Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

No matter how many times he blinks, the ceiling above him doesn’t disappear. Neither does the ache in his leg, but it’s the kind of pain he’s long grown used to. He lifts his hand up in front of his face, examining it once again.

The rune carved into it looks more like a scar than a brand, and it stopped glowing several minutes ago, but it didn’t disappear, taunting him with its presence. He brushes it with his fingers, an echo of the touch of someone else. Two souls split apart, forever bound to seek each other, across every timeline, every reality.

There’s a butterfly on the windowsill - an unusual sight for Zaun, but a pleasant one. Its wings flutter before it flies away, purple, white and blue, the pattern reminiscent of the touch of the arcane.

“Never thought I would live to see the day when you’re slacking off, wiseacre,” a soft voice calls out.

Golden eyes turn, searching for the source of it. Viktor clenches his fist, covering the rune and offers the woman standing in the doorway a large yawn in response. She huffs, and throws a rag she was carrying - directly at him. He yelps in surprise when it hits his face.

“That’s child abuse,” he calls out, and his voice sounds foreign to his own ears. Too young. Too emotional. Too human. He grimaces. Perhaps he should’ve expected that his first words after dying wouldn’t be grand and majestic, but he could’ve chosen something better.

The rune. The light surrounding them. Jayce’s terrified face and his own, calm in quiet acceptance. He remembers holding onto his partner, their foreheads put together, and slowly caressing his forearm in an attempt to calm his nerves. They were dying, together, faced with the reality of just how much time and potential they lost due to their own hubris.

And then Viktor woke up in his childhood home, coughing his lungs out because of the fumes, so strong and thick they could be mistaken for fog.

“Okay, boy-genius.” She sits on the bed, and he instinctually skitters closer to the wall to offer her more space. “I told you not to overwork yourself.”

There’s something about how the world is wired that makes it so easy to fall into a routine long-forgotten. Viktor hasn’t seen his mother since he turned twenty six, with her dying while he was experiencing - for the first time - being someone’s equal, dancing with Jayce after solving a particular equation that had been bothering them for a month.

And yet it’s in his nature to recognise her, and then recognise himself - as her son. Something he hasn’t been for a long time.

She would’ve hated Jayce. When Viktor turned twenty seven, they celebrated it in the lab. Jayce brought him enough sweets to last a lifetime, and then they spent fifty-seven hours on their feet, doing math and researching Hextech. If Viktor’s mother was there to see that, she would’ve crucified both of them.

The memory is bittersweet now. He can’t help but feel that it’s tainted with how present Jayce was for the first few years, and how distant he became once politics took a hold of him.

“I’m fine,” he insists when his mother nudges him playfully. He’s always carrying a part of her with him. He’s even named after her, Viktor and Viktorie. An echo of her love.

She raises her eyebrows at him, and he scoffs. A risky move, but she settles on ruffling his hair and putting their foreheads together.

“Never fight your battles alone, firelight.”

“It was a dream.” He tells her, then looks at his hands, as discreetly as he can manage. They’re human, the skin sickly pale, but it’s his, nothing of the Hexcore remaining.

“A bad one? Or a good one?” She asks. He huffs, then sits up and pats her shoulders. She leans backwards, and he starts braiding her hair. His fingers never quite forgot how to do that. Perhaps that’s what humans are made of. A lot of phantom pains and muscle memory.

“A dream,” he insists. “Dreams cannot be bad nor good. Their nature is only defined by human feelings, but despite that, they’re just a fabrication of reality our brains create. There is no morality attached to them.”

“If I wanted philosophy, I would’ve gone to listen to the Council’s useless rambling.” He tugs at her hair and she frowns at him, but the smile on her lips remains. “Very well, then. According to how you perceive it, was it good?”

Jayce’s arms are around him, and he’s cradling him in a way that feels intimate. They’re surrounded by souls, their lights shining around them like stars; and yet it’s only the two of them, the silence filled with the echo of Jayce’s voice. I promised you, he says, squeezing Viktor tightly, as if he would disappear or crumble if he weren’t in his arms. In that moment, he might’ve.

“It was…” not good, nor bad. The many mistakes they made. The choices that were always ripped from Viktor’s hands. The bitter feeling building up in his chest. Don’t build weapons. Destroy the Hexcore. You’re a scientist, not a politician. Use Hextech to help people, not make the gap between Piltover and Zaun even bigger and harder to cross.

And it’s never his choice, until he’s bitter and broken, and so disappointed that, suddenly, now it’s his turn to make the biggest mistake of his life.

And yet-

“Everything.” He finishes his thought, tying his mum’s hair with a ribbon.

“What was it about? Or is this a big secret?” She teases. Viktor smiles slightly, his forehead against her back. Maybe she’ll disappear soon, and he’ll be back in the solitude of that place. Or maybe it will last forever.

“It was about making mistakes, I suppose. And that our imperfections make us who we are. An inseparable piece of everything.” He sniffs. “Mostly, it was with me being annoyed by every person who didn’t listen to me,” he jokes.

He wants Jayce - a part of him screams for him to run and search until they’re together. Another, less selfish one, sings about how much he has to offer now. He can help people - not fix them, but actually help. Do something that would atone for his sins. For every life he so carelessly took or changed to fit his vision of perfection.

“Sounds about right,” his mum stands up and hands him his cane. It’s old, run down and self-made. Viktor swings his legs from the bed frame and grimaces. “Who would we be, without our imperfections, hm?”

Soulless. Perfect. Evolutionary. Empty.

“Boring,” he settles on and nods to her. Like rain falling in the river, he falls into this long forgotten routine. His leg aches and he smiles at how familiar it is.

He will find Jayce, even if he’s not here. They were destined to meet, after all. He will help people of Zaun, and maybe find a way to forgive himself for changing them to fit his own standards of what a person should be. But first, he will make himself a leg brace, just to make it a bit easier.

“I’m going to the canals. Maybe I’ll find some useful scraps of metal there.”

“Be safe.”

It’s not easy to travel through the Undercity, but at the very least Viktor can be grateful for how little it changed throughout the years. It’s not the same journey as one he partook in months before - or years in the future, depending on how pedant he wanted to be.

There’s no guidance, other than slowly walking alongside the canals to reach the surface.

As many faults as Zaun has, Viktor never really had to fear walking through it as a child. The only real dangers, ones to be feared and which couldn’t be chased away with a knife, were the enforcers, not his fellow Zaunites.

Vander’s philosophy affected people long before he voiced it out loud.

He imagines that it would be quite a surprise for the citizens of Piltover to learn just how much children are treasured down there. It’s normal for an adult to take an orphan in, even if it means eating far less than healthy.

Jayce was shocked when he learnt that Viktor was good with children. He gaped at him and, after Viktor raised his eyebrows and asked him what had happened, he stuttered that he didn’t take him for a person who even tolerates kids.

Viktor hit him with his cane then, scoffing and muttering about ignorance and assumptions. It’s adults that are tiring. Kids still have that spark in them, the curiosity that gets stifled by the etiquette and expectations.

Now, age twelve and thirty three at the same time, Viktor has an opportunity to travel through the Lanes and the factory district without fear of being mugged by the addicts. Nonetheless, he’s still relieved when he finally gets to the surface.

His little hiding spot is the same he remembers from so many years ago. He wobbles over to a small cave - tight enough he has to crawl through the entrance - and looks over all the parts he gathered.

Mostly, it’s some useless junk, but there are a few things he would dare to call treasures. It’s easy to steal from people when they don’t expect him to, and it’s a truth he held in his heart for as long as he could remember.

It takes him hours, and his hands hurt by the time he’s finished, but there it is - proudly, he examines the leg brace he created. It takes him a while to crawl back outside, but now, with his leg stabilised, a bit of him feels more confident.

And then something falls from the rocks above him and barely misses hitting him.

He jumps, stumbles and falls, his cane hitting the ground a bit outside his reach.

“What in the-“ he frowns, grimacing when his leg twists, badly. It’s not broken but it does hurt a lot more than it did a second before.

A girl is lying beside him, wearing a white dress with golden accents. It must’ve ripped during her fall. Her knees and elbows are scrapped and there are cuts on her hands, but it's not the assessment of the injuries that makes Viktor’s heart stutter.

Mel Medarda, as young as he is, tries to stand up, groaning in pain and wiping her eyes with her hands. She only succeeds in pushing more sand and dust into them, and soon, there are tears slowly making their way down her face.

Her hair is in disarray and she looks far from the councillor Viktor remembers, but something about how she holds herself speaks of her status.

He rolls his eyes, sighs, pushes himself upwards with his cane and leans on it, balancing his body in a careful manner before offering his hand to the girl.

“Your dress is already dirty enough. If you sit here too long, someone might mistake you for a Zaunite.” He says. Her eyes look into his and something calculating shines in them. She’s analytical, that’s to be expected; granted by her uprising. Viktor leans on the cane a bit more, and her eyes widen.

She accepts his hand and he tries not to grimace as the weight shifts and strains his muscles.

“Thank you.” She nods, looking up. The cliff is too smooth to be climbed up.

It wasn’t a secret that Mel Medarda used to travel to Piltover for a few weeks every year. Her mother was evidently planning to put her in the city years before, and letting her get familiar with Piltover itself was a wise choice. That’s why she held so much respect within the council. She wasn’t just an outsider.

“One could say a person of your standing shouldn’t get that close to the Undercity,” he comments without really paying much attention to her. He tightens the bolts on his brace, then shakes his hands to fight off the tension building up in them.

“So you know who I am,” she responds, dusting off her dress. “And yet you speak to me as if we’re equals.”

“If you want to be put on a pedestal, I might suggest looking for a sculpturer. I’m not interested in such trivial matters.” He tests her, and when she doesn’t immediately respond, adds: “I was under the impression that Noxians believed that people are equals. I’m just making sure you feel right at home.”

To his surprise, she laughs.

“Thank you. It’s nice to hear someone who isn’t focused on praising me as if Kindred itself is aiming an arrow at their neck, ready to release it for saying anything other than compliments.”

Viktor scoffs. As if she didn’t enjoy that. Really, for a Noxian, she never treated him as something other than an assistant. A final burden that kept her from getting to Jayce.

Her gaze lingers on his hands.

“You’re a mage,” she says and he covers his hand, brows furrowed.

“No. But even if I was, this is not Demacia.” He’s a Zaunite - he’s still punished for the crime of being born, but at least he’s not locked in prison, forced to give up a part of himself.

“Humans don’t really have runes engraved into their skin.”

“I suppose I’m just that special, then.” When she doesn’t stop staring at him, he scowls. “I am not a pet or an exhibit to look at.”

“Neither am I.” She sits on the rocks , looking at the stream nearby. The day is nice, and it’s far from the factories, letting Viktor breathe with his whole chest. “People stare as if I am, though. I should apologise for making you feel as if I was acting the same way.”

Viktor nods. Aristocrats always had the most insufferable children. Mel must be no older than thirteen and yet she holds the wisdom and ache in her heart only a child who was raised with an iron fist and expectations too high for her to fill properly would be familiar with.

“Would you want to spend some time together?” Viktor turns to her, suspicious.

“Shouldn’t you go back? They’ll be searching for you.”

“Ah. I… snuck out. My guardians believe I’m studying hard, locked in my room to not be disturbed.”

Viktor laughs, and she joins in, a melody carried by the wind. She doesn’t hold herself like a politician yet, and her gaze lacks the coldness he grew so accustomed to. If anything, she looks at him like Jayce had all those years ago. Eager and joyful, full of life and excitement.

