Chapter Text
Surely you’d have found your soulmate by now with this damn eye.
You grumble as you think about it, pacing down the road with a stack of papers clutched in your arms.
In all your years of networking, working for the Piltover Daily, where secrets are spilled and details are shared, never have you once encountered someone with a similar mark. It frustrated you.
But initially, even despite the pain of it all, you’d at least been excited about the scar. It meant distinction, it meant hope, it meant that whatever relationship you were going to have, it would be a good one. Easy way to find the love of your life, easy way to bond, easy, clear red string.
After all, who on the topside have you seen so far with the same scar?
When the question came up, you think that it was at that point you were supposed to take the hint.
No longer did it mean distinction in the best way, nor did it indicate the prospect of an easier life. Though you’d realized it too late, and by then, damage had already been done.
Like a target painted onto your face—there wasn’t anyone in Piltover with a scar like the one you had, and the citizens of topside made it clear.
Your eyebrow twitches in the present when you spot a figure crossing the street just ahead before they can pass by you. Jerk.
You sigh, running your middle and ring finger between your eyes, sliding against the bridge of your nose to relieve tension. Not wanting to end the day on a bad note, you try to forget the look of disgust on their face and carry on.
A few more steps, a few more steps, then a couple of more steps. Now repeat. The low mumble comes about when more unwanted thought starts to trickle in, unforgetting of the way that the stranger’s lip curled upon shifting their gaze to your facial deformity. Perhaps it doesn’t faze you as much anymore, previous memories of the jeering and abuse being considerably worse—replayed too many times in your head during the darkest moments to draw a few more tears out.
But it all remains in your system and lingers for what seems like forever. You’ve just learned to shoulder the toll it takes on you, mitigating the mental bruise as much as possible.
After all, you’re familiar with what your scar means in Piltover. Perhaps too familiar.
Because Piltover meant progress, and progress meant doing things smarter, more effectively. Under the table dealings, illegal drug cartels swept underneath everybody’s noses, corruption disguised as lending a helping hand to the city on the cusp of making a breakthrough. You’d heard things about a certain Jayce Talis, passing by the Academy. Even someone like him, toiling away at a furnace all day, making hammers to sell, wrenches to fit into his pocket, had only calloused palms, forearm scars, large knuckles that cracked every hour or so—traits of an artisan.
The woman at the market who’s missing a finger and was found nearly dead after three weeks, stranded, has softened wrinkles, a face filled with freckles and sun-soaked skin. She has the traits of a laborer.
But you? The worst anyone’s ever done is raise their voice at you. No slaps, no hitting, no spanking. You were well-mannered, tidy, responsible, punctual—the perfect model of a Piltover house child. Tended to your duties with a certain diligence that reflected the brilliant mind behind it all and never complained once. What praise you would receive from your teachers, your peers, your parents.
Once, the only internship opportunity under the Piltover Daily’s executive director had been scored by you, and suddenly you could see it—your life laid out in front of you. After the months-long journey, you’d joined a close associate in the broadcast room for a tour, and had been told that, in a week, you were ready to start as a fresh anchor.
Then, it happened.
And you know what it meant.
Your soulmate had to be from the undercity.
Initially you’d mulled over the possibility, denial creeping into every notion that included them. They couldn’t be from there, there was no possible way—a strong conviction that you hoped to be true.
You were the child of a respectable Piltover family with connections in nearly every single major industry; you were supposed to be the next big on-camera news anchor, with a resume your colleagues only dreamed of and a reputation that proceeded yourself; you were supposed to have the perfect Piltoverian soulmate—charming, beautiful, neat, worthy—and continue living the lifestyle for the rest of your mortal life.
It was supposed to be yours, all of it. From your background to your drive, everything proved it to be true until some cruel twist of fate linked you with some anonymous figure everybody hated. They hated them until they hated you and suddenly everything crumbled apart.
A stumble hauls you back to reality, feet tripping over a jutting pebble on the road. Your heels click together, sending you tumbling forwards with a lurch of your body. Cursing all the way down, until your head is level with your waist, you stomp forwards, unstable, a trail of loud footsteps amateurishly guiding you to balance once again.
A sigh of relief comes swiftly after you regain your composure, and continue walking.
Three blocks away from your destination, your mind begins to wander again. You grit your teeth when you remember a certain scornful look given to you by a chief-in-staff—how viciously his chestnut eyes narrowed. A quiet fuck slips out of your mouth when a soft throb makes a home inside your skull. With each silent thrum comes a new memory, a slight sear pressing at the front of your brain when it comes.
