Chapter Text
The air hung heavy with the acrid scent of Zaun’s polluted waters. Steam hissed from the nearby factories, curling into the sky and casting a hazy, yellowish glow over the pier. On a rickety crate sat Viktor, his gaunt frame hunched over a battered notebook. His grease-stained hands moved quickly, sketching intricate designs, his sharp eyes scanning his work with the intensity of someone who refused to let his surroundings define him. His patched clothes were neat, a reflection of a meticulousness that went beyond mere survival.
The sound of hurried footsteps broke the rhythm of the machinery. A courier boy darted through the clutter of scrap heaps and discarded pipes, clutching an envelope. Its gold seal gleamed, incongruous in the grimy light.
“Viktor!” the boy called out, his breath ragged from the effort.
Viktor looked up, startled by the intrusion. “Yes, that’s me,” he said, his voice cautious. “What is it?”
The boy held out the envelope, his eyes wide with curiosity. “This came for you. Straight from Piltover.”
For a moment, Viktor hesitated, wiping his hands on his trousers before accepting the envelope. It felt heavier than it should. His fingers traced the gold seal—the unmistakable emblem of the Academy of Piltover. His chest tightened.
“Thank you,” Viktor said quietly.
The boy shrugged and sprinted off, leaving Viktor alone with the mysterious missive. He stared at it for several seconds, his mind a flurry of possibilities, before carefully breaking the seal. His hands trembled as he unfolded the letter and began to read.
Dear Viktor,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the Academy of Piltover. Due to the extraordinary quality of your submitted work, you have been awarded a full scholarship. We eagerly anticipate the contributions your ingenuity will bring to our institution.
Sincerely,
Professor Heimerdinger
The words seemed to blur as Viktor lowered the letter. For a long moment, he simply stared at the paper, his mind grappling with the reality of it. After years of dreaming, sketching, and building in the shadows of Zaun, his efforts had found a foothold in Piltover.
“The Academy,” Viktor murmured, the words barely audible. His grip on the letter tightened, and a faint smile crept across his face. It was small, but it was genuine. He had gotten into college.
That evening, Viktor sat at his makeshift workbench, the acceptance letter carefully placed beside a half-finished mechanical prototype. The faint hum of machinery filled the air, but his thoughts were elsewhere. His gaze shifted from the prototype to the letter, and back again, as excitement warred with doubt.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke his reverie. Stanislav, a gruff mechanic with grease-streaked hands and a perpetual scowl, stood at the doorway. He crossed his arms, eyeing Viktor with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.
“You’ve been staring at that paper for hours,” Stanislav said. “What is it? Some rich Piltover bastard’s rejection?”
Viktor didn’t look up. “No. Quite the opposite.”
Stanislav raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “Let’s see it, then.”
Wordlessly, Viktor handed him the letter. Stanislav read it quickly, his eyes narrowing slightly. When he finished, he handed it back with a grunt.
“Hmph,” Stanislav said, leaning against the workbench. “Guess they’ve finally realized what you’re worth.”
“Or,” Viktor countered, his tone dry, “they just need fresh ideas to exploit.”
Stanislav let out a short laugh. “Does it matter? You’re getting out of this pit. That’s what counts.”
Viktor nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Yes. But I’ll come back. I won’t forget where I started—or what needs fixing.”
Stanislav’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile. “Big dreams, boy. Let’s see if Piltover’s ready for you.”
The next morning, Viktor stood at the edge of the railway platform, his small bag slung over one shoulder. Around him, Zaun roared with its usual chaos: the hiss of steam pipes, the clatter of cart wheels over cobblestones, and the distant hum of machinery. Yet Viktor’s attention was fixed on the sleek Piltover-bound train, its polished brass and steel gleaming in the dim light.
A small crowd had gathered to see him off. His neighbors and workshop colleagues offered a mix of encouragement and skepticism.
“Don’t let those Piltover snobs walk all over you!” a mechanic called, his voice gruff but warm.
“Yeah, and bring some of that fancy Piltover tech back with you!” another added, grinning.
Viktor nodded politely, his smile faint but genuine. His gaze drifted to the edge of the group, where Stanislav stood with his arms crossed, his usual scowl softened just enough to reveal pride. After a moment, the older man stepped forward, holding a small, battered toolbox.
“Here,” Stanislav said, pressing the toolbox into Viktor’s hands. “For when their fancy tools break, and you need to fix things the proper way.”
Viktor ran his fingers over the worn metal, the edges polished smooth by years of use. His grip tightened as he met Stanislav’s gaze. “Thank you,” Viktor said, his voice steady. “For everything.”
Stanislav cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “Don’t start getting sentimental now,” he muttered. “Just... don’t forget where you came from.”
“I won’t,” Viktor replied, the words carrying quiet conviction.
Stanislav gave a short nod, stepping back into the crowd as the train’s whistle pierced the air. The doors hissed open, and Viktor stepped aboard. He paused for a moment in the doorway, turning back to take in the faces of those who had gathered. The crowd cheered and waved, their voices mingling with the clamor of Zaun.