“I suppose I wouldn’t mind some company in my solitude,” he tells her.

“You’re weird.” The words seem to slip past her lips by accident. She looks horrified, and yes wide and a hand covering her mouth. “I am so sorry.”

“Better honest than falsely kind,” he tells her, smiling. It seems that he should’ve expected a thirteen year old to be less tactful. “Well?” He nods towards the stream. “Are you coming with me?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Ehh, being called weird is not the worst title to achieve.”

She walks after him, slowing down to keep up with his pace instead of dictating her own. How strange and unusual.

Viktor approaches a little cavern in the wall and leans on the rocks, pushing his cane into the opening.

“What are you doing?”

“If I remember correctly, I have something hidden in there.” He looks up at her. Mel is leaning towards the opening as well, squinting and tilting her head. “You should probably be cautious of the face eating spiders.”

“There’s WHAT?” She yelps and stumbles backwards. Shooting him a glare once she takes notice of his grin. “That wasn’t funny.”

“No, no. Of course not. Your reaction, however-“

She huffs and crouches, watching him manoeuvre his cane with as much precision as he can manage.

“I don’t know your name,” she notes.

“Yes, that is true.”

“Would you mind telling me? Or does someone of my standing not deserve such knowledge?” She teases, he realizes, pausing his work to get his stuff out of the hiding spot.

“It’s Viktor.”

“No last name?”

“Ah, you see, someone must’ve stolen it.”

She laughs and bows her head to him, her hands put behind her back.

“Mel Medarda,” she introduces herself. “My last name wasn’t stolen, as you see.”

“How lucky.” With a cry of victory, he pushes his cane back and grabs the toy ship he managed to retrieve. Examining it closely, he can see the years of use and harsh weather. The underside is rusty, and some of the cogs need to be replaced, too clogged with mud, dust and moss. But the mechanism looks promising, at least enough for him not to worry about replacing the whole thing.

“You made that?” Mel asks, leaning over. He hands her the ship, and, at first, an appalled and disgusted look crosses her face. It’s quickly gone, replaced by awe and curiosity.

“I think I might be able to fix it. Perhaps even improve it,” he tells her as she examines his work. “There’s a lot of stuff I want to do, but… ehh, best for now is to lay low and plan out how to crank them.”

“You’re an inventor!” Mel tells him, and he smiles, a bit against himself.

“A scientist would be a more proper term, I assume.” Though not so much now, stuck at the beginning of his journey. A part of him misses the improved body. Maybe if Jayce and he were on better terms then, he would’ve had an opportunity to make a joke about being taller. “I guess I could use some help.”

Mel looks ecstatic at that, and quickly rushes over to his side.

“Tell me what to do.”

Viktor hums. He raises his eyebrow and calculates the risk.

“Do you have any friends in Piltover? Any friends in general?” He asks, crossing arms against his chest. Mel looks taken aback, and studies him before seemingly deciding that he didn’t mean to be rude.

“I have people who like to spend time with me,” comes the guarded reply. Viktor takes a screwdriver out of a pocket of his pants.

“Do they want to spend time with Miss Medarda, or with Mel?”

She bites her lip and runs her fingers on one of the cogs. When she looks up at him, she’s frowning. Viktor shrugs.

“I can’t say there’s many people who want to spend time with me either,” he offers her the olive branch. She takes it.

“I guess people don’t really care for Mel. It’s Medarda that is worth the attention.” She admits quietly. Viktor smiles. Curse him and his soft spot for children. She might be the opposing force, someone he grew up to be annoyed with so many times, who he couldn’t find an equal ground with. But now she’s a lonely kid, not a politician and not the Councillor Medarda.

“I wouldn’t mind getting to know Mel. Miss Medarda sounds awfully boring and pretentious.”

She laughs.

“Oh, she is. I wouldn’t mind getting to know Viktor.” She hands him the boat. “So? How are we fixing this?”

“First, we need to fix the skeg. The propeller could use some work too,” he hums, examining the engine. Truly, it would be easier to build from scratch, but he’s only human, and this - his first invention - holds a dear place in his heart. He couldn’t replace it with something newer even if he tried to.

Mel looks at him curiously.

“You can try finding parts in the stream. Sometimes they get carried over from Piltover’s trash-dumping sides.” He points to his leg. “I probably wouldn’t be able to keep up with them, if they were carried by the water.”

And he wants to avoid the entrance that transforms into the cave system leading to professor Reveck’s hideout. For the time being. Now that he knows his motivations, he could use it against him - but that plan needs to be worked on, still. Now he just wants to ground himself in this new reality.

Mel runs across the water, not caring for soaked shoes or mud that gets on her skirt. She returns every few minutes, carrying new parts she spotted - mostly bolts and screws, but Viktor makes sure to thank her nonetheless.

When he tells her that they have all the parts, she sits besides him and watches him work. Viktor lets her put one of the cogs into the engine, and tells her how to replace the rusted propeller.

It’s late afternoon by the time they’re finished. He hands her the boat, starting the engine. Mel jolts when it starts vibrating, and looks closer to see the moving parts.

“Do the honours,” Viktor tells her. She nods and outs the boat in the stream. When it doesn’t immediately collapse and instead starts swimming with the current, she jumps in place, celebrating.

“It works!” She shouts, full of joy. There isn’t a way to describe the feeling of getting an invention to work, of finally figuring it out, but it’s universal, even if it can’t be put in words.

It’s the same exclamation that Jayce cheered once they stabilised the hexcrystals into gemstones, and the same Viktor shared once he figured out how to wire the hexclaw.

“Come on, we can’t lose it!” She motions at him, running after the boat. Viktor stumbles, a faint memory of not being able to keep up with it once before. Mel catches the boat before it has a chance to disappear into the cave entrance, and she doesn’t mention how Viktor clearly struggles to move in a pace that would allow him to  be as quick as her. She simply hands him the toy, a big grin plastered on her face.

It’s far from the perfect, well-groomed woman he knows. The girl has something wild in her eyes, and her hair is sticking out, as if she hadn’t brushed it for days. She looks alive, with how her eyes shine.

“That was amazing! Do you think we can build more?”

Viktor nods, letting himself feel that childish joy as well. Mel grabs his hand and looks him in the eye.

“Maybe we could make one of the flying machines! Or, imagine, a boat that we can steer remotely. Fully control where it goes while we can stay on land!”

“Those are some good ideas. Maybe you’re a scientist as well?”

“I don’t think so. I’m not good with math and physics. But you could teach me!” She nods her head, as if agreeing on something. “And then, when we’re older, we can attend the Academy together.”

“Zaunites aren’t welcome there,” Viktor reminds her, a bit amused. Mel frowns, then pouts in a way only a child can.

“Well then, I will have to change it.” She nods again. “Yes, it would be a waste to not let a bright mind live up to its potential.” That part is clearly something she was told many ways by her teachers, with how confidently she recited it. Viktor supposes they were attempting to get her to study more with those… encouraging words.

At the same time-

“What would you like to build? I assume toy boats aren’t the pinnacle of achievements for scientists.”

“I don’t know. I would like to improve lives. Help people. What good is science and discovery if it only serves the selfish and is kept away from changing the word for the better?”

Mel hums, suddenly serious. She considers him, then starts drawing in the sand.

“Your eyes change colour, did you know that?”

“What?”

“They were blue before. Now they’re gold.” She points at him, and smiles. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

“You should really go back,” Viktor tells her. “It’s getting late, and your guardians won’t be pleased with your absence.” He gets up and nudges her with his cane. “I’ll show you the way.”

He leads her to the rocks that are easier to climb. When she manages to get herself up the first one, he hands her the boat.

“You can keep it,” he finds himself saying. A part of him knows she won’t return. Such is life. It was a nice day nonetheless.

“I’ll be back tomorrow!” She promises, waving at him.

When he returns home, his mum congratulates him on the design of his brace. He soaks in her love, cherishing every second of her wide eyes and how she marvels at the workmanship of the device. She kisses his cheeks and puts her forehead against his, and doesn’t say anything about his eyes at all.

When the night comes, Viktor doesn’t fall asleep. The toy boats aren’t the pinnacle of achievements. He wants to help people. He wants to invent something that will change the world.

He wishes Jayce were at his side. It was always easier to come up with life-changing ideas when he was near, peering over his shoulder at the blueprints he was working on. The way he lingered just before leaving for the Council, making Viktor want to work even harder so he could surprise him with a new idea.

But he’s alone now, with a rune engraved into his skin and a foreign feeling in his heart. He closes his eyes before his father comes home from work in the fissures.

It takes him three days to go to the stream again, mostly with the purpose of cataloguing what he already owns. It’s going to take some work to build anything that could be of use; he needs a prototype that would prove his theories and plans to be achievable.

Plans and theories he doesn’t yet have.

He doesn’t expect to see a familiar figure sitting on the rocks.

Mel’s hair is woven into two neat braids, with golden hair clips decorating them. She’s wearing trousers and boots that are clearly made for comfort above prettiness; unlike the decorative ones she was wearing the other day. There’s a pile of papers disregarded on the ground, and another pile, of simple metal parts and scraps, on her left.

She’s playing with the boat, cleaning the mechanism, tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth as she’s leaning over, wrestling with a pebble ledged between the cogs.

She looks up at the sound of his cane, two looks crossing her face at once - an annoyed one, and one of pure joy.

“You weren’t there.” Her tone is accusatory, as if Viktor had done a great offence to her. He frowns, looking around.

“Have you…” Surely not, “have you been waiting for me here everyday?”

She scoffs, then sniffs.

“You should apologise. That is no way to treat a friend.”

“How would you know? You don’t have any.”

She gapes at him, both offended and astounded at his audacity. Viktor grins, amused. He slowly lets himself slide down on the ground with the support of his cane, then turns to the papers Mel had brought.

“You’re my friend,” she says, surprising him. He looks taken aback for a second, then smiles, his wide eyes softening. “Although you’re not a very good one. Friends don’t make themselves wait for each other.”

Jayce often did. He would leave to spend time with Mel, the Councillor Medarda, his face buried in the crook between her shoulder and her neck, or resting on her lap, looking at her in a way the moon has to look at the sun, basking in its light. He would leave the lab early, sometimes alongside some half-assed, empty promises of staying up late next week. Viktor saw him less and less the more intertwined with politics he became, and every time Jayce spoke to him with Mel in the room, it felt as if he was choosing between science and politics; helping others and indulging in his overconfidence.

But Jayce was thirty one. Maybe Viktor shouldn’t make Mel endure the same treatment nor hold her to the same standard.

He looks at her again. She avoids his eyes, her face pinched in a sad frown, the corners of her mouth slightly down, and her eyes staring into the boat as if it’s the only thing keeping her floating above despair.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and she nods; and just like that, it seems that everything is forgiven. “So, what do you have here?”

“My homework!” She exclaims, putting the boat down and giving him the paper. “I thought that maybe you’d want to try, since you don’t really go to a school, no?”

Viktor raises his eyebrow.

“It rather looks as if you wanted me to do it for you.” He tells her dryly. Mel, to his surprise, only grins - Jayce would turn away and blush every time Viktor accused him of trying to get out of working. “That way you’ll never learn.”

“It’s just not my strongest suit.”

Viktor sighs. Is this really what Councillor Medarda used to be? He’d laugh, but now he’s also a kid, and with how weird he must seem, he’s in no place to judge.

