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Gods preserve me, I’m going to die.
It is never easy, is it? This was just supposed to be a simple trip to Zaun for supplies and some social calls. There aren’t many academics down in Zaun, but there are a few and your work depends on you maintaining those social connections. You bring down supplies and books, and you talk, you plan events and work on theses, and then you have just enough time to do your own little social connections. You order from Jericho’s restaurant, you peek your head in to say hi to Babette at her brothel, you get one drink from the Last Drop and dodge any antics that Jinx might have thrown together, and you listen for any gossip about the Machine Herald.
(No one ever said it was healthy to pine after your old lover when he’d abandoned you, started on a transhuman crusade, and made himself unable to feel anything other than devotion to his cause. But it certainly doesn’t stop you, and you’re fairly certain that he’s watching you too, each time you come down.)
You’re able to dodge most of the chaos that Zaun has to offer. Your Academy uniform usually means that shopkeepers will try to charge you double, but your teeth and wit are enough to show them that you’re a Zaunite who will not be cheated. It doesn’t keep you safe, exactly, but the threat of enforcers coming down is always present. And not to mention that half of the Undercity knows that you were thick as thieves with Viktor, who now has one hell of a reputation that people don’t want to cross. They don’t know that he’s basically pretending you don’t exist, but you are glad to use it to your advantage.The trips are supposed to be safe. As safe as going to Zaun can be, but safe. But no, there had to be attacks going on between the various gangs. There had to be gunfire and rockets flying through the air, and stray explosives that caught nearby buildings in their blast.
And you had to be standing directly under one .
There is a child standing beside you, one that you had thought were going to pick your pocket or something, but they start screaming along beside you, terrified. You have enough enough thought to throw down your belongings and shove the kid away, away from the rubble coming straight for you. Maybe you’re lucky, maybe they won’t get hit, or maybe they’ll only be hit by the small rocks that come down. But you don’t have enough time to think about that. No, that disappears when one of the larger pieces of rock and metal slams into your side, taking you down into the ground. Then another. And another.
You barely have enough space to scream. You think you do. You fall into a tomb of rubble, something collides with your head, and whatever scream escapes you is replaced by silence.
...
It hurts when you wake. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. You gasp for air, your chest aching under the weight, and you try to push the rubble off. The pain is burning, white hot in its intensity, and you can barely take stock in what hurts because the answer seems to be literally everything. You can barely get enough breath to scream, or maybe you are and you can’t hear yourself. It is just you here, surrounded by rubble and metal, and you are alone with your pain.
Maybe Viktor was right and it was better to be made of metal. You wouldn’t be in this much pain this way.
First things first, you force yourself to keep your eyes open. It is dark in this little space, but you need to look, need to see where everything is supported so if you move any rubble, it won’t fall on you further. You don’t need that. You stare, pressing against the stone, and pray for strength. You don’t know what gods to pray to. Janna, lady of the wind, guardian of Zaun? Soraka, the Starchild, bearer of mistress and compassion? Kindred, gods of death to spare you from the fate ahead? Anyone that might have a chance of hearing you?
Unbidden, you hear Viktor’s voice in your mind, a memory that cuts its way through the cloud of pain swimming in your mind.
“I believed in no one but myself.”
…he might have a point. In reality, no god was coming to free you. Not really. It would be construction workers, search and rescue, actual people. But maybe, just maybe you could free yourself.
First, your arms. Nothing was going to happen if you could not free your arms. The very action of trying to press against anything hurts, though. As you try to shove at a piece of rubble, you want to scream, something sharp digging into your side. Broken ribs, most likely. How many, you don’t know, but you grit your teeth against the feeling. Your mostly free arm presses against a large rock, shifting it just enough that you can wrench it free. It hurts - broken, most likely - but it’s free. You bite your teeth hard enough to taste blood, trying to anchor yourself, and start to work on your legs.
You’ve got this. One rock at a time, until someone comes for you.
It is hard work, but you are getting there. You set to work on the next rock.
“I hear a beating heart through the stones! May I have it?”
“Perhaps. I sense this one is afraid.”
