you whine.
“What if I say please ?” You tease, clenching your muscles around him to make him moan.
“You little-” He did something with his hips, pressing your face into the mattress. It feels good, so good, your nerves sparking like you’ve been struck by lightning. “You were doing so well. Now, you’re going to do what I ask of you, and I will make you feel good. You know I will.”
“Fuck, love, yes, anything-”
“That’s it. Now let me take care of you.”
You shake your head viciously to chase the memory away. Not the time. Definitely not the time for that. “It’s been a while since then, love. And we’re different people now.”
“That we are.” He looks at you intently. “You came here for a reason.”
There’s no real way to ask this, so…you start at the beginning. “Are you happy, Viktor?”
This makes him pause. “Happy means content,” he begins.
“‘Which means you are satisfied with your present circumstances. Which you are not,’” you intone. “You’ve said that before.”
He pauses. “You remembered.”
“Of course I did. You said it.”
You wonder if he is smiling under the mask. Or if he even feels happiness anymore. “I am not happy, but I am…pleased,” he offers. “My work is going well, obstacles being as they are.”
“I've heard,” you reply, leaning against a table. “Tallis keeps asking me about you. As if somehow I’ve gained more information than ‘he hasn’t spoken to me in ten years’ since the last time he spoke to me.”
“Is that why you are here now?” Viktor asks.
You scoff. “No. Tallis and I never got along. I wouldn’t tell him shit.”
“Jayce will offer you bribes. Great rewards that you would be foolish to not accept,” he replies. “It does not make sense to refuse, no matter your personal loyalties.”
“But you won’t tell me a word of your plans,” you smile anyway, even if it's a little sad. “All I would know is where your workshop is, and Jayce would never set foot in your territory again.”
“You should take the money. You will need it if you have stayed a scholar. You can tell him that I am doing as I have always done and have shown no interest in reforging old bonds.”
Ouch. “No interest?”
Viktor does not answer that. “Why did you come?” he asks instead, his voice a little more intense. There is a longer pause at the end of his sentence, as though he had to hold back a phrase. A pet name, perhaps.
“Because I needed to know if it was you, Viktor. And if it was, maybe you could answer the question that I have been wondering for a decade.”
He switches tools and begins closing up the panel on the back of the mechanical larynx. “And what is that?”
His room was empty. Every single belonging that was his, anything that he actually cared about, and every single scrap of his notes - gone. No one had seen him for a day. You tore the Academy apart trying to find him, until finally, in the lab he had shared with Jayce, you found a letter, neatly tied in a ribbon, with your name on it.
Little one,
We have walked through life together for so long, ever since we met by that river. You will never understand the great impact that you made on my life. You are one of the greatest blessings to have ever come my way. I appreciate your support, your kindness, how you knew when you extend a hand to help me and when to stand behind me. I love you dearly and always shall.
But I have reached a path that I must walk alone. I cannot take you with me, and I cannot expect you to understand why I must take it. I can tell you no more, though I suspect you will understand why I must do what I have done.
Take care. My heart is yours, forever and always.
Your Viktor.
As far as anyone knew, he and Jayce had had an argument and he vanished into the Undercity. No one knew where he had gone. No trace. The only thing left was the letter in your hands, and Jayce’s horrified and angry expression in your wake. You didn’t know whether to cradle the letter close or burn it, but after nearly thirty years of friendship and love…all you had to show for it was a letter, the heavy weight around your neck, and enough memories to drown in.
“Why did you leave without saying goodbye?”
Viktor is quiet and still, screwing in the last bolts. “You would have let me if I told you why I was leaving?”
“Yes!” You practically shout. “Viktor, your work is your life! Even if I don’t agree with some of your methods, I wouldn’t have stood in the way of it.”
“And that is why I didn’t.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I would have stayed.”
The air hangs heavy with those words. Through the mask, you cannot see Viktor’s eyes, but you think you know the expression on his face. “What?” You ask helplessly.
“I would have stayed,” he sets the screwdriver down with slightly more force than necessary as he speaks, “or I would have taken you with me. You know what I do is not safe, that there are consequences to my work, and…I did not want you hurt. I did not want you dragged into this. The human heart is a flawed thing, and there are things that I seek to erase to improve its function.”
Like love, he does not say, but you still hear it.
“I could not stay. Nor could I take you with me. The only way to assure I would not be swayed from this path was to leave without seeing you, without the temptation to keep me back.”
I loved you, your brain fills in words that he might have said, once upon a time, back when he had a heart. I loved you so much that I was willing to bring you into my work, whatever that meant. I loved you so much that I would keep you away from it to keep you safe. I loved you so much that I could have even, for a short time, abandoned my work for you. I had to choose between you and my work, between you and perfection, and I made my choice.
You cannot speak. It makes you want to cry, and so you turn your head to focus on the various specimens on the walls. The words catch in your throat, whether because your emotion holds them back or his lack of emotion reminds you it wouldn’t be worth it to say them. You swallow slowly around the knot in your throat, trying to put it together.
“Thank you. For the answer,” you manage instead, curling your fingers into a fist at your side, squeezing at your clothes.