“I’ll explain it to you,” and he tries, but she only frowns deeper with each sentence. It takes him seven exercises to realise that they’re not going to get anywhere if she doesn’t put her attention and drive into it.

So, he puts the papers down and gets his own notebook from his pocket. It’s an old, dirty thing, but it serves its purpose.

“How about we try a different route?” He asks. Mel leans closer.

“What is it for?”

“My projects. To make something you must first plan it. And it involves a lot of calculations. I was thinking about what you said; the toys aren’t the pinnacle of achievements, you’re right. But I don’t know yet what else I could do.” He spent the better part of the last decade of his life figuring out Hextech and working with runes. This kind of science feels alien to him by now.

Mel looks through his blueprints, stopping at a sketch of a bird. It’s clunky, ugly and disproportionate - Jayce always was the better artist between the two of them - but it serves its purpose.

“What’s this?”

Viktor squints, reading his childish scribbles.

“Oh, it was supposed to be a flying toy. A bird made of metal, it would make little sounds, maybe sing a few of Zaunite songs, but I overcomplicated the design.”

“I think it’s nice.”

“It’s still just a toy. I need a proper design. Something good.”

“Why pursue good when decent is right there? You could repurpose it for something. Who said it has to be a toy?” She asked. Viktor huffed.

“Tell you what, we would need to calculate the size of parts to make it. And we can do it with your homework. Two firelights into one jar.”

“I think I don’t like you, actually.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

With that, Mel does seem more invested in paying attention to his explanations. They do start working on the bird when they’re finished with her homework; Mel gathered some gears and parts specifically for Viktor, and he pretends it doesn’t make him feel a tiny bit warm inside.

The construction is sloppy, and it breaks and falls apart three times before they get it right, but by the end of their trial-and-errors, they have a pretty nice looking toy.

But that’s what it is - a toy. One that doesn’t even do what it was designed for. With Hextech, maybe, Viktor would be able to make it fly.

Mel taps her chin, brows furrowed in something akin to consideration. She looks at Viktor, then takes his hand and traces the shape of the rune with her fingers.

“Maybe we could use,” her voice drops into a conspiratory whisper: “magic.”

Viktor tugs his hand from hers.

“How many times-“ he starts, but she’s quicker.

“Do you know any runes? Maybe we could make it work like this.”

That makes him pause. Combining tech with magic has been his gimmick for quite some time. Seven years of hard work don’t disappear from one’s mind just like that. The knowledge lingers, even if unwanted. Granted, his research was limited by their sponsors - even the gemstones were capable of existing only thanks to Kiramman’s money.

Using magic is risky, and he can’t be sure it will even work - Hextech was capable of giving magic to the people, but that was thanks to their inventions. Connecting to the Arcane itself wasn’t something a human could do.

Viktor glances at his hands.

Then again, is he really a human, after all that happened?

Mel glances at him as he starts scribbling a rune - it’s a simple one, supposedly causing contraptions to come to life. They used it to power up the Hexgates - alongside many, many others.

It doesn’t do anything. His fingers tap on the brass wing he carved the rune on, eyes fluttering. He glances at his cane, then shrugs.

There’s not a runestone he could channel the magic through, so he is left with hope that the Hexcore - or some semblance of it - is still within him.

Much like his older self - the version of him who gave Jayce the runestone and saved him, again, and again, and again - it’s through his connection to it, to the Arcane, that he can understand the message within its patterns.

It’s much less impressive than changing seasons. He closes his eyes and raises his hand high above his head, his back straining and aching. His leg hurts, very badly, as he puts weight on it, lifting his cane and trying to copy the movements he saw in Jayce’s memories.

It’s like playing with the frequency - each of the gestures is a different kind, correlated to the energy waves Jayce put onto the hexcrystal to stabilise it.

It’s not as epic - the runes don’t dance around him as he moves, but he feels the hum of the arcane energy - the charge within his soul.

When he puts his cane down, something akin to a lightning bolt travels through it, and around his arm like a snake. It enters the rune and the toy starts glowing.

It jumps from his hand and flies around them, blue eyes staring into him.

The bird lands on Mel’s outstretched hand.

“So you said you are not a mage,” she teases. He scowls.

“If someone finds out-“

“If. But they won’t.” She lets the bird’s head and smiles softly. “My brother used to love small animals. Before my mother forced him to hunt for them. I fear we all grow up to be a disappointment to her. Noxians don’t value diplomacy as much as they do value a strong spirit.”

“You’re thirteen. A bit unfair for you to be expected to be a violent warrior.” He leans on his cane again, and the bird flies from Mel’s hand to land on his head and burrow itself in his hair.

“I hope I’ll never become like that,” Mel says, then something close to regret and embarrassment crosses her face.

“I hope you won’t,” Viktor tells her, "I quite enjoy this version of you. You’re more honest, if I say so myself. That’s something gold and politics cannot buy.”

“It’s because I can be honest with you,” she informs him, quite eager. “You’re not like them.”

Whether she refers to the nobility, the Piltovians, the Noxians, her family, teachers or anyone belonging to the upper class, is left unclear.

Viktor’s father used to tell him that the reason why people of Zaun care for their children is that they aren’t tainted by the filth of the real world yet. There’s always hope, and they embody it in its purest form, he would say as he gave more money than he should have to a boy selling scrap metal.

Mel Medarda isn’t yet a rich councillor who wouldn’t spare a glance at the poor, too secure in her own worldview to notice its faults. The girl who looks at him doesn’t seem to think the Undercity is dangerous, and the people are not to be trusted.

“You’re not like them either,” he responds. The bird chirps and nuzzles into his hair even further.

Viktor wonders if he should tell Mel about her legacy. He saw her fight, saw her loss. Knowledge is a powerful tool, and for a fleeting moment, before the anomaly and before Jayce, he was everything.

Not yet, he tells himself, because it’s two different things to accept some scrawny, weird, poor Undercity kid as a mage, and to find out you’re one as well.

“That’s still just a toy.”

“But if you could combine robotics with magic, maybe you could use it. Besides, you’re not thinking outside of the box. If you never try wondering about the impossible, I will have to think you’re of Noxian blood.”

Think outside the box. How useful of advice. Viktor did that for the better part of the last decade and it didn’t bring him anything of value.

That’s not true, a part of him whispers.

He thinks of Jayce, dancing in their lab to the sounds of some parade happening just outside, one that he definitely escaped, if Viktor had to judge by the suit he was wearing. There’s a memory of Jayce rushing to the scene where they were presenting their prototypes and Viktor vomited from stress, glaring at people who whispered harsh words for the lack of tact of it. There’s another one, of Jayce’s mother, complaining while serving him hot soup that one time he overworked himself to the point of sickness, and of Jayce, whining like a child that the rich cannot understand what they’re trying to do, and only seek for new ways to turn Hextech into profit - he was chased away by his mother, who scolded him for bringing up work when Viktor was sick.

“How about I help you with some more of your homework before you have to leave?”

“Always glad to have an excuse and a proof for my teachers that I am not, in fact, sneaking out.”

Chapter Text

Mel returns every day after that, just like she did before - Viktor meets her, even if his people skills are lacking and his social battery became so accustomed to only deal with Jayce over the years that any other company feels foreign.

She greets him with a bunch of parts she collected - the first week all of which the stream has carried over, but then she starts bringing some gears and tools she found laying in her mansion, giggling as she retells him how livid one of the gardeners working there was when he discovered his tools went missing.

Viktor doesn’t tell her that they’re made of gold, and are worth more than every building in his district. He keeps them in his cave, and it slowly starts looking like a dragon hoard.

Every few days he tells Mel not to come - he has other things to do as well, after all. His mother is grateful for his help, even if she questions it a few times.

She never chastises him nor tells him to rest, but he does sit down when she stares at his leg with concern for a bit too long for his comfort.

His father returns one day, dirty and sweaty, and when he sits on his chair he doesn’t say a word, just hides his face in his hands and sobs.

Viktorie shares a concerned look with Viktor, before slowly putting her arms around her husband’s shoulders and kissing his neck.

He leans into her touch, sighing heavily. Viktor brings him soup and puts their foreheads together. His dad pats his hair and wipes his tears with the sleeve of his jacket, tired eyes searching for something.

“There was a gas leak in the mines,” he starts, eyes unseeing. “We didn’t know- the shift before us was leaving, and suddenly-“ a headache, people collapsing. Viktor remembers that story.

An unfortunate miner, as he collapsed, broke his lamp on the rock. The spark from the wires ignited the entire mine. It took weeks to extinguish it, and the Topsiders only cared because there were useful minerals in there. If it were only about the Undercity and its people, they would’ve left it alone to burn for years. In some way, it was fortunate, lucky even, that there were a couple of rich investors with their money at stake.

His father didn’t suffer in the accident, but he was breathing the gas that was leaking into the mines for months. The lung disease he later developed wasn’t a surprise. Toxic gas, factory fumes and The Grey - it all combined into a life expectancy of thirty five.

“It’s not the first time. There are pipes running alongside the mineshafts. But it’s never-“ his voice breaks. “Breathgiving Janna, may you fill our lungs with air,” he prays. Viktor looks away.

When he visits the stream, he’s quiet. He’s only doing it to give his parents privacy. Mel arrives two hours later, surprised to see him there, looking with an idle face at their bird.

“You’re upset.”

Viktor only tilts his head to look at her. So many lives wasted. So much senseless pain. And all the investors who are helping with the fire care about, is the state of their shareholders.

He doesn’t reply, but she insists - maybe he can understand how Jayce folded under her gaze so easily. She could be rather persistent - not persuasive, Viktor wasn’t that kind of man, easy to be swayed by some careful manipulation and sweet words. But she - at least as a thirteen year-old - was capable of an annoyance not many could muster.

“There was a gas leak in the mines.”

“Did someone dear to you get hurt?” She fiddles with her golden bracelets. Viktor frowns.

“No. But does that make it any better?”

“How did they not notice?”

He snorts, almost as if amused by her ignorance. The bird chirps. It glows brighter when Viktor touches it.

“We breathe in The Grey every single day. When someone gets a headache, people will just say it’s the fault of the noise pollution. The mines and factories can be rather loud.”

Mel frowns.

“Well, there must be a way to build some kind of a warning,” she insists. Viktor watches as the bird jumps between him and her, flapping its wings and singing a little tune.

“People don’t have funds to build things like that. No one would pay or sponsor an inventor so they could work on something that would make the work safer. It’s not Piltover.”

Mel frowns.

“Then don’t wait for a sponsor. If no one will do it, someone else has to.” She hums.

“I can’t research something grant. I don’t have enough parts-“

“Why not repurpose your old projects, then? Nobody said you have to start from scratch.”

He considers her words. The bird jumps on his hand and pecks at the rune. With how the arcane within it glows, it looks blue.

“When you’re going to change the world, don’t ask for permission,” he repeats. He lacks sponsors, he doesn’t have a great invention like Hextech to show off.

His brows furrow and Mel smiles broadly.

“You’ve got the look in your eyes,” she tells him. He raises his eyebrow at her and she shrugs, “they are gold. It’s a good sign.”

“I have an idea,” he tells her. The lack of them never stopped him either, but it’s nice to have a vague clue for what he wants to do. “There’s this old prayer, to the goddess Janna. Bey’un hahbab, Ahuni lek’cho. Suhbi al naa yih,” he cites.