Every step you take is synchronized with the metronome.
Left, right, left, right.
Pulse, pulse, pulse, pulse.
You were so close to becoming the next cover of tomorrow’s newspaper with how much attention surrounded your situation. It started in the pocket of your office, but as masses weaved in and out, rumors inevitably spread and soon you’d heard that your name had graced the tongues of Piltover’s elite.
It’s how the industry worked—all big stories in the city were based on catty lies.
You think that you would have known.
News travels fast. You wrench your fingers over a hand, the pads of the digits pressing against the scarred backside. It always does.
Another step and you’re suddenly pulled away from the office, yanked back into a shadow blurred at the edges.
Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if you hadn’t fought this hard for your dream.
Blackness fades into a candle’s flickering light and a sense of dread threatens to swallow you whole—but you keep walking. Wobbly motion hardens into sharpened corners and you dare to look despite the fear that creeps up your throat.
The outskirts of town are rugged, unkempt and uncared for with plains of weeds and those who have lost their way. It’s sad, almost desolate, but the sky is navy blue and clearer than you’ve ever seen with its twinkling stars and shimmering moon. Though you know that’s not what you’re here for.
Your head dips once, twice, arms extended as you pay your respects to a headstone sat at the foot of the field. Incense burns beside you and you thank the soul kind enough to grace the evening.
You knew what happened to people like you—explains why you can still find ruined shoes at the bottoms of cliffs and at the bases of trees. Some self-induced, some not, but it mattered not, at least in Piltover, for all undercity “scum” and those associated with it were always thought of as lesser than.
One headstone. Only one headstone and over seventy pairs of shoes found, all of varying sizes and shapes. Working at a news station at least gave you some edge over sensitive information, though it wasn’t a good thing.
So many secrets to be thought of, yet you’d be dead if you spilled even one.
The pounding in your head stops at this, but the sickness lingers, and you continue walking.
A familiar light shines in the distance, the window of a third-floor apartment bright and littered with little sticky notes. You take it as a beacon, a welcoming ward that invites you to draw closer, to stay. As you approach a worn wooden door at the base of the building, frame etched with homey carvings of tiny foxes, your shoulders relax and you can feel the tension seep out of you.
It opens with a click, knob turned, and you push to get inside, a blast of warm air the first thing that greets you. Despite the longing to stay a little longer in the heated lobby, you’d rather be home, clean and wrapped in the cover of a wool blanket.
Your stomach growls, and the thought of a nice bowl of soup follows.
Hastily making your way up the stairs of the tower, you dig through a pocket to produce a key just as you come to your floor and turn a corner. Jiggling it in the lock for a moment, it eventually turns and the handle gives way, allowing for you to open the door to your home.
Home.
Something that you thought you’d never have again after the incident. Given that you were disgraced, perhaps fated to never find your way in Piltover again, it seemed probable. But, unexpectedly, you found some kindness within the unforgiving society of the topside.
“I’m back.” Your call rings out in an empty hallway leading to a dimly lit kitchen. “Got the papers, too.” A feminine voice answers back, her muffled response filtered through the wall.
“Perfect timing! I was just finishing up dinner.”
The comforting scent of gently boiled broth wafts into the lobby of the apartment, tugging the edges of your lips upwards. It’s enough to send a wave of warmth through your figure, bringing a tingle to the icy tips of your fingers as they set your stack of papers down shakily.
Unburdening yourself from your coat, you shrug off the article and rush to the kitchen, curiously popping your head over to witness the majesty of supper.
“Almost done, Tiana?” She turns to you, offering a ladleful of soup and a smile.
“Mmhm! Let me know if it needs more salt, though. Here.” You happily walk over and take the utensil from her hand to drink, pursing your lips in consideration after.
“Just a bit, but otherwise it’s perfect.”
“Gotcha!” Making the final adjustments, she hums, satisfied. Soon enough, the pot is lifted off the stove and sits on a wooden plaque to cool down as Tiana grabs two bowls from the cupboard above.
“So,” she says, “Anything new?” You shake your head and shrug at the question, eye following a small drop of broth when it escapes the ladle.
“Nah. Same old, same old. Some self-proclaimed pioneers of progress with too much gunk in their brains wanna make a difference.” The brunette giggles in response.
“I mean dreamers will be dreamers, won’t they?” She hands you your bowl of soup and gestures to a cut loaf of bread next to the pot. “It may seem dumb at times, but I think it’s rather endearing that they’re still able to hope.”
“Maybe.” You sit down and your spoon comes up to meet your mouth, hungrily overtaken by your teeth and tongue. A hum rumbles through your chest at the flavor, pearls of seasoning bursting inside a soup that balances it out.