“Does it make you feel better to know it?” He replies. Did I hurt you, he might have asked once upon a time.
“Yes and no.” Yes, you might have answered. But like it hurts when you set a broken bone. A necessary pain, necessary suffering, though you didn’t think those things existed.
Viktor slowly stands from his work table and walks towards you. The mechanics of his body make him bigger now - a larger frame, heavier gait, and a more even stride - and it is easy to feel a bit small before him. You lift your chin to meet his eye, and his third arm reaches over to touch it, the edge of your chin. Its fingers shift slightly, brushing your skin, and you think that if there was a little more control, he’d be petting you. His hands do not move to touch you. They stay at his sides as he looks at you. Nothing else. He just…looks. Studying you. As much as you hope he is looking for any other reason, you know he is just cataloging the changes between now and the last time he saw you.
Up close, you think you can see his eyes through the lenses of the mask. The gold is so close to the colour of his eyes. A little more amber, maybe. But even through the thick lenses, you can see movement, darting back and forth. His eyes take you in - the new wrinkles by your eyes from age, the cosmetic augmentations embedded into your temples, the sturdy clothes clearly mended by your own hand - and they settle to look you in the eye again.
“I shouldn’t intrude too much longer,” you say quietly. “You have important work to do.”
“I do,” he says, although the arm holding your chin does not let go. Nor does he look away from you.
It’s too much to ask but- “May I see you?”
He does not ask what you mean. “I have changed.” He says. “Do you wish to remark upon it?”
“I would,” you say simply. “You’ve changed a lot, Viktor. I wish to see how much.”
There is no hesitation as Viktor takes off his mask, setting it on the table beside you. The familiar wild hair falls a bit to the sides in old cowlicks, the kind that used to come from him twisting his fingers in his hair as he thought. His eyes blink intently once, adjusting to the light, and then they settle on you.
They are the same eyes you have seen in your dreams for ten years, that you used to see on a pillow beside you, that you saw looking at you from across the Lanes so many years ago. And yet…so different.
You smile and raise a hand slowly, telegraphing your movements. He does not stop you. Finally, you cup his cheek, feeling the edge of where his metal jaw meets his skin, where the augmentation curves up to his eyes, which glow twice as bright now than they did alive. They hum as they focus on you, zooming in, and you brush your thumb across his cheekbone. You cannot tell if he has wrinkles or the same bags under his eyes that he always did. His expression is still. Emotionless. But as you touch him, you feel the slightest pressure, ever so slightly, as his head tilts into your palm.
Oh, Viktor.
“Glorious,” you tell him softly.
“That is the plan,” he replies. His voice still hums, a metallic edge built into his voicebox. “It’s in the name.”
“‘The Glorious Evolution’,” you repeat in the same way the cult member did.
By your palm, you feel the slightest twitch of muscle, as though he is fighting a smile. “A little pretentious, perhaps, but-”
“It fits.” You can’t help your smile. “My Viktor’s great mission.”
His eyes focus on you again. Perhaps, had he more expression, he would have raised an eyebrow. “Yours?” He asks.
Shit. “A slip,” you say softly. “Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he replies. “Such encounters are bound to raise old memories.”
You pet his cheek once more with your thumb. “They do,” you admit. You sound sad, no matter how much you try to hold it in. “Even if it would be for the best that they stay away. You have your work, and as much as I may want it…there is but one love for you now and her name is Progress.”
His hand raises to take yours, removing it from his jaw, and he draws it to rest against his chest, where his heart would be. You press your palm flat to it, feeling the metal against it. It takes a moment of focus but you slowly feel it. The beat of his heart.
“In time, it may be gone,” he says. “I could not expect others to follow where I did not go first. And so, those parts that relied upon or were inhibited by emotion are gone. It is not love that I feel for my work. It is my purpose. It is what I must do. But, if you feel you must take comfort in some emotional foible, you may believe that this heart is yours. I did promise you that it will always be.”
Oh, Viktor.
“Thank you for indulging me,” you say softly. “I know you think it foolish.”
“It is.” Viktor squeezes your hand once, a request, and you let your hand fall. “But it is necessary for you.”
You think you know what he means. You needed closure. I have given it. And in order for closure to work…
“I know.” You swallow. “I should go then.”
It takes more strength than you thought you had to step back from Viktor, but you do. You watch as he takes his mask back off of the table and clicks it into place. “If you ever decide that you wish to be upgraded, you are always welcome,” he says, “but until that day, do not return.”
You nod. “If I do, you will be the first to know.”
You are being watched. There is nothing that gives it away, at the very least. Maybe you heard a crank of machinery turning lenses towards you as the door swings shut behind you, maybe you hear a window open as you make your way to the wrought iron gate, as if someone is waiting to see if your heart will defeat your mind. Maybe it’s just your own sentimental longing. Either way, as you walk to the gate, unlatch it, and push it open, you feel the hair on the back of your neck stand up on end in the telltale sensation of being watched. You do not look back. You walk through, close the gate behind you, latching it shut, and start the long walk back up to Piltover.
After all, he has work to do.