He cannot fight pollution as a scrawny kid, but his childish projects might be just enough so save at least one life. He cannot wait for the future, he needs to act now.

“What if there was a warning system for the gas leaks? One that would be small enough to not intrude the work of the miners, and also mobile so everyone could hear it?”

Mel nods, motioning for him to continue. Viktor taps his fingers on his cane.

“Maybe I could figure out a rune that would enable our bird to warn others of danger.”

“Make it sing a song when there’s something dangerous in the air!” Mel leans closer, watching him work.

He presents it to his father. They’re eating dinner and his parents both politely don’t ask questions about the fact that his fringe and eyebrows are burnt, and he has holes in his shirt indicating that a small explosion has taken place.

Viktor doesn’t think it was funny that Mel’s face got covered in soot and her eyebrows got burnt off. He wasn’t laughing at her, it was a coughing fit. Besides, “how could you ever accuse me of something like this, don’t you know I have fragile bones? What if my heart grows heavy with guilt over such accusations and breaks through my ribs and falls out of my chest through my paper-thin skin?”

“I was at the stream today,” he tells them. His mum nods.

“It’s good for you.”

“The light there is good for tinkering,” he tells her and she smiles.

“And it’s good for you. I prefer you spend time there than holed up in your room. You have freckles on your face. It’s good to see you look so healthy.” She kisses his forehead and he rolls his eyes, annoyed but fond.

“Has the stream carried something useful?” His dad asks, then turns to Viktorie, “he’s going to become a great inventor one day, I tell you. Our son will change the world. If only the Topsiders could see how bright you shine.”

Well, one of them did. A ghost touch of an embrace, one warmer and more tender than any his parents could offer.

“Well,” he brings their attention to himself, squirming. Funny, even in front of his parents he starts feeling like he’s on the stage. Trying not to focus on his shaking hands, he lifts up the bird. It flies into the air and swoops over them.

“That’s-“

“It’s an alarm system!” He interrupts his dad, cheeks burning. “It can detect toxins in the air and will sing when there’s a dangerous amount of them. It’s not much, but it’s small enough to not get in the way, and it can travel pretty fast. Granted, it needs to map out the tunnels before it’s truly effective, but it has potential! How many people we can help with this-“ he bites his tongue. Almost on instinct, he expected Jayce to be here with him.

His dad looks at it, eyes wide. The bird chirps. Viktor and Mel had hidden the runes under its wings; it’s better not to bring Heimerdinger’s attention to themselves. From the walls of the Academy, Viktor will never be able to help Zaun in a way he wants to.

“You made this?”

“A friend helped me.” He admits, because Mel does deserve some credit. “I don’t have one specific type of cog this design needs to work, but when I find it, I will be able to make more of them.”

“That could save people’s lives,” his mother whispers, covering her mouth. Her eyes are wet, but it’s his father that’s outright crying.

“I’m so proud of you, my boy.” Their foreheads touch. Viktor closes his eyes. “You will change the world, one day,” he repeats.

For the first time in weeks, the thought doesn’t sound like a threat.

“I’m leaving for Noxus soon,” Mel tells him one day, two weeks after their project proved to be a success. He stayed anonymous; fame from inventing things could be a dangerous little thing, with Chem-barons running around every corner, searching for new minds to steal for their companies.

She’s fiddling with her bracelets, a mournful look on her face.

“I wish you safe travels.”

Mel gasps, offended.

“Not even: let me go with you?”

“I do not enjoy longer journeys,” he smiles at her frustration. “What’s the matter? You return here every year, do you not?”

“Yes, but-“ she curls into herself, hiding her face between her knees. “Things change so fast here. And so do people. What if in a year you won’t want to hang out with me?”

“I assure you, Miss Medarda, I will wait for your return,” he tells her, but all he gets is a look so full of grief as if he already had died.

“Of course you say that.”

He turns to her, giving her his full attention.

“Mel,” he starts, waiting for her to lift up her head and face him, “I will wait for you. I will need my partner back eventually.”

She laughs, wet and sorrowful, but honest and bright at the same time.

“Perhaps, in another universe, in different circumstances, you could be friends” Jayce used to say when Viktor was complaining about her nosy self trying to sniff around the lab like a hound, searching for anything of use to her.

“She wants to build weapons and I want to actually help people,” he told him back then. “Oil and water.”

Turns out his bright idiot of a partner was right.

“Next time we see each other, you will need to give me a tour. It’s only proper for friends to know how they live.”

“And you’ll invite me to your giant mansion?” He asks, doubtfully. There’s something funny about the image of Mel walking around Zaun, breathing in The Grey as if she doesn’t belong to the upper class. “Will I have to put the weird gelatin you people use into my hair and wear shirts that cost more than my whole neighbourhood?”

“And eat the fancy food that comes in a portion of less than a bite.”

“Splendid. I can't wait.”

She laughs, then nods to herself, more confident than two minutes earlier.

“I will keep the boat. So, even if we grow to be strangers, we’ll be forced to meet.”

“I’m sure there are many inventors in Piltover that would be capable of fixing it.”

“Probably, yes.” She admits. “But they’re boring, and, besides, there’s only one Viktor.”

Doctor Reveck’s lab is just as he remembers. It’s a risky tactic, but he wouldn’t achieve anything if he only ever spent time in safety. Progress isn’t made without breaking a couple of laws, causing a few explosions, finding a partner and spending the night in the Enforcers’ station holding cell.

The scientist sits at the table. Rio’s connected to many different machines, her wheezes making Viktor’s heart squeeze the same way it did many years ago. He turns at the sound of the footsteps accompanied by a cane and puts down whatever he was working on.

He regards Viktor with a long stare, then nods his head, inviting him in.

“You’ve returned.”

“I understood,” Viktor tells him. The puppets bound to his will, the absolute power in his hands, the perfection, “but I won’t agree with what motivates you.”

Perhaps Jayce would. Sacrificing the world for just one person - was that not what he kept doing?

“What brings you here, then?” Reveck’s voice is light. It’s almost hard to imagine how far he is wishing to go in the pursuit of his goals.

“A development,” Viktor shows him his hand. The rune casts light on the doctor’s face as he examines it. He looks into Viktor’s eyes, his own widening slightly.

“That’s… unheard of.” He touches the rune, tracing over it with his thumb. “Such mutation of one’s body-“

“I’ve become more than I ever was. Achieving a new form of understanding and superseding nature,” Viktor shakes his head. “The Glorious Evolution isn’t what humanity needs.”

Reveck is silent, analysing the changes.

“If not your mutation and not acceptance of my ways, then what really brings you into my laboratory?”

“I want to make a deal,” Viktor takes his hand away and leans on his cane. “I know of Orianna.”

The doctor pauses. He glances at the schematics on his desk and the tools on his workbench. Viktor doesn’t move; he’s perfectly well aware how little he could do if doctor Reveck decided to put a scalpel in his throat.

“Very well, then,” an invitation, an opening. “Are you here to tell me that you wouldn’t do whatever you can in the name of love? You’re a foolish boy, if you cannot understand it.”

“Maybe not for love, but I do understand how it feels to be motivated by a singular goal,” I won’t fail, Jayce promised, and then they exploded into an universe of their own, surrounded by Viktor’s attempts at fixing what imperfections he perceived, “as I said, I have an offer to make. One that might interest you.”

Doctor Reveck returns to his desk and picks up a syringe-like device. He taps on the glass, the golden glow spreading through the liquid inside.

“And what is that?” He inquiries. Viktor looks at his lab equipment. Silco has yet to start working on Shimmer, but he always did suspect that it used to be Reveck’s personal project first. There’s traces of it - the recipe must not be perfected, but it does exist, in its primal form at the very least.

“I will help you cure her,” he remembers the equations he saw in Reveck’s mind - only Jayce and the boy with the anomaly escaped the clutches of his hivemind. Reveck must’ve known that Viktor would fail eventually. Otherwise he wouldn’t risk becoming a puppet like every other person. “She’s sick from The Grey. Her lungs collapsed,” a painful death, he supposes.

Viktor died with a spine broken in half, then again, with a hole in his chest, mending itself back together before he could really comprehend it, with his body changing and face splitting in two. The third time, he finally accepted his fate, silently glad for Jayce’s company in the solitude that dying usually was.

“How?” The doctor's voice sounds suspicious. Viktor leans on his cane and looks at his hand. The rune mocks him, almost.

He cannot alter her body with just his touch. But he spent years working on deciphering the meaning behind the runes, studying magic as if it was an equation to be solved. And he was everything and everyone for a moment. He could command technology with a wave of his wrist.

“If something cannot be fixed,” he drawls, “it has to be replaced, no?”

It was easy making toys. Creating functional lungs might prove to be a challenge, but it is one he’s willing to take.

“Let me assess her. Write me down every organ failure in her body that must be addressed. Then, if I’m right, it should be possible to combine artificial organs with runes to make them work.”

Doctor Reveck looks at him. Whatever he sees must be enough for him to consider taking the risk.

“What do you want in return?”

“For you to help Zaun. If you get your daughter back, she shouldn’t live in a drug den, choking on The Grey until not even the best of surgeries can save her. Her life for countless more.”

“You are far different from the boy who ran away that day.”

Viktor looks at him. He feels tired already, and the real work hasn’t even started - but, if he truly wants to make a change, he will need any help he can manage to get.

“And you, doctor, haven’t changed at all.”

“I’m just worried about you.” His mother tells him. Six months and seventy failed experiments later, he’s quite sure he needs to cause a massive explosion just so he doesn’t explode himself, out of frustration.

“There’s no need-“ he tells her, which is a bad choice of words when addressing a concerned mother. “I’m fine.”

“That’s what your aunt said after eating a poro, and then she started vomiting confetti.”

“Gross.” Viktor grimaces, taping his fingers on the blueprints he’s working on. He sold one of the seventeen tools Mel brought him, just so he could afford all the necessary parts for his next prototype.

Doctor Reveck kept true to his word - Shimmer was left aside, and when he worked on it, it was with the intention of creating an alternative fuel, and not a highly addictive drug.

“I want to help people,” he says. Even if the initial work is for Orianna - and to keep her father from committing war crimes - he sees the potential it has to help others. His own lungs will collapse in twenty years or so. Creating a highly functional prosthetic might save more lives than he’s capable of imagining.

“You do,” his mother says, cupping her hand around his cheek. She frowns, but puts her forehead next to his. “There was another gas leak, and your little tunnel-singer warned everyone before it was too late. With how great it is, it’s only a matter of time before you catch the eye of someone from the Academy.”

“I won’t be able to help nor do what I want from its walls,” he insists.

“You need to think of yourself, too.”

“Topside doesn’t care for the Undercity-“

“And Undercity won’t fulfill your potential. You shine like a star, don’t let this place burn you out.” He frowns again, studying the blueprints. His mother sighs. “You’re not listening.”

“I am, I am.” He yawns, the lines blurring. “I need to figure this out.”

“Science never sleeps, huh?” He waves at her and she softly whacks the back of his head with a rag.

Eleven months, eighty three prototypes and three hundred seventy one rune combinations is what it takes to create artificial lungs capable of compatibility with a human organism.

Viktor opts not to ask where doctor Reveck had found the necessary parts, and neither does he ask how he was able to obtain a pair of human lungs four months into their research, just so he can get a better idea of what he’s working on and trying to recreate.

Doctor Reveck does not ask about his strange habits either. He doesn’t mention when Viktor, in his frustration, calls him by Jayce’s name, nor does he say a word about how Viktor started talking to himself as if Jayce was listening when he needed to gather his own thoughts.