You freeze, fingers wrapped around the rock at your chest. Above you, there is the slightest feeling of weight. Something above you, standing above you, looking down. Two somethings, their voices piercing the accident-made tomb you are trapped in.
“They cannot run if they are trapped.”
“No, they cannot.”
There is a sound of stone grinding and you watch as the rock above you is lifted into the air as easily as if it was a feather. The light covers your face and you wince against it, raising one of your hands to shield your eyes. Through the dust and gloom, even as the dust settles and the sounds of alarms and screams of pain fill the air, you see two figures looming above you. One in white, cradling a bow and tossing aside the stone that was above you, and another in black, circling, jaws wide and nearly drooling. They look down at you and the white one kneels in front of you. “There we are. Free.”
“Is it really?”
“No. Nothing is.”
Your heart leaps in terror. Slowly, ever so slowly, you lower your hands to the ground, digging your dirty nails into the rock to ground yourself. Steady now. You are no fool. You knew what gods you were praying to in your time of need and now you have to deal with the consequences.
“Hello, Kindred,” even as your lips form the words, you cannot believe what you are saying, your voice shaking despite your best attempts to calm it, weak despite your best attempts to get air into your lungs. “Is it my time?”
The dark figure swirls around you, curling around your head, jaws by your ear. “It is time for games. Let us play, little one, little prey.”
“What will we play?” You ask, barely able to get the words out. It hurts. It hurts so much and you can barely put the words together through the fog of pain. Still, you do not move. Your eyes jump between the two figures, waiting to see what they will do. Maybe you could move the rubble and cover yourself. Maybe. But nothing hides for Kindred forever.
“Chase!” Wolf calls out, for it is Wolf, the Black One, ever ready to hunt those who fear death.
“Do you wish to be chased, little one?” The White One, Lamb, asks, their fingers resting on their bow.
You laugh bitterly. “I dreamed once of running alongside you,” you say quietly. “That we would chase others down, but I was not fast enough. I suppose nothing can truly outrun you.”
“No. All those things in life are ours to take.” Lamb sounds lovely. Like a song, although maybe more like a dirge.
“Ours to take!” Wolf howls, voice like thunder, or maybe the sound of dirt falling on a coffin.
This is not the best place to die. You are surrounded by crumbling stone and dust so thick you feel yourself choking with each breath. You are barely a human, more just a sack of broken flesh and bone held together by pain and stubbornness. This is no gentle and peaceful death. There is only pain, and the death that will be its end. Then again, it isn’t the worst place to die. It’s in the place you were born. You can see the lights of the city around you, the sounds of life buzzing, and even through the dust, the air still tastes like home. You’ll die alone, sure, but you’ll be on the ground that held you up your whole life.
If this is it, goodbye, Viktor. I lived my life on my terms and that is enough.
“But I don’t think I can run.” You look down at the rubble pinning you down.
“You would not play with Wolf, then?” Lamb asks. There’s no emotion in her voice, just intensity as she watches you.
“I love wolves and those of the dark, but I would choose your arrow,” you finally say, staring up at them. “I would imagine myself swallowed by the river, by the sand beneath, and I shall never stop sinking. Is that what it is like?”
"No", said Lamb, "though it is a nice thought. Fear not, little one, we are just having our fun. You have come to us tonight; we have not come for you."
“There is other prey around,” Wolf snaps, winding around you once more before returning to Lamb’s side. “ Other things ripe for the chasing and the biting. Hurry, Lamb. I am hungry."
Lamb taps the end of their bow against a broken piece of metal, the sound of it echoing in the air. You try to listen, straining through the pain, but you can’t tell anything at first. Not when straining makes your head ache.
“You will live, little one. Live on. We will come for you one day.”
The ground is shaking. Something is coming. Something big. Another explosion? Something else falling? You close your eyes and nod. “Thank you. May you hunt well,” your voice is more of a wisp of speech than any real words, but you think that you were heard. You hope. You pray.
They do not speak again, but you feel rubble start to lift off of your body, the relief giving way to desperate pain, and you start to scream again. Someone is talking to you, a deep voice trying to soothe you, but as they lift you into their arms, the pain sweeps you into darkness.
