Chapter Text
1
Scar is 17 years old and soon he’ll technically stop counting as a lost child of Zaun.
He had never considered himself lost, not really; he knew these streets better than anyone. He had been roaming the depths of Zaun ever since he could remember, all the way from the lowermost caves of the fissures, where the man-made metal formations eventually yield to forgotten ruins and sunken caverns, to the uppermost levels of the Promenade, where the bustling streets and lavish store fronts form a distorted satire of Piltover. Naturally tall and broad shouldered, most people tended to give him a wide berth. No one had ever taken care of him; he managed just fine. Most other Zaun’s orphans couldn’t say the same, not many of them made it this far.
So, he spends his days scavenging for food, or scavenging for anything that looks valuable enough that someone will exchange it for food. He stays far away from anyone who could make problems for him. He stays out of trouble.
A round stained-glass window decorates the façade of the building. Shards of green glass still clinging to the frame, and it reminds Scar of sharp, angry teeth, waiting to tear him up. Dry splotches of blood cover the floor just outside, old and cracking at the edges, and he hopes that since nobody has washed them off yet, nobody cares about this place anymore.
He steps inside the looted building, stepping over loose debris and more scattered shards. Anything of real value has been taken already–there’s nothing left on the shelfs except dust– but he wasn’t expecting to find anything spectacular anyway. He starts grabbing whatever grabs his eye off of the floor; random assortment of metal pieces and trinkets; chucking it inside his leather bag, and then takes a stride towards the large wooden counter to rummage through the cabinets, before a big metal pipe swings towards him, landing heavy on top of the counter and missing his head by an inch.
Scar leaps away, facing where the hit had come from, claws drawn out, but right in front of him is a kid. Small hands gripped tightly around a rusty pipe too heavy for him.
“Get out!” the kid yells, voice barely a rasp, but he doesn’t try to swing at him again. Scar has the feeling that he doesn’t have the energy or the strength to raise the pipe a second time.
Scar lifts his hands slowly, placatingly. It doesn’t matter if this place is occupied already, it doesn’t seem worth the trouble anyway.
He walks backwards towards the door, hands still raised, more for the boy’s sake than his, and takes a moment to properly look at him. He’s a lot younger than him, maybe 13, and on the shorter side. He looks like he hasn’t had a bath in days, and the dirt is starting to cling to his arms and hair, making the bright white coils matted. He has a dark angry bruise on his left cheek, and he’s still scowling at him. His knees are trembling.
Scar walks out of the abandoned shop, down the street, without looking back.
Maybe the kid is gone already, maybe he can get a proper look at the place this time around, Scar tells himself three days later as he walks up to the store. Maybe he’s guarding something, if he’s so protective about the place
The blood and glass are still there, untouched, and before he can persuade himself otherwise, he stalks inside half anticipating a pipe to his face.
It takes Scar a moment to find him, but the kid is also still there. He’s sitting in a corner, hidden between a wall and a leaning bookshelf, and he’s looking at the floor with a glassy stare, not really looking. Scar crouches down close to him, a good few feet between them, and the squeak of his boots finally manages to catch the boy's attention. He tenses immediately, his shoulders raising all the way to his ears, and he glares at Scar. His eyebags are even more noticeable than the last time, and he’s paler, too. Scar thinks that if he had waited a few more days, the kid would actually be gone by now.
Scar holds his gaze, and then reaches down to his leather satchel to take out half a loaf of bread. It’s old and dry, and he’s already cut out a good portion of mold spots out of it, but it’s what he has. The kid’s eyes widen, and as Scar leans forward to hand him the bread, he manages to look skeptical for a good couple seconds before he reaches out and shoves it into his face.
Scar sits down across from him, body turned half towards the door. He looks down at his bag, thinking for a moment, before taking out the other half of the bread and handing it to the kid. This time he doesn’t even try to act defensive and just takes it, eating it slightly slower than the last piece. He’s still wary and tired, but now at least he’s not going to die of hunger. For now, at least.