Some of the arcane seems to still be seeping in through whatever cracks Viktor left while waking up in his childhood home; his body has gained some traces of gold that decorated his improved body. Thank Janna, his skin doesn’t turn purple, so at least there’s something he can celebrate, because there’s only so much that his parents are willing to ignore and trust him with.

His mum did question the new, gold lines on his skin, and he excused it with an experiment going wrong. She did whack him with his cane, scowl on her face and concern in her eyes. His father just laughed and told him he looks like Pilties, who decorate themselves with gold and pearls as if it brings more value to who they are.

Doctor Reveck doesn’t let him stay in his lab when he prepares his daughter for the surgery. Viktor wanders around, pretending he’s not aware how much depends on the success of it.

He doesn’t want to consider what could happen if Orianna dies on the operating table.

He sits by the stream, working on the blueprints of an artificial heart - that one, somehow, is easier. Maybe because he cracked the lungs’ design, so now he has a base to work on for other designs - when someone tumbles down the rocks and onto the ground.

“I suppose some things don’t change,” Mel groans, dusting off her shirt. Viktor looks up from the blueprints, an involuntary smile making way onto his face.

“And here I was, thinking I got rid of you.”

“Never.” She grins, “you needed your partner back. Who else would gather parts for you?”

“Ah, yes, what a horrible fate, to not be able to dig in mud for them. Because I will, for sure, dissolve if I touch water, as my skin is made from paper-“

“I’m glad to see you again, too.” She rolls her eyes and sits beside him. There’s a decorative little bag in her hands, and Viktor eyes it suspiciously.

“What’s that?”

“You know, most people would often start a conversation with a friend they haven’t seen in a year by asking how they were, or if something had happened.”

“I thought we established that I am not most people,” he tilts his head, “and I am sure that you will tell me all about your endeavours, but I also cannot ignore how excited you seem about the confines of this bag.”

She smiles, then hands it to him.

“It’s a gift. I missed your birthday, I assume, granted by the many months of my absence in Piltover.”

“I don’t like gifts,” he repeats the words he used to say to Jayce each time he tried to manipulate him into accepting a present. The only one he didn’t refuse was his crutch, and it was thanks to his old one being destroyed on the night they broke into the lab.

“The custom is, as far as I know, to say thank you.”

“Thank you, I don’t like gifts.”

She squints and pouts. Her neck is decorated with gold, and so are her wrists.

“You haven’t even checked what’s inside.”

“I don’t need to. The custom is for me to give you something as well, and I would rather avoid that, as we have more important things to do than searching for luxuries that you deserve and I cannot afford.”

Mel groans, then opens the bag herself. She dumps the present into Viktor’s lap, glaring at him in a way only an absolutely offended and wronged child can.

He looks at the gift, almost against himself. It’s a golden bracelet with a bird pedant, and it's the same as the one Mel is wearing. Twin bracelets, one for her and one for him, it seems.

“Oh.” He examines it - the bird looks like the one they created, the same one that became a starting point for his newest inventions. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, smiling. “A reminder of our friendship. So we may never get too lost in the pursuit of our goals.” She taps her chin and tilts her head. “And if we’re talking about that, you must share what projects you’ve been working on.”

He bats her hand away from the blueprints and rolls his eyes.

“There is some… progress, with my studies.” He explains the rune-work of the artificial lungs, and how he set up a filtration system within the pipes running through them, trying to mimic the way human lungs work.

She shares stories about her adventures too; how Kino and her snuck into the library to read about the wildlife of Runeterra, and how her mother scolded her for not taking her training seriously. She, in despair, described the horror of doing math homework by herself, and how her journey to Piltover got delayed because there was an assassination attempt at her family.

When they meet the next day - Viktor needs to take his mind off Orianna and her surgery. He hasn’t mustered up the courage needed to visit doctor Reveck’s lab yet - Mel isn’t wearing anything golden.

She’s not wearing anything pointing to her status at all, actually.

He leans on his cane and squints at her, receiving a shameless grin in return.

“I told you you need to show me around!”

“You want to go to the Undercity?” He asks, bewildered. As far as he’s aware, Councillor Medarda never stepped in Zaun in her life.

“Is that really the most bizarre thing about me?” She teases him. Viktor supposed that, no, that would be pretty tame for what he got to know.

Mel did fall down a ravine, decided to befriend a poor Undercity boy after he pretty much insulted her and showed that he doesn’t care for her status, urged him into helping her with math homework, and somehow also overlooked the fact that he was a mage, something her mother had to warn her against many times before.

“I suppose not.” He stands up, grimacing. The ache in his back worsened from how much time he spent bent over his desk, working on the prototypes. Mel walks up to him and slides to his side, letting him put most of his weight on her shoulders.

“I don’t want to get lost,” she tells him, leaving the obvious unspoken. “There’s gold on your skin.”

“Really?” He barks, but there’s no bite. She laughs.

“I like it. We fit together, now.” There’s laughter again, at his scrunched up face. The dismay isn’t real, but it does amuse Mel enough to shake violently with barely concealed giggles. “What, don’t you appreciate matching with me?”

“Becoming a mage is the worst thing that happened to me, and I was born disabled in the Undercity.” He tells her. She rolls her eyes and nudges him playfully. Although it hurts a bit more than he’d appreciate, he’s glad she doesn’t treat him like porcelain.

He had to beat that habit out of Jayce with his cane.

She continues telling him about her journey to Piltover, sprinkling in some stories from Noxus. People don’t spare them a glance, aside from some vendors lurking around in search for potential clients.

He leads her to his favourite food booth, ordering sweetmilk and pretending his wallet doesn’t cry out in objection.

The streets are illuminated by neon signs and chemtech, basking the environment in green light. There’s The Grey, but it’s not in its worst form yet; it merely sticks to the ground, far from the fog the Zaunites have to endure on a daily basis.

Mel coughs, her face twisted in an unpleasant grimace that she tries to play off. Her eyes are getting red, irritated and swollen, not used to the amount of chemicals and factory fumes in the air.

Viktor hands her the sweetmilk and thanks the vendor who made it. The dark powder swirls around in the glass.

“Not sure if you like it. If it’s not of your taste, I can drink it for you,” Jayce hated sweets. He complained about Viktor’s taste all the time, whining about how both his tea and coffee are more sugar than a drink. His face did a funny thing when he tried sweetmilk for the first time - he looked vaguely nauseous but tried to play it off and pretend he enjoyed Viktor’s favourite treat.

Mel takes a sip and her eyes widen.

“What do they put in this?” She asks, milk moustache above her upper lip. She takes another sip, so fast she starts coughing.

“Drugs.” Viktor tells her dryly, and she starts coughing some more.

“Not funny.”

“Oh, it is,” he assures her, taking a sip of his own drink.

“My mother never lets me have sweets. Maybe I should trade her for you.”

“I’m fairly sure my parents prefer their son to a Noxian warlord.”

“Fair enough. I would also prefer their son over my mother,” she jokes, emptying the glass in one gulp. Viktor snickers.

“Who would’ve thought that the grand Medarda has such a weakness for sweets?”

“Anyone with tastebuds,” she informs him, then eyes his drink. He shields it from her with his hand.

“No.”

“I’m your guest.”

“Take your filthy customs above the ground,” he finishes his drink and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. Mel grimaces at the display of lack of manners, but chooses to not say a thing about that.

He leads her towards the riverbank, where he knows firelights tend to flock. The little glowing bugs don’t disappoint him; they fly through the air just above the water, Undercity’s own personal stars.

They lean over the bridge, glancing at the city. Even with petty thieves and drug addicts roaming the streets, Viktor still sees it as more home-y than Piltover. There’s something special about miners returning to their homes, humming a song every person born there knows.

“People say it’s dangerous,” Mel tells him, her eyes stuck on two men leaning into each other, pushing the other in what seems to be friendly banter. The larger one - Vander, Viktor briefly realizes, as there’s only one person who was surrounded with an aura or respect on Zaun’s streets - grabs the smaller, thinner one under his armpits like a naughty cat and dangles him over the water, laughing as he’s screamed at.

A woman approaches them and greets them both in a traditional, Zaunish way. She then proceeds to steal their headlamps and run away with them.

Viktor glances at Mel, who smiles softly at the scene, something akin to fondness in her eyes. It’s a look too old for such a young person.

“What do you think?” He asks her, because he heard comments about the Undercity being dangerous too many times to let himself hope someone would be capable of seeing it as something more than that.

There’s still bitterness lingering in his bones for Jayce’s conviction in that statement. He never apologised, never tried to understand, but he did look apologetic. Perhaps Viktor, in his mind, was never a part of it. They met in Piltover, and he didn’t exactly share his life story. It was a passing thought, it seemed. The sky is blue, the money is gold and Viktor is a Zaunite.

“There’s something special about this place,” Mel tells him. It’s hard to guess what she’s thinking about. “This sense of… community.”

“Nothing unites people like their shared hatred for the Topsiders,” he jokes. Mel nudges him with her elbow and leans over the railings so look at the firelights.

“The biggest downside is the air.”

“Hey, if you want a mask with a filter, you’re rich enough to afford it. Just don’t be surprised if someone takes you for an enforcer. They believe that between us, common folk, and them, the answer of who deserves to breathe is pretty obvious.”

Mel frowns, but doesn’t tease him back. There must be something uncomfortable about challenging her upbringing and the worldview her station has forced onto her. Viktor doesn’t think he ever met a Topsider willing to reconsider their privileges and trying to see the other side without judgement clouding their eyes.

Then again, Mel wasn’t just any Topsider.

“Doesn’t it get hard to work in the fumes? They make seeing things harder.”

“They make breathing harder,” he watches as a firelight lands on her shoulder. “There’s nothing we can do about The Grey. That’s why I work near the stream. Better light. And my lungs don’t feel like they’re on the verge of collapsing,” he jokes. A voice familiar to Jayce’s whispers to his ears that it isn’t as funny as he thinks. It’s wrong - it is, and he has the next twenty years to truly appreciate his joke. Then, he will get his diagnosis and it will turn hysterical.

Mel hums, then taps her fingers on the railing.

“I’m glad you haven’t forgotten about me when we were apart.” She tells him finally, with an edge to her voice he cannot identify.

“Of course. You’re something I’m glad to remember,” oh, how Jayce would tease him now, for making new friends in his old enemies.

Mel bounces with joy.

“One day,” she promises, “we will change the world.”

It’s an empty promise, one that Jayce made all those years ago. But, just like then, Viktor is a weak man, and doesn’t have the courage nor strength to say otherwise.

Chapter Text

He sneaks out to doctor Reveck’s laboratory eventually. Feeling like a child - more than he did during the last year since he appeared there - he makes his way towards the one room that he knows isn’t filled with science equipment.

He trusts his equations, but emotions cloud his mind in more ways he would like to admit. Some part of him wishes he brought Mel with. Another screams for Jayce’s reassuring presence. Most of him is content with the fact none of his friends will ever know he learnt lab safety in a drug den.

There’s no way he can hide his approaches with how loud his cane sounds hitting the stone floor. He lingers near the door, a perplexed expression twisting his features.