“This soup is real nice, T,” you comment, shoveling another spoonful between your lips, a bite of bread following swiftly after, “What’s in it?”
“I went down to the farmer’s market and got some really nice stock. Some veg, too. Tried one of my mama’s recipes—got it from her old cookbook,” Tiana chirps, finished with pouring her own bowl and fetching two pieces of bread, “Haven’t been able to homemake a meal recently, so I thought I’d put aside some time this evening to. Long night ahead of me, though.”
“What’s on the agenda? Reviewing the papers I got?”
“Ah, well that, and prepping for a new course I gotta teach in spring.” She sighs through a mouthful of bread crust, crunching tiredly. “Heimerdinger’s assigned me to the newest biotech class—a joint course along with Viktor. It's fun, I think. Or at least it’s supposed to be. I’m excited to meet the new students, at least!”
“You’re working with Piltover’s brightest—I think it’ll be a good experience for you. And a little bit of extra money never hurts anyone.” You slurp soup contentedly as Tiana grins, laughing gently.
“I suppose it doesn’t.”
The rest of the evening is spent eating through the pot of soup, doing dishes, and reviewing files. You comment on some familiar faces on the roster, having met them in your time at the office. Some were nice, charitable people from rich families that deserved a place in high society. You assumed the commonplace individuals—those that hadn’t the opportunity to taste overwhelming wealth in their lifetime—were the same. There was no basis for you to judge them upon, but humility was a trait that frequently popped up in those masses.
However, your eye takes upon a squint as you lay a finger on a certain auburn-haired individual.
“I know that guy.” It comes from your mouth as a slow drawl, the realization making your lip curl. Tiana blinks at you, head tilted.
“You do? How?” she asks and you scowl.
“Avoided me when I was walking towards him. Bastard crossed the street just before we crossed paths” The brunette cringes at the mention, lip curled and nose scrunched.
“Oh… that’s disappointing,” she sighs, making a small note of it in her agenda, “I’ll keep tabs on him and report it if anything happens, maybe have a little chat. It’s a shame such brilliant minds waste away in hatred. It rots the brain, I tell you.” She pauses for a moment, thinking.
“Of course there is no shame in holding grudges, but when you cling onto hatred, it gives them power.” Tiana taps her pen on your head. “Because we know that deep within resentment resides fear. Just as sadness drives anger.”
“You’re really wise, T.” You lean on her shoulder, smiling. “You know that right?” She chuckles and rests her head on your own with a small huff.
“Yes, I do. I don’t think I would be if I denied it.” You giggle, wrapping your arms around her waist, gently squeezing.
“God, I love you, T.”
“Mmm, love you too.”
Comfortable silence settles in the atmosphere when your laughter dies down, pulling you into quiet, introspective thought. It persists, undulating and calm, until you grow restless, lifting yourself off of Tiana and stretching, a quiet groan escaping your lips when you feel something click back into place.
“I think I’m gonna go to bed,” you yawn, eye watering at the sensation, “G’night. Don’t stay up too late. I know you scientist-types really love to do that.” She smiles and gets up to press a soft kiss on your cheek.
“I won’t, don’t worry. And sleep well, (Y/N).” You give her an appreciative nod, then whisk yourself away to the confines of your room to rest for what remains of the evening.
Hopefully, the hallway light will be out, and you’ll hear the sound of footsteps before you can make it to bed.
The next morning, you’re shaken awake by a soft jostle that comes from your right. A groan exits your chapped lips, broken and muddled by an unused throat as you stir, groggy.
“Sorry for the impromptu notice.” Through your bleary vision you recognize the outline of Tiana by your side. “But there’s been a last minute change to my schedule, so I’m afraid I need to leave early. Breakfast is on the counter and uhm, if you need juice, just ask Florence by the market when you’re off to work. He owes me one.”
“Mmf.” You extend a lazy thumbs-up and offer another groan as a response.
“Sounds like confirmation enough!” A quick smooch to the forehead comes swiftly after, then, the click of boots on hardwood. “Then I’ll be off. Don’t miss me too much!”
“Love you,” you call after her, to which she giggles, “Have fun with your research.”
“I will, don’t worry!”
A trail of steps follow her receding figure, your eye following her until she disappears around the corner, hand lingering for a moment longer than her head to close your door. The path continues all the way down the hallway until it’s cut off by the sound of the apartment door closing, and a small click of a lock.