You open your eyes slightly to find yourself not in the stone, nor in anyone’s arms. You’re in scratchy sheets, a tube in your nose, your broken bones aching. You can’t help a whimper of pain, trying to settle in place, and your ribs protest angrily.
“Rest.” A familiar voice comes from beside you, tinged with electronic buzzing. You can't quite believe that you're hearing it.
“Viktor?” You ask, your voice cracking, and become very, very aware of the dryness of your throat. Coughs surge out of you, racking your broken chest, and you aren’t sure which will make you cry first, the need for moisture or for your ribs to stop moving. A hand cups the back of your head, leaning you up, and you are soon aware of a glass resting against your lips. Water trickles into your mouth and you swallow greedily. There’s barely enough to wet your mouth, slow sips, but you take what you are offered until you can actually breathe.
Slowly, you open your eyes. The whitewashed walls and curtained off bed are familiar - the upper class ward in the Zaun hospital. Someone must have seen your uniform and decided you needed better care or the Pilties would rain fire down on them. The room is dark, with only small nightlights beside each bed, and there, in the faint green light…is Viktor. He isn’t wearing his usual cape, and the third arm stays low. His lights are dimmed, as though he’s trying to make sure no one sees him, but there he is, sitting beside your bed, setting a glass of water on the table.
You swallow and try to speak again. “Why are you-”
“I am still your emergency contact in Zaun,” he replies, his voice sharp. It’s soft, compared to his normal mad scientist volume. For a moment, you are taken back to him whispering at your bedside through a fever at the academy, and all that is missing is his fingers brushing through your hair. "There was a message on my old pneumatic tube."
Then the words process. Oh. Right. “I…forgot to change that,” you mutter. Hope, maybe, but something had stopped you from taking his name off of the forms.
“You should.” Viktor leans forward and adjusts the pillow, letting you sit a little more upright. He moves efficiently, but you feel him brush the hair off of your forehead anyway, his gloved thumb stroking ever so slightly. “What happened?”
You can speak easier now. “Fighting,” you say quietly. “A rocket hit the old quarry warehouse. I was in the blast radius.”
“I can see that,” he gestures to your body. “You have broken a lot of bones.”
That…would explain why everything hurts, although you’re fairly certain that you have pain medication in you somewhere. “Gee, I didn’t notice,” you drawl sarcastically, although it comes out more as a whine than anything.
He doesn't respond to that. “Why are you here?” He asks, his voice curt.
“For work. I’m the best one to come down to Zaun, so I do,” you reply. “You said to stay away from you, Viktor. I’m honouring that agreement.”
His thumb is still on your forehead. The leather is heavy but you imagine you can feel the warmth of his skin through it. If that hand has skin. You’re honestly not sure about that particular one. “Good,” he says instead. You're not sure if he's relieved or just saying it because it's part of usual conversation. His tone certainly doesn't give anything away.
“Are you helping at all with repairs?” You ask quietly.
“Blitzcrank is,” he replies evenly.
“That’s…the-” you cough again and try to line your throat with some spit, even as your ribs ache, “the toxic waste disposal bot, right?”
“Yes.” You hear the sound of him moving, the faintest sound of clanking metal, and then the movement of leather. Then his bare wrist - that is his wrist, you can feel his skin and his tendons and the faintest thump of his pulse - rests against your forehead. “They are eager to help and protect the people of Zaun.”
“Definitely one of your creations then,” you tease, opening your eyes a little wider and straining through the dark to look at him. “What’s the verdict, Doctor?”
You can’t see his expression through the mask, of course, but you watch instead as he takes his hand off of your forehead and lifts up your hand to look at your fingernails, studying them slightly. Then he rests his bare fingers on your throat to take your pulse. He does not say anything about how he’s not that kind of doctor, that mechanics and robotics and hextech does not qualify him to make a medical diagnosis. He just does his work.
“You’ll live,” he determines, his tone as still as ever. “Your broken bones will heal in a few months, but you show no signs of infection, exposure, or any exterior contamination. The doctors will monitor you for the next three days to confirm this, and then you will be returned to Piltover for recovery and rest.”
“I can still work, right?”