The doctor seems content, calm. He’s reading a book and whispers something when a young voice interrupts him. Viktor slowly opens the door.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” the doctor greets, not looking away from the page he’s been reading. A girl with golden hair and dainty blue eyes looks at him. She resembles a porcelain doll, fragile and pale white. Her mouth is agape and she is covered in blankets. There are thin scars Viktor can see on her skin, going from her neck down to her chest, disappearing under a shirt she’s wearing.

“I had personal business I needed to deal with first,” he and Mel were designing new warning birds for the mines, and replacing rusty parts in their boat. All he really needed was to find the courage to face his mentor, especially if they failed.

“I don’t mind,” his voice is so kind Viktor doesn’t know how to react. The man looks glad, both of his return and that he took time with it.

“You must be Orianna,” he decides to speak to the girl instead. She basks in his attention, a ray of sunshine in a place where it shouldn’t exist.

“And you’re Viktor! Dad told me about you,” her voice is weak, a raspy whisper, and she looks pained when she speaks, but glad to do so either way. She clutches the thickest blanket and covers herself in it, only sticking out her face. “I want to be a ballerina, when I get better.”

Doctor Reveck smiles fondly, leaving a bookmark and closing the book. He brushes hair out of her face and kisses her forehead.

“You’ll be the most talented of them all,” he promises her, and Viktor feels like an intruder. Technically, he knows this is a dangerous man that shouldn’t be trusted. It’s just that he never expected to see his mentor act human; not when he ultimately was ready to destroy both a family and someone’s humanity to achieve his own goals. To get his daughter back he was more than ready to take away a father of three troubled girls.

“We need to speak. Privately,” Viktor urges, keeping his mind from wandering. It’s no use to think about the past - not when the anomaly allowed him to reshape it.

Doctor Reveck kisses the girl’s forehead and nose, and whispers something about needed rest. She groans, complains, and then falls on her pillows, already snuggling into her duvet and dozing off.

“She will need more transplants,” Viktor states as they enter the lab. He glances at the blueprints and sketches hung on a chalkboard, and at the medical equipment scattered around. “Heart. Her liver must be damaged, her eyes and skin show the signs of it. I suspect we will need to work around her throat too; if her lungs were the most affected part in her body, it’s only fair to assume it might’ve spread further. It’s better to re-examine all of her body now she’s awake and able to respond-“ he rambles on, writing his ideas down on the chalkboard.

“You wanted to make the Undercity safer, a favour in return for my daughter.” Doctor Reveck interrupts, calm and collected. Viktor turns slowly, analysing his stance.

“I do have one more condition. I want you to teach me. Zaun will need doctors, and if our inventions prove to be lasting and good enough, there are more people that might be saved by them. Orianna isn’t the only one who had her entire body shut down and her internal organs collapse simultaneously.”

Professor Reveck considers it. He lingers, hovering above him; he was a man born in Piltover; their access to clean air, food and sunlight is yet another advantage that they never truly realised. Even as an adult, Viktor would see him towering over his fragile, sick body.

The doctor brushes the blueprints for the heart with his fingers, eyes focused on the runes Viktor hastily wrote. It’s one of the combinations he has in mind; he knows his mentor would’ve been able to create a working heart on his own, with Beast-Vander as a proving point, but it’s safer to let him believe he needs to rely on Viktor’s help to reach a solution just above his grasp.

Maybe all this time Jayce spent on politics has rubbed off on Viktor as well.

“I never thought I would hear her voice again.” Reveck says, his fingers curling into a fist. He looks at Viktor’s scribbles, drums the fingers of his other hand on the chalkboard, each hitting a different rune Viktor wrote down. “There are many things people are ready to do for love.”

“So? Doctor?”

“Perhaps you’re not my pupil anymore, but a partner,” he says, handing him a new piece of chalk. Viktor takes it.

“What are you doing?” Mel leans over his shoulder, eyeing the piece of papers he’s writing on with suspicion, as if she regards it a threat to her safety. She could, because their last experiment that was supposed to improve their warning-birds design ended up in an explosion. Viktor considers them lucky - and doesn’t try to hide his amusement.

Just like Jayce, Mel discovered his general lack of care for safety with a simple question - “are you sure it’s safe?” and his answer: “of course not”.

“You should be doing your homework. Or do you have that poem memorised to perfection?” He asks her, not lifting his eyes from the paper. She scoffs, dissatisfied and obviously bored with the lack of attention.

“You’re avoiding the question. If it’s something that might put you in jail, I’ll have to know. I’m the only one who’s capable of saving you from your endeavours.”

“How altruistic,” Viktor folds the paper in half, grimacing when ink smudges. “It’s a letter.”

“A letter to who?” Mel reaches out as if intending to snatch it. Viktor pulls away. “Your eyes are pink! Are you in love?”

“Don’t act stupid. Of course not.” He puts the letter in a crumpled envelope - he stole it, and had to store it in his pocket, thus leading to it looking as if a golem ate it and spat it out. “I’m hoping to reach my old friend. If he’s here,” he hopes he is. There’s grief he’s not ready to face in a reality where they got separated.

The Universe will bring them back together, he’s sure of that, and he will care for every version of Jayce he meets, because that’s just how they work.

Nonetheless, he’s a tad bit afraid if his Jayce ended in a separate dimension. He already has waited for a year to address it, just so he could show that he changed for the better; that he wasn’t a pointless, broken thing with a god complex.

Jayce loved him even at his worst, and Viktor couldn’t afford looking him in the eye knowing that. He wanted to become something deserving of that devotion - of the man kneeling on the roof, letting himself go in a desperate, naive hope that his words alone would be enough to snap his partner out of his obsession with perfection.

“Is he like you?” Mel asks, pointing to his hand. Viktor glares at her. “You’re so secretive.”

“He’s an inventor.”

“Mhm,” she hums, rolling her eyes. “How can he be an old friend if you’re only thirteen? I’m the oldest friend you have, as I’m aware.”

Viktor squints at her, not buying the innocent facade she puts on for a second. Something ignites in her eyes; the sort of mischief he’s not particularly fond of.

“Is he your soulmate?” She asks slyly, and yelps when he hits her knees with his cane.

“End of discussion.”

“But-“

“See this look on my face, Miss Medarda?” He leans on a cane with his runic hand and uses the other to point at his face, “it means there won’t be any further discussion of the subject.”

She sighs but lets go, and Viktor makes a point of keeping the letter in his vest, just so her curiosity cannot win.

It’s not easy to sneak out in the middle of the night, but years of experience serve him well. The Talis’ House doesn’t own a massive mansion, but, even if in Piltover’s standards they count as the working class, their home is bigger and prettier than any Viktor had ever seen in Zaun.

The windows of the forge are open, so he slides the letter there, easy to find. Jayce told him - many times - that he frequented the forge from a very young age, learning about the trade he was born into, before his mind allowed him to consider pursuing science as a career path.

His father eyes him suspiciously when he comes back, but doesn’t question it - only grins when Viktor presents him with a stolen book, that he might or might not have taken from Jayce’s house. It’s his fault, really, for leaving them everywhere. The window was already opened, it’s like he was asking-

His letter doesn’t receive a response, and a sensation it causes to happen in his heart may be the worst kind of pain he ever endured.

“-those people are the worst! Stuckups, all of them.”

“They must’ve done a lot of wrong for you to grant such anger upon them,” Viktor manoeuvres with tweezers above some very delicate wires that need his full attention. The heart he’s working on twitches, the pump coming to life with a glow of a rune he placed on the inside.

He’s not keeping himself busy in favor of ignoring the pain in his chest that spikes up every time he thinks of Jayce’s apparent absence. Really.

It’s different living a year without him by his side but with hope that he’s out there, and knowing that they’re separated once again, perhaps for all eternity - unless Viktor caves in and re-invents Hextech, fuses with the Hexcore and causes an apocalypse, again.

He hopes it won’t come to that, at least if he is busy enough not to consider it for too long. It always starts seeming like a decent idea if he’s left alone with his thoughts for longer than ten minutes.

Mel waves the book she’s reading (between complaining about her school and commenting on each action the protagonist takes that enrages her just like that awful Ferros girl, who keeps answering before she has a chance to raise her hand) and crosses her legs.

“If I have to attend yet another party, I will faint. Some people do that, you know? I saw some lady from the Hoskel House pretend to faint so she could get out of a conversation with her nephew.” Viktor used to pretend he’s way more sick than in reality, until Jayce finally had mercy and agreed to let him stay away from the galas and meet-ups.

“Did you faint?”

“No, but I wish I did. My mother wouldn’t be pleased with such behaviour, unfortunately.”

“Your mother isn’t pleased with many things,” Viktor notices. There’s a perfect little line forming between Mel’s eyebrows as she frowns, considering his words.

“She wants to mold me, like a piece of gold, into a worthy weapon. I’ve seen her plans for me. I’m not eager for any. The time I spent here is the only break I have from all this unnecessary violence.” Mel scoffs, turning towards the stream. “Kino always says that there is a choice. That a path of war and death is not the only one that’s destined for me. My mother isn’t fond of the time I spend with him either.”

“Must be a pain, knowing your children want to forge their own fate,” Viktor tells her dryly, earning a chuckle.

“Oh, the horrors of not losing your child on a battlefield,” Mel scoffs, “Jericho Swain, with all the people who follow his lead, would not be enough to convince my mother that there’s something more to this world and politics than violence.”

“Why change the answer that works perfectly well,” Viktor grunts. “The only universal language is violence, is it not?” It seemed to be, and then it turned out to be love. Of course, how cliche. It was always there.

Unlike Jayce, Viktor’s bitter thoughts betray him.

“My, my. A philosopher? You’re full of surprises, are you not?”

“Someone has to stimulate your brain. When you don’t use a part of yourself, it weakens. I’m simply stimulating you so you don’t start behaving like the rest of your class.”

“Keeping me in line, I see.” She grins, then abandons her books. “Can we go get sweetmilk?”

Jayce thought that the Undercity was dangerous. The council was wary of it. The Mel he knew regarded it with caution and suspicion.

And yet, there she is.

“Sure,” Viktor blinks, gathers his cane and leads her further down. She watches the buildings on their way, scrunching her nose when they wander into a cloud of The Grey.

There’s teenagers robbing someone. A couple of nomads trying to sell things that are definitely of a stolen origin. When they pass by a brothel, Mel’s eyes widen, but she does wave back to one of the workers. Viktor almost laughs at how stunned she looks.

“It was less lively when you took me here for the first time,” she notes. He offers her a shrug.

“It was late, people were more busy not dropping dead after work.”

“The buildings look intimidating.” Mel looks up, where the towers stretch. It’s impossible to see the sky, but it’s out there, beyond the reach. “It’s so… fascinating that humans were capable of creating something like this.”

Viktor looks at them too; they’re rundown, covered in posters and graffiti. They’re far from the perfect Piltover, and yet something of its influence remains in how the architecture looks; similar, but adapted to the needs of Zaun.

“I guess so,” back in his community, the main trade among his followers was blacksmithing. Human hands are capable of creation beyond comprehension.

They order the sweetmilk; Mel pays and offers the vendor some extra for sprinkling more darkpowder on the cream of her drink.

“That’s bribery.”

“No, it’s being conscious of my spending habits.”

Viktor rolls his eyes and gulps down his sweetmilk. Oh, how he misses those little chocolate eclairs Cassandra Kiramman used to buy as gifts for any substantial progress on Hextech.

“Where do you live?” Mel asks, her eyes wandering. Viktor frowns, but allows himself to indulge in her little curiosity.

“Further down, in the fissures. My mum painted our door with dye made from flowers. She likes to make things look less gloomy than they are.”