You manage another grumble before you haul yourself up from bed, rubbing at your temples. The room feels oddly empty without Tiana and her liveliness, the normal hustle and bustle of the atmosphere replaced with an unfamiliar peace. A feeling of distaste seizes you, but there isn’t really much that can be done, so you leave it to go get ready.
Minutes later, you’re dressed and in the living room with breakfast in one hand and a book in the other. You get through two chapters of The Storm and the Sabre by the time you’re finished with your eggs. You’re closing in on a turning point, where Katarina begins to realize her feelings, when you down your glass of water.
If only it were that easy.
Your hand unconsciously drifts to your scar, fingers running lightly against the rough ridges of the deformity. Running the digits over the dips and curves you’d known for so long, your lips come to press together in a tight line. It’s been a long time since you’ve actually thought about doing something about your situation, still turned off from the idea of visiting, not to even mention living, in the undercity.
Though you had no personal vendetta against citizens in the underground, you were realistic enough to recognize that under the protection of Tiana you were well-off. Forgoing something that you knew you probably were never going to obtain remains the best option, even if it means loneliness.
You scoff at the thought of a “Piltie” in the undercity while grabbing your coat from its hanger. What a reaction that would bring to the city of progress, one of their own (albeit a generous term in your case) abandoning ship for a life seemingly incomparable to the glory of the topside.
When you click open the lock and exit the apartment, the thought is left at the door, to be ignored for the day, then perhaps picked back up again upon your return. Pulling your hood up over your head, the door locks again with a twist of your key, and you’re soon descending the stairs, feet traveling swiftly to meet each step.
Breezing past the foyer and taking to the sidewalk, your pace is quick, tailored to the air of hurriedness that fogs up Piltover’s mornings. Maybe you would fit in more if you pretended to be busy, acted as if you needed to be somewhere, and had a purpose. It at least spares you from nasty looks thrown your way in the most sensitive hours of day, anyway.
Your foot crosses the last stone tile on fifteenth street, just a glance away from its corner bakery, the breaking point between the market and the Academy, when you realize that you’re missing your bag. You stifle a string of curses daring to erupt from your throat with a pinch to your arm, and take a deep breath.
It’s a five minute brisk walk, you reassure yourself, It’ll be fine. It’s fine. You’re going to get your juice after and everything will be okay.
Just as you turn on your heel, you hear a soft, split-second rumble in the distance and notice how the ground shakes for a moment. You barely have enough time to register the movement until the murmur of noise grows—
—and a loud bang explodes through the city.
Immediately, you crumble to your knees, hands clutched over your ears as your body tremors violently from the impact. Sweat beads the sides of your face, nerve endings completely shaken, vision displaced. Your jaw unhinges and you realize you can’t feel it anymore.
The world sounds like static.
High-pitched ringing, fuzzy, unclear, muffled. Voices fail to break through the veil of discord and it’s the sound of pure terror.
You try to reason with yourself, to take a few to calm down, but only buzzes come through instead of coherent words inside your head and you feel panicked.
Trying to claw at your throat with your elbows as the vessel closes in on itself, your breaths grow short and labored, busied with the thought of what just happened instead of performing as they had mere moments ago.
Your eye comes back before your ears and you take the opportunity to look around desperately at the crowd, thralls of people flooding down the streets away from the explosion. Seeing the crowd, something prompts you to stand, hold yourself upright enough so your spine doesn’t wobble, and gravitate towards the emptying space in front of the blown-out building. A maddened shuffle that your system can’t process until you’ve reached the face of the catastrophe.
Rubble litters the ground, pieces of concrete scattered across the cobbled road. Your eye traces the mess back to the origin of the chaos—an apartment, a study of some kind, torn and sinking outwards, oozing ruin. Broken wreckage unfolds from a large room, spilling from the building two floors above as it continues to crumble. Shrapnel hangs loosely to a desk half-eaten by blue fire and you think you can see what remains of a map of Piltover until your vision drifts down.
Your vision drifts down. To the wreckage it goes, to the pieces of the broken space left behind by a cruel twist of fate, down to the ground. To the ground, to the cracks in the wall shattered by destruction.
Then to a hand, buried underneath. Limp. Grey. Cold. Reaching towards the sky in a silent plea.
Then a pair of eyes. Deep sea green with flecks of silver but matte, lifeless.
You almost don’t recognize it. Her. Almost, but you wish you hadn’t.
A thought breaks through the static.
Tiana?
The name hauls your figure, stiff, into a pause in order to feel the shock you should be feeling. Gears in your mind turn slowly—too slowly—but your heart, impatient and wild, impulsive, catches up with the moment.