As the train pulled away, Viktor stood by the window, watching the smoky skyline of Zaun shrink into the distance. He clutched the toolbox tightly, a reminder of the people and the city that had shaped him.
Zaun was behind him now, but Viktor knew he wasn’t leaving it behind. Not truly.
The train from Zaun hissed to a halt at Piltover’s central station, its polished exterior gleaming under the bright midday sun. Viktor stepped off, his cane tapping against the smooth stone platform. The air here was cleaner, lighter, and carried a faint metallic tang, a reminder of Piltover’s gleaming machinery. Around him, the station buzzed with activity. Laughter and chatter filled the space as students hauled luggage and carried bundles of books, their excitement palpable.
Viktor adjusted the strap of his bag and joined the flow of people heading toward the sprawling campus of the Academy. The gates loomed ahead, ornate ironworks twisting into intricate designs that spoke of both artistry and engineering. Beyond them, a grand courtyard stretched out, flanked by towering buildings with glittering windows and gleaming brass fixtures. The sight of it all made Viktor pause. It was unlike anything he had ever seen in Zaun.
Taking a deep breath, he tapped his way toward the main building, following the signs that led to the registration desk. Inside, the space was a whirlwind of new students, their voices echoing off the marble walls. A long line snaked toward a counter, where overworked clerks handed out papers and keys. Viktor waited patiently, leaning lightly on his cane.
When his turn came, he stepped forward and handed the clerk his letter of acceptance. The clerk, a young man with glasses perched precariously on his nose, flipped through a stack of documents before producing a key and a map of the campus.
“You’ve been assigned to Dormitory B, Room 214,” the clerk said, sliding the items across the counter.
“Is it a single or shared?” Viktor asked, his voice calm but curious.
“A twin room,” the clerk replied, already moving on to the next student. “We don’t have information on your roommate yet. You’ll meet them soon enough.”
Viktor frowned slightly but nodded, tucking the key and map into his bag. Navigating the campus proved more challenging than he expected. The map was detailed but overwhelming, the corridors and stairwells of the dormitory building a labyrinth of polished floors and uniform doors.
After several wrong turns, Viktor stopped in frustration, leaning against the wall as he tried to orient himself.
“You look lost,” came a voice, light and teasing.
Viktor turned to see a girl standing a few feet away. She had wild, blue hair that fell over one shoulder and bright, mischievous eyes. Her outfit—a mix of utility belts, patches, and brightly coloured fabrics—stood out starkly against the neat uniforms of the other students.
“I am,” Viktor admitted, holding up the map. “Room 214. This place is... extensive.”
She grinned, stepping closer and snatching the map from his hand. “Extensive? That’s a polite way to put it. The layout’s terrible.” She studied the map for a moment, then nodded. “Alright, follow me. I know this place better than most.”
He hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Thank you.”
The girl led the way with a casual confidence, her boots clicking against the floor. As they walked, she glanced over her shoulder. “So, what’s your deal? Zaunite, yeah? You don’t see many of us up here.”
“Zaunite, yes,” Viktor replied, his tone measured. “Here on scholarship.”
“Fancy,” she said, smirking. “Well, welcome to Piltover, Zaunite. Name’s Jinx, by the way.”
“Viktor,” he said.
She grinned wider. “Viktor. Alright, Viktor, this is you.” She stopped in front of a door marked 214 and handed him the key.
“Thank you, Jinx,” Viktor said, unlocking the door and stepping inside. The room was simple but well-appointed, with two identical beds, desks, and wardrobes. One side was already occupied—an open suitcase on the bed, neatly folded clothes stacked beside it.
“Looks like your roommate’s already here,” Jinx said, leaning against the doorframe. “Good luck with that. Piltover types can be... uptight.”
“I’ll manage,” Viktor said with a faint smile.
Jinx gave a mock salute. “See you around, Viktor.” She turned and strode down the hall, her laughter echoing as she disappeared around a corner.
Viktor closed the door behind her, setting his bag down on the unclaimed bed. He glanced at the other side of the room, his mind already racing with possibilities. Whoever his roommate was, it wouldn’t matter. His focus was on his work—and the future he intended to build.
Viktor took a deep breath, letting the quiet of the room settle around him. The scent of polished wood and the faint metallic tang of the city outside calmed his nerves. This was it—his first step toward the realization of a dream years in the making. The days spent in the dim light of his workshop, the long nights full of sketches, calculations, and the rhythmic clatter of metal on metal had led him here. To a place where he could learn, grow, and, most importantly, create.
He reached for the small notebook in his bag, a battered collection of half-finished theories, sketches of gears and circuits, notes in his meticulous handwriting. Flipping through it, Viktor’s eyes settled on a page that had been etched with his most ambitious design yet—a prototype that, if perfected, could revolutionize the way machinery and man interacted. The blueprint for an interface that could integrate with the human body itself.
A noise at the door pulled him from his reverie. His roommate had arrived.