“She sounds delightful.”

“She would like you,” Viktor says, realising that it’s true. His mum loved people who learnt to be curious, not judgemental.

Mel grins again, something about how she starts holding herself is speaking volumes about how pleased she is with that information.

“I’m sure I would like her, too.”

It’s a bad day, and Viktor knows it before it even starts. He pushed himself past the point of exhaustion; the robotic heart was finished, but figuring out the runework took him hours, and then he kept coughing each time he tried to write them down, ending up with washing them off of the mechanisms and starting over, again and again.

His leg is begging for mercy, and so is his back, strained beyond belief. He should start looking into making a brace for it too, but the parts he would need are scarce and better used in his other, useful projects.

He cannot speak a word when his mother comes in, only whimpering in pain and squeezing his face into the pillow. She brushes hair from his face - gently, barely a whisper of a touch.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she whispers, watching him struggle to breathe through the gritted teeth. He’s aware that they cannot afford painkillers. He’s also aware that he had worse, but his body is one of a child now, and the pain receptors seem to be responding accurately.

He had many bad days during his time at the Academy. Working on Hextech for days, sleeping on his desk or the lab’s floor, deeming going to an actual bed a waste of time, did their own thing to his body.

He hadn’t had any bad days in the commune. Since his fusion with the Hexcore, he didn’t feel any pain at all - besides the one with lingering exhaustion that appeared after he tried to heal Vander for the first time.

It was freeing - not having to worry about his body for once. He wasn’t a prisoner of it, he was no longer stuck in a world that he wasn’t accustomed to.

Perhaps he took too much of this comfort for granted. He should’ve expected that, if he lived his life in pain once, he would have to do it again in this little do-over the rune had sent him to.

He doesn’t answer his mother; his breath hitches and he curls into a fetal position, squeezing his eyes shut.

The pain gets overbearing as the time passes; he ends up vomiting twice, and doesn’t eat a single thing; the sheer idea is making him nauseous.

It must be evening - it’s hard to tell, because time both flies and stays in place, and he’s out of it and then fully conscious every twenty minutes or so.

He hears his mother respond to a knock on the door; he can’t find it in himself to care if it’s a rogue gang member who decided to rob them, or a drug addict trying to sell her something. At this point, he would welcome anything, even a different kind of pain, if it stopped the one he’s currently feeling.

He can’t make out words, but he recognises his mother’s tone as a surprised one. Then, her footsteps are directed to his room, joined by another set following after her, much more timid in their approach.

He cracks his eyelid open, and his eye immediately fills up with tears of pain.

Mel is standing behind his mother, their boat in her hands. Her stoic, confident demeanor changes at the sight of him; her shoulders tense and she starts fidgeting in place.

His mum looks at him for a long while, then whispers something to Mel, who shakes her head and approaches the bed.

“I don’t want pity,” Viktor croaks, shivering as pain ripples through his spine once again. Mel leans in, with a complicated look in her eyes.

“Alright.” She looks around the room, then grabs a chair and drags it to his bed. She gets one of his - stolen - books and sits down, opening it on the first page.

She doesn’t say a word, apparently content enough with just keeping him company.

It’s only after his mother comes back with a cup of water that she pulls back from reading and gets it from her.

Viktorie glances at Viktor, then at Mel. She leans on the wall, a soft smile on her lips and a kind look in her eyes.

“It’s kind of you to visit,” Viktor briefly wonders how quickly she connected the dots between Mel and his mysterious science partner.

“Of course. I got worried, when he hadn’t appeared in our usual meeting spot.” She muses, ogling the water, not as subtly as she probably would prefer to.

“So, where do you live again?” His mother asks, and Viktor groans, both in pain and annoyance.

“Oh, I'm from Noxus,” Mel tells her, smiling brightly. “Viktor has shown me around a bit. It’s much different here, compared to where I come from.”

“What does a Noxian girl do in the Undercity?”

“Finds friends, apparently,” comes a light response, and Viktorie chuckles.

“Well, in any case, I’m glad. Are you interested in science as well?”

“Oh, it’s fascinating, but my mind isn’t shaped around it,” Mel shrugs. “I’m still finding out my own thing.”

“You’ll have your whole life for that,” Viktor’s mother assures her, then pushes herself from the wall and exits the room. “If you want to stay the night, I’ll bring you a blanket.”

Mel nods, then returns to reading. She doesn’t speak a word, and when the pain finally becomes bearable, Viktor turns to her. He’s too exhausted to sit up, and even a simple head turn makes him wince. She meets his eyes.

“Red-ish. How perplexing.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Keeping you company. I know you might prefer to be alone in the moments as such, but you’re my friend and I wanted to see if nobody stabbed you on your way up.”

He frowns at her wording, an echo of Jayce’s they’re dangerous in his mind.

“I’m fine,” he tells her, dryly. “Maybe you should leave, if you’re so worried about stabbing.”

Her eyes widen and she shakes her head.

“I’m sorry. That was a bad thing to say.” Viktor pauses - Jayce never apologised for any of his off-handed comments about the Undercity. He likely never even realised how they came off, at least to Viktor, who spent his whole life as someone lesser, from a place that couldn’t possibly be equal to the beautiful Piltover.

„Alright.” He watches her for a moment. “How do you like the Undercity water?” He teases instead of letting his thoughts consume him. Mel drops the shy act and grins, a bit of embarrassment hanging around the edges.

“I think I like sweetmilk more,” she opts to say, then, quieter: “at least it’s not that bitter tea professor Heimerdinger likes. Every time I have to speak to him, he offers me some. It’s terrible.”

“Why not add sugar?” Viktor used to do that, in amounts that rendered his tea more of a syrup than anything.

“He will judge me.”

“Let him, then.” As if enjoying sugar is something to be ashamed of. Viktor spent his whole life judged by others, and so would Mel, as a Medarda.

Mel nods, but doesn’t seem to be fully on his side. She plays with the boat, looking at the cogs making up the engine.

“Would you be interested in joining me at a gala next month?” She asks, raising her head to look at him.

If Viktor didn’t feel like he would puke if he moved, he would’ve jumped to his feet and swat at her with his cane.

“That is a terrible idea.”

“What?” She pouts. “I see, that’s how it is. Such a friend you are-“

“What even is it for? Some pointless event to show off the wealth of the upper class, as if they didn’t flaunt it every day?”

“It’s… yeah, it’s pretty much that.” She sighs.

“It will be boring,” he tells her and she shifts in place, her face now graces with a deep frown.

“It won’t be if you come.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’m not a Piltie, they wouldn’t want a Zaunite there-“

“But I want my friend there. I’ll give you a suit and, if that’s what you want, no one will even know you’re from the Undercity.” She bats her eyelashes at him. Viktor isn’t as strong as he thought himself to be; he ends up agreeing, because his bleeding heart that wants to help those in need seemingly decided to start covering children’s emotional pain too.

The clothes fit him well, and he starts suspecting it’s all just an excuse for Mel to give him something nice. Ever since she learnt that he doesn’t enjoy gifts, she became set on trying to give him presents disguised as favours to her.

That damned sly Noxian fox.

“You look good,” she tells him, and offers him a cane - one made of red and grey wood, Medarda’s family colours.

“At least I don’t have to put that gross gel abomination into my hair.”

“It would be funny to see you with your hair slicked back,” she tells him. He, without another word, hands her his cane, then wobbles a few steps back.

“THIEF-“ he manages to yell, pointing at her. In all of his thirteen-year-old glory, and behaving as if he really is that age, he watches with enjoyment as Mel drops the cane and staggers backwards.

Pleased with himself, and with the glares that the people who saw his little stunt sent in Mel’s direction, he collects his new cane and leans on it, a smug smile on his face.

“You- you are terrible!” She covers her face.

“Is that how you treat your friends? And here I was, thinking that you have manners.”

“I will show you manners-“ she squints at him, and yelps when he smacks his cane on her leg. “Hey!”

He makes his daring escape, pushing a nearby guest in her direction and trapping her in the hell that is the social etiquette.

Mel glares at him while doing her best to answer the questions about her stay in Piltover. He takes the chance and limps towards the higher levels of the mansion, seeking a quiet spot, just for him.

A balcony is just what he needs; Viktor slowly closes the door behind him and sits on the balustrade, his cane put against it.

He can see the lights from both Piltover and Zaun - gold mixing with green. There are enforcers patrolling the streets, some standing in little groups and chatting together, some walking through with weapons in hand, as if expecting an attack.

The sky looks familiar - he hasn’t seen the night for a long time, and his chest aches with the reminder of the last spot he saw Jayce in. It’s not souls but stars that are shining across the vast emptiness of it, and yet their glow is the same.

He coughs, then looks down. The street lamps emit a soft glow; he grips the balustrade. There are no Hexgates, no blood left by the sudden spasm of his lungs, and yet the void calls to him just the same.

He always hated seeing Jayce on the balconies; there’s a wonder of sorts, if his partner ever felt the same after he caught him standing too close to the edge in his hideout.

The earth below seems to be swirling; an inviting embrace of the arcane awaiting him, all he needs to do is tip over. It sings out to him, a hymn of a glorious evolution, of a plane above his human existence; of souls glowing like stars, and a place with no time, no pain.

He leans forward, however briefly, only to be stopped by the sound of the balcony door. He grips the marble balustrade and looks back, his eyes catching ones of a crying girl.

She’s no older than four, and is wearing a violet dress he assimilates with the Kiramman House colours. Her eyes widen at the sight of him, but all that comes out of her mouth as she opens it is a choked sob.

Viktor kneels in front of her, slowly, wincing slightly when his leg protests at the movement.

“Hello, little one,” she looks up at him and wipes her tears with the sleeves of her dress. “I’m not a big fan of big gatherings as well,” he tells her with a smile.

The girl gives him a wobbly one in return.

“They don’t let me play,” she whines. “My mum yelled at me for eating cake. She said I’m in-prop-er.”

“Improper,” Viktor corrects. “That’s a bit silly, don’t you think? And, cake is good. Why would it be there if not to be eaten?”

She brightens up when he shows some kind of understanding. She starts babbling about the events, and how her dress is stuffy and she cannot run in it well, and all the other stuff a four year-old is preoccupied by.

It takes twenty minutes for Cassandra Kiramman to locate her daughter. She opens the door and takes in the scene in front of her; Viktor is watching with ease as Caitlyn tries to walk with his cane, pouting at the fact it’s almost twice her size.

“Good evening,” she nods curtly and Viktor responds in kind. “I apologize for my daughter’s behaviour. I hope she hasn’t made much of a disturbance?”

“She’s lovely,” Viktor assures her. “Councillor Kiramman,” he adds. Her eyes are squinted, and her chin is up, high, as she regards him.

“To which House do you belong, boy? I do not remember seeing you among my peers’ children.”

“He’s with me!” Mel declares, bursting into the balcony. She nods at Cassandra: “Miss Kiramman, a pleasure to see you.”

“Miss Medarda. I haven’t realised you invited someone.”

“That’s-“ Viktor shakes his head. He is not in the mood to be roped into whatever shenanigans are currently happening within the Council. “That’s my friend. At school. He has been helping me with some projects, and I thought I would return the favor by bringing him here, with me.”

Cassandra frowns.

“He’s from a… lower House,” Mel adds quickly. That seems to be enough of an explanation for her. She nods and Viktor wonders how in all possibilities he always manages to be seen as someone who got claimed by a House with a good reputation, like a little pet.