It screams at you when it begins to pound louder, faster, deeper—the thrumming beat sending quakes through your chest.
Run. Go. Leave.
Yet you just stand there. You stand, idiotically, unable to tear your eye away from the dead sea irises that stare right back, unblinking. Your knees buckle and bile shoots up your throat until it threatens to spill, hauling your movement, but you persist.
You persist and it burns until it all falls apart.
Something clicks inside your head and the world comes down on your shoulders.
When was the last time you’d felt this kind of pain?
Perhaps then, you think, when the vision of a darkened room flashes before you.
It was a quiet night.
Prickles of starlight dotted the clear sky, a soft, restless wind pushing the stagnant Piltover to move with the rest of the world. The streets were laid barren, devoid of presence in the high district. Neatly paved pathways drowned in moonlight, shadows carefully kept off the walkway, secluded in the alleys, cracks, and crevices that littered places unseen.
But the universe never recognized peace, or hope in darkness. It looked upon your resting figure, tucked away in warm blankets, snug, overcome with satisfying slumber. In Piltover you stayed, in Piltover you lived, in Piltover you thrived.
And then it looked upon the river, watching blood seep into its waters.
You felt your left eye tear itself out of its socket the moment the first ripple came.
There was no time to scream, nor to react. No thought, no rationale, no logic, just the sickeningly metallic scent of blood—the crimson pool that stained your cotton covers. Kerosene fueled the flames that licked at your nerves, striking toxins against the mark, seeping into your flesh.
Your throat tore with the silent screams drawn out of your lungs as you clawed at your shriveling skin, the surface rotting and peeling with every passing second. What was left of your vision blurred in hot tears as you gazed, horrified, at the bloodied eyeball sitting on your lap, unmoving, unblinking, staring at you as if it hadn’t been a part of your body mere seconds before.
The looming shadow of death cascaded over your being as blood poured from your face.
Death.
The idea that swallowed you. Left you cold and haunted within its stomach. Before this, you had no reason to know it.
Now, everything depended on it.
You considered, in that moment, the karmic retribution your family was in for as a probable cause for the curse. Flashbacks set your mind into overdrive when you recall a flurry of incidents unintended for you to witness. The smell of crime, drugs and money in the same room, wide-blown pupils, illicit dealings struck with the shake of a hand, your father’s “wine room,” your mother’s vanity. A child, innocent and curious, with their grip on a gun and a hole in the floor.
Maybe there was a reason for everything after all.
The thought came, washing over you like a wave to a polyp of coral, and then there was peace. Peace unlike anything you had ever known. Submerged in the water, unnamed, unknown toxins eating away at your flesh, but senses muted enough so that only small twinges nipped your nerves.
It led to immediate acceptance, your missing eye evidence enough that all your speculation in the past had been in fact correct. There was no more fighting anymore. No more half-hazard excuses as to why your hip was bruised one day and your arm was fractured the other.
High-class citizens knew better than to be that careless.
You’d never fallen faster, a week after your wound had mostly healed and the police had found no evidence of a break-in. That only left one dreaded conclusion (you frown in distaste as the image of your father’s face flashes across your vision), and you were promptly cast out from the elite society of the topside.
You thought you knew better.
It was at this point that you stopped calling the future “destiny”—
—and instead deemed it hopeless.
But, despite its quality, it led you to Tiana. It led you to momentary happiness. Mornings and afternoons at the fish market, as a laborer. Simple sandwiches and canned goods, free juice and favors exchanged, warm soup on especially cold days.
Perhaps it could lead you to someplace else.
Just not Piltover.
The notion is kinder than you expected.
The buzz of static fades away and you regain a bit of strength in your limbs, enough to push you towards where you need to be. In knowing that there is truly nothing left for you, you take Tiana’s apartment, readying yourself to pack your bags and rush out of the city at dusk.
Hope, you think, There is hope.
A half-sun peeks out from behind the horizon, streaks of red and orange pulled towards the descending star, painting the evening sky with furious passion. In the distance, the outline of the undercity is clear, blackened buildings sharpened with the light’s eminence.
The sight of your new home doesn’t sit right with you, though there isn’t much room to complain. Your hand tightens around your bag and a finger fidgets with the clasp of the mask you have in the other, a last burst of uncertainty daring to make way in your resolve.
It takes a minute for it to dissipate, and when it does, a sense of liberation washes over you.
You take a breath, lungs filling themselves with what may very well be the last of Piltoverian air.
Tiana.
You cross the River Pilt with a hand on the clasp of your mask—
I miss you.
—and step into Zaun, reborn.