There are a few cuts along his arms, and that bruise that’s half covering his face isn’t looking any better than before. He’s been defending this place, but Scar gets the feeling that it’s not for any material reasons. Scar’s seen other kids with the same expression. Even more so these past few months.
Once he's done eating, the boy looks up and considers him for a minute. “Can you talk?” he asks, and Scar isn’t sure if he’s mocking him or not, but decides to answer anyway.
“Yeah, I can,” he responds. He never tried to learn how to talk like a human, but managed to learn well enough along the way. He had never been good at casual conversation, with other chireans or with people in general.
The kid nods, and then looks at him expectantly as if waiting for more bread. That was all the food he had though, gonna have to find something soon. Once he seems to realize he’s not getting any more food, the boy just stares at him. He’s still guarded, but his shoulders have dropped significantly. His expression is a bit more inquisitive now, as if he’s regarding him, evaluating.
“Do you live here?” Scar asks, scanning around the looted store. Anything of value that was here is long gone. Scar drops the pretense of actually looking to scavenge.
The kid’s gaze falters. “Used to, I guess,” he breathes out, before remembering himself and locking eyes with him again, setting his jaw.
Scar hums a reply. He isn’t surprised he’s managed to make it this far. The boy is gaunt and puny, and he’s been too grief stricken to actually look out for himself, but there’s a strength in his gaze, even now when he’s not trying to club him from behind.
In the distance, a pair of footsteps echo from outside, approaching their direction.
The second he registers the noise, Scar bolts from where he stands and crawls behind the wooden counter. He hunches down and clutches the handle of the knife holstered on his belt. He sees the kid look back at him bewildered, before his human ears eventually catch the noise too, and then his face goes even paler.
Now that they’re gotten closer, Scar can clearly hear two enforcers walking outside. The heels of their boots clank as they approach, and there’s a soft rasping sound, like fabric against concrete. They’re dragging something–someone? Along with them. Scar thinks he can see the hint of a blue uniform by the window out the corner of his eye.
The footsteps stop. He holds his breath.
One of the enforcers flicks a lighter.
“Ugh, what are you doing?” one of them says; rough voice.
The other enforcer takes a step and a piece of glass crunches beneath his boot, and then the door creaks open. “Just a second,” he says; breathy voice, lighter footsteps.
Scar watches as the kid retracts more and more into himself, barely hidden by the shelf. His face is in a state of panic mixed with anger, like how Scar had found him at first. He raises his index finger in front of his lips, the kid nods stiffly.
As far as he knows, the only exit there is is the one he came from, that and the broken window. He’s trapped. There are at least two enforcers, if not more nearby, and even if they’re alone, he couldn’t outrun both of them. Maybe if they’re only carrying batons, but he’d have to leave the kid behind. If the enforcers take a couple more steps inside, they’ll see them. Maybe they’re planning to rendezvous here with more enforcers. Maybe they’re searching for something. Maybe they’re just messing with them. They can’t hide forever.
The smell of cigar wafts in, and Scar prays to Janna neither he nor the kid have to cough. He slowly unsheathes his knife from the holster.
“Put it out already, man. Come on.”
The enforcer groans and takes another step forward. Scar hears a low burning hiss, and then the butt of the cigar lands close to where he’s hiding, right next to his boot.
He hears the enforcer walk back to the door.
“Fine. Let’s leave this place already.”
“Fucking finally. That was your third one in half an hour.”
“Yeah, yeah. Who asked you.”
Their footsteps march on until they eventually recede, walking up the street as they drag their cargo.
Scar counts to fifty, and then does it again before getting up. He slowly walks to the broken window to stick his head out.
The street is empty now, but Scar knows it’s time to go before they decide to come back. He sheathes his knife and looks behind, and the kid is standing by the counter, looking down at a cigar burn that has been charred onto the wood. He brushes a finger over it, taking only some of the ash away. He tries again, and then again, harder, but the black mark won’t vanish.
Scar shifts to face him completely, bending down a bit to look at him.
“You’ve got a name?” he asks.
The kid gazes up at him and doesn’t wait to answer this time. “Ekko,” he says.
Scar hums.
“Let’s get out of here, Ekko,” he says, and they step out of that maw and into the street.