“You could’ve said I was your brother. They haven’t seen him anyway, so what harm would it cause?”

Mel sends him a long, tired stare.

“I know I said we have a thing in common, with the gold, but we do not look alike.”

“Maybe Kino was adopted. Have you thought about that?” She pushes him, albeit gently, and rolls her eyes.

“Have you stolen anything good yet?”

“What are those accusations?! Miss Medarda, I am appalled!” Viktor grins. “I knew you wanted me here for a reason.”

“You couldn’t do some of the projects because parts for them are not affordable. Of course I would sneak you into an exclusive, rich people party. That’s what friends are for.”

Viktor did, in fact, steal some valuable stuff - that he later sold to a few different vendors in the Undercity.

Mel and he are making another of the warning-birds - she decided to paint them, a bright yellow colour, to be visible in the dark mines. Viktor did comment that their idea was first based on a prayer to Janna, and therefore they should’ve been blue, but Mel never was a person who believed in arguing with her ideas.

He carves a rune into the metal, exhaustion from the banquet still lingering in his bones - despite the fact that three days had passed since they attended it.

Mel is humming a song - one Viktor’s mother had taught her when she brought him back, giggling and avoiding to answer where they had been and how they got their fancy clothes.

There are footsteps nearby, and Viktor frowns, not lifting his gaze up from his work. It might be Professor Reveck, though he doubts it. He’s still focused on Orianna, who’s recovering from yet another surgery.

Mel stops humming.

“Uh, hello. What are you doing?” A soft voice asks. Viktor frowns, the intrusion in his work leaving him with a scowl on his face. It immediately turns into pure adrenaline rush in his veins, and then absolute horror and despair.

Sky Young is looking at him, curiosity shining in her eyes like a lighthouse amidst a storm.

She hesitates, then proceeds to lean in, smiling when Mel offers her the bird she was painting to examine.

Viktor can’t breathe. His heart is pounding, and the rhythm of it is filling his brain, and suddenly it turns into a hum of the Hexcore, and he’s thirty two, curled up on the ground, with a crumpled letter in his hand and ashes under his fingernails.

“I saw you working on things a couple of times already, but I never had the courage to come up and say hi-“ Sky’s voice is muffed by the ringing in his ears. He sees Mel’s lips form an answer, perhaps start a conversation, but he’s trapped away from his body, his body drowning like the corpses buried in the White Wharf.

The guilt is heavy on him, a noose on his neck. Sky, dead twice over and still alive; his assistant, his humanity, and herself.

“Are you okay?” She asks. Mel swears in the noxian language and rushes to his side, face graced with concern he so closely associates with Jayce and Ximena. His partner’s mother was a true wonder, treating him with a politeness not many Pilties considered him deserving of.

“Hey, science-guy. You’re looking a bit paler than usual,” Mel crouches in front of him, far enough to not overwhelm him with her presence.

“I-“ his voice is choked by the sobs escaping from his throat. Glasses. The Hexcore, glowing and different, changed. The ashes scattered across the floor, and pages upon pages of letters; thoughts never spoken aloud.

Sky is hovering over Mel’s shoulders, unsure what she should do, but not leaving.

“I apologise,” Viktor says, taking deep breaths and ignoring how his voice is shaking. He glances at Mel, then at Sky; her big, round brown eyes are staring into his soul. I will miss our talks. No, you won’t. But he did, only he wasn’t aware of it until he was dying with Jayce in his arms. “You look like a close friend of mine,” he admits, ashamed. Mel perks up, curious. Viktor averts his gaze. “She died. I sincerely apologize, it’s like-“

“Staring at a ghost?” Sky asks, a timid smile gracing her lips. “It’s okay. We all lose someone. Part of being an underdog, right?” She gives the bird back to Mel, then looks at Viktor again. “I recognise that design. My mum works in the fissures, she told me about how some mysterious, anonymous inventor created a mechanical bird that warned them of danger. She didn’t mention that he was a kid, though.”

“We’re not doing this for praise,” Viktor says. Mel nods, her fingers brushing on the yellow paint.

“Never said you do. Can I work with you?” Sky sits down, points at the gears. “I want to help people, and that’s what you’re doing, right?”

Viktor wants to say no; he wants to yell at her to run, before he kills her again. It’s almost as if she only existed for him to destroy, to move forward in whatever development he was going through, reaching the next stage as soon as she was gone.

But he remembers her notes; the shy admittance of her devotion to their cause, of her dreams to mold Zaun into something great.

“Sure,” he shows her the blueprints, explains what parts they use. Mel chimes in from time to time, preaching their achievements as if they’re truly something great.

Hextech was the embodiment of greatness. Viktor considers himself lucky to be tied to such a thing, even if, in the end, it turned out to be troublesome. Little robots created to warn miners of upcoming danger don’t seem as grand.

Then again, Hextech never helped the people of Zaun, as he hoped it would. He did more for them with an invention that seems so trivial, than with something he dedicated his life to.

“You’re using runes,” Sky takes notice, frowning slightly.

“I can… channel the arcane,” Viktor’s words are careful, he considers each of them before he lets them leave his lips. “Magic operates on a certain frequency I am tuned to, apparently. But I can’t create it on my own, I require a rune to use it. A way of redirecting energy, one could assume.”

“That is so cool,” Sky jumps in place. “I have never seen magic before. Is it dangerous?”

“Enough to risk getting exiled, so be careful of who you share this information with,” Mel warns her, not unkindly. Sky scoffs, a playful smile gracing her lips.

“I don’t want you two to get arrested. How would we invent things if you were put in Stillwater?”

“Pragmatic, I can respect that,” Viktor bites, and her cheeks darken. She looks away, then focuses at the blueprints again, eyeing the runes written down on them.

“Have you considered using runestones to do magic? I understand carving runes into metal, but if they are what lets you connect to the arcane and redirect its energy in a way you want, would it be nice to have something more… mobile?”

“You could learn spells that don’t have anything to do with making stuff! Maybe you could change the weather,” or seasons, Viktor wonders, a brief memory of his alternate self forcing the world to spin with his will. Mel looks excited at the idea.

“I’m not a mage,” he reminds them, dryly. Sky raises her eyebrow, mouth open to ask a question, but Mel shakes her head before she has a chance to.

“But it could be useful. You could have access to magic without having to worry about having a tool under your hand that would allow you to carve a rune into an object. You’d have them ready, right at your disposal.”

“Miss Young, I’m afraid your proposal could draw some unneeded attention. From many parties, such as the Council, Chembarons and some investors that are rich in everything but morals.”

“Miss Young?” Mel questions, ignoring his - rather well-made - point. Sky stutters. “How come she has a surname but you don’t?”

“My great grandfather was from Piltover, originally. A really low and small House that quickly went bankrupt and then lost all the privileges a House could grant. But the name stays.” Sky explains. Viktor nods, adjusting the gear in the project.

“Citizens of the Undercity don’t have surnames. If I had to, I would sign my name twice on official papers.”

“Okay,” Mel nods, as if everything became clearer. She turns to Viktor. “Going back, your concerns are valid, but you have to consider that runestones would be, in general, of good use to you. No one needs to know. The issue isn’t with the people who would want that power to themselves, but with runestones, wouldn’t it be possible to access the Arcane and escape through it?”

“I had done it once and I’d rather not re-live it.”

Mel’s eyes glow with that information. Sky looks concerned and confused, tilts her head to the side and frowns.

“Once?”

“I KNEW IT!”

Viktor rolls his eyes.

“Sky, we just met. Mel, we’ve only known each other for a year. I’m not giving you my whole life’s story.”

Mel makes a vague noise that sounds like booing, and Sky giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. She looks in wonder at the blueprint yet again, then reaches for the screwdriver.

“Alright, less talking and more work, new friends,” she announces, cutting their discussion short. Viktor can’t help but smile - it seems that, even now, Sky, somehow, does read him just as well as Jayce always did.

Chapter Text

He never was close to Sky; back when he invited her to join in on the Hextech project, it was because of his knowledge of her accomplishments in the Chemtech-safety industry. It took a lot of time, her Zaunish heritage being an awful obstacle to deal with, but where Viktor’s voice didn’t matter, he could use Jayce’s.

House Talis started to matter after they finished Hexgates. The first successful transportation of the airships was exactly what they needed to make Hextech the most important of the projects that were supported by the Council.

And Viktor, in the name of his idea of helping Zaunites, when Professor Heimerdinger approached him about hiring an assistant, one that would do any task he and Jayce no longer had time for, proposed to hire a Zaunite like himself.

A lot of undiscovered talent, he defended, one that would be left to rot, if not for help from the outside. He has gotten where he is through lies and manipulation. Not many were this lucky.

Jayce didn’t think they needed an assistant - Viktor had the same opinion, but he knew which battles were the ones they could fight - and he kept dismissing the idea until Mel Medarda and Cassandra Kiramman told him (disregarding Viktor’s presence, as always) to find someone, because those little, useless tasks hindered Hextech’s development.

And it’s not hard to find someone willing to work on the most prestigious project, but neither Viktor nor Jayce looked at the Academy Students with hope. So many of them were driven by the need for fame, prestige, power or money.

So, finally, Viktor told Jayce about a girl from the Undercity he used to be friends with - putting the word friends as a descriptor of their relationship was a rich gesture, and a calculated one above that. They worked on a project in one of the Chemtech-run factories together, once, and barely talked. As soon as Viktor had used this word, Jayce brightened up, his mind clearly set on getting Sky Young to be their assistant and proclaiming that no one else could possibly fill that role.

Really, Viktor just wanted someone who wouldn’t endlessly annoy him.

Maybe he should’ve expected that it wouldn’t be a case this time around, because with Mel dead set on becoming her friend - after explaining to Viktor, as if he cared a great deal about this, that he will always be her best friend, but a bond between two women is a sacred thing to experience and he couldn’t possibly fill that crevice of her soul - she entered the worst team up of his life - one he was, quite unfortunately, involved in.

 “And, of course, there will be a fountain of sweetmilk, if I so desire.”

“That’s a… lavish party you’re describing. Right, Viktor?”

“Hm? Ah, right. Correct,” he frowns as he tries to remove a rusty cog from the boat’s little engine. Mel rolls her eyes and offers Sky a smile.

“Lost in his own little world. I’m afraid you won’t be capable of reaching him.”

“It’s alright - I’m happy to just be here. And you’re good company, too, of course.”

Mel makes a pleased sound and returns to her monologue about her birthday celebrations.

“You will have to come, of course.” She concludes her tirade. Sky smiles softly.

“It’s a nice offer, but Houses wouldn’t be pleased with a Zaunite running around.”

“Nonsense! Viktor enjoyed one and everything turned out well, isn’t that right?”

“Enjoyment is one way to call it, that’s for certain,” he smirks at her offended gasp. Sky’s eyes sparkle with wonder.

“If you’re being serious…” she looks at her shoes, her face slowly turning darker.

“Of course! Oh, it’s going to be lovely!”

“Congratulations, Miss Young. You just became her dress-up doll.”

“Oh, shush, as if you didn’t enjoy the suit I gave you.”

“The only useful thing you forced into my hands was this cane,” Viktor grumbles, ignoring her fond smile. He hits her knees with the cane. “A fearful weapon.”

“Of course,” Mel laughs.

“Noxus is far away.”

“It indeed is,” Viktor offers from where he’s working on the warning-bird. Sky shuffles