Viktor’s fingers linger for a second too long on your pulse. “Light work from your bed,” he suggests. “No courier work, no heavy lifting, no library trips.”
“That’s going to be so boring,” you protest.
“If you wish to heal correctly, this is what you will do.”
“Are you actually lecturing me about taking care of my body and staying within my human limits?” You tease, eyebrow raising. “ You?”
He doesn't even respond to that, the goddamned hypocrite. “If you wish to function properly after this incident, you will need to take care of yourself.”
“Says the man who once stayed up for four days straight for research on hextech air travel and drank so much coffee that he had to spend the next week in bedrest after overdosing on caffeine,” you quip back. “I had to tie you to the goddamn bed to keep you out of your desk.”
“It was necessary research.”
“You did it and then remembered that engines existed.”
Even though you can’t see his face, he makes a gesture with his head that you know means ‘ehhhhhh’. It looks so much like him from before that it makes you want to cry. You swallow again, gathering yourself. “Why are you here, Viktor?”
“I am your emergency contact,” he says again.
“Viktor Nikolavich,” you say as firmly as you can while wheezing for breath. “You don’t care about me anymore and you wouldn’t come on obligation alone.”
There is silence. Viktor does not answer, nor does he move. For a moment, you think he might be holding his breath. Even so, he stares at you. His eyes are on you, not moving, taking in your face in the dim light.
“Tell me,” you try to order, but you were never good at ordering him. “Viktor-”
“You will not understand,” he interrupts you. “And it will not assist in your recovery. There is no point in sharing this information.”
It will upset you and you’ll probably cry, and that is not going to be good for your ribs, he means. “Try me,” you say. “I’ll decide how I feel about it.”
Viktor’s hand slowly draws back to his knee. “I am investigating a hypothesis,” he finally says.
You raise an eyebrow at him. “Kinky.”
He almost snorts with laughter, but the emotion falls apart before reaching execution. “As you know, I removed the parts of my brain that affect and are connected to my emotions in order to remove human error from my own processes. That was a long procedure, with much study beforehand spent to confirm what exact areas would need to be removed or damaged without impairing any other functions. The procedure was, by these standards, a success.”
You make an affirmative sound. It still sounds horrible to you, but what’s done is done.
“And yet, when I received word that you had been injured, on death’s door, there was an emotional reaction,” His voice is completely monotone in its delivery, but it hits you with the same force as falling rubble. “I was…frightened by the prospect of your loss.”
Oh, Viktor.
“This was absurd. This reaction should not have been present, not after the careful procedure,” he says firmly, his voice a little louder, and if you were to try and guess his emotional state, you’d think that he sounds confused. “And so, I decided to conduct an experiment. I sent Blitzcrank to assist in efforts evacuating the injured and waited until I was certain of your survival and your move to this hospital. Then, I would come after hours, when none would object to my presence.”
“And what hypothesis were you testing?” You ask softly.
“That emotions resulting from long-term exposure to an individual become centralized and separate from usual emotion centres of the brain,” he replies. “I spent an hour with other injured individuals. There was no response. However, when I arrived at your bedside, I experienced minor distress. This requires further testing, but it would suggest that you continue to be a source of emotional stimuli, that reactions to you have become part of my thought processes, regardless of their lack of support by my emotional centers.”
You just about choke, a knot forming in your throat. “What does that mean, Viktor?” You ask, although you know the answer.
“In layman’s terms,” he says with the same tone as a man facing a firing squad, “I cannot get you out of my head.”
…you don’t realize you are crying until the tears start dripping onto your collarbone and into your ears. It's a silent sobbing of dawning horror, joy and despair so intertwined that you do not know when one starts and the other begins. You want to laugh - apparently your love was so strong that not even careful science could wipe it out - but it’s not a laughing matter. It’s definitely not funny. Instead, you swallow, turning your face into the pillow to wipe them away. “And what does that mean?” You ask quietly, trying to get your words out through the tears. “Another procedure to wipe me out of your mind?”
“No. A removal of the stimulus will be sufficient,” he looks down at you intently.
That is not a good expression. “Are you going to kill me?” You ask, but you are not afraid. If this is when you will die, you will face Lamb’s arrow gladly.
“No.” He leans back in his chair, tapping his flesh fingers once on his knee. “That will not be necessary. However, this is the last time you will see me. Any contact with you will be observation only, to be reduced to none in due course.”
Nope, crying is definitely still on the table. Slowly, you raise an aching arm to wipe at your face, no matter how your broken ribs scream in protest at the movement. “Viktor, I-”
He raises his hand to cut you off. “It is for the best and you know it.”
The horrible, horrible truth is that…it is. It impairs his mission to have you close, and the more you have him at your periphery, just barely in reach, the more it will hurt you to know that the man you loved is really gone. You have to tear off the bandage and accept it. “It still hurts,” you say, tears still rolling down your cheeks.
“I can fix that,” he offers, reaching over to wipe your cheeks dry. Whether that’s out of genuine care or routine, you don’t know, but you have to swallow and bite down on your tongue to not cry anymore.
It takes a moment for you to calm enough to speak, to bury the sadness away so that you can still talk. “No. It’s all I have left of who you were. Let me have it.”
He nods slowly. “I will leave you your emotions and foibles, little one.”
“You used to like that about me,” your voice is wet, even if it starts to fade with exhaustion.
He does not respond, but you think that he would have smiled at that, once.
“I met someone,” you finally say. It is hard to stay awake. Each blink takes longer for you to open your eyes again. "In the rubble."
“Who?” Viktor is genuinely curious, of course.
“Kindred. They're real,” your eyelashes flutter, tiredness tugging at you. “They were so kind. They asked me which I wanted, arrows or teeth.”
Viktor reaches down to tuck the blanket around you. “You chose the arrows.”
“Yes,” you force your eyes open. “You’re so sure of that?”
“You told me once that, beyond all things, you would greet death like an old friend,” he replies.
“And what about you?” You lie still as he folds the blanket under your chin, nestling you up. “Claws and teeth for you?”
“Yes,” he says, with no other words. You remember a poem he loved once. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.
It is fitting. If he is right that you are both part of each other’s thoughts and minds…then there will never be one without the other. Just like Kindred.
“Now rest.” He tucks the cannula back into your nose and slides his bare hand across your forehead. “The nurses do not know I am here. Do not tell them when you wake.”
“Thank you.” You tilt your head into his hand anyway, too tired and in pain to stop yourself.
He does not react to it. As much as you long for him to freeze and brush your hair behind your ear and kiss your forehead, he is still the Machine Herald. He draws his hand away and you hear the sound of leather sliding back on. “And change your emergency contact.”
“Sure, love,” you drawl, eyes closing.
He doesn’t get up for a moment. As you drift off to sleep, you think you feel - or maybe imagine - his fingers doing one last brush across your forehead.
(You wake to an empty hospital room and the nurses fussing around you. They check your temperature and pulse, take a blood sample, and confirm Viktor’s diagnosis.
“I see your emergency contact, Viktor Nikolavich, never showed,” the nurse asks at your discharge. “Would you like me to change it to someone else?”
You stare at the paper for a long moment. The finality of it is a bitter taste in your mouth.
“Take him off,” you say quietly. “It’s for the best.”
“Sounds like a right piece of work, in my opinion,” the nurse says, “if he doesn’t care enough about you to come see you in the hospital.”
It takes more effort than you’d like not to cry. “He does. That’s the problem.”
The nurse doesn’t understand, and as you slowly make your way back up to Piltover, your heart is heavy with a grief you cannot describe.
I cannot get you out of my head. I need to remove the stimulus. You will never see me again.
Your chest hurts. Whether it is the ribs or your broken heart is yet to be determined. With the nurse on one side of you, you hold onto the railing as the Howl lifts you back up to the surface.)
(In the distance, a metal man watches on a rooftop. His wild hair is tossed slightly in the wind, and he stares with unblinking amber eyes as the lift disappears into the Grey. He sees the figure inside holding onto the railing, their head hanging low. It is for the best, he tells himself. The Glorious Evolution cannot move forward without turning away from the past, without using those lessons to move forward.
That does not mean he will not note your absence, and perhaps even miss that which once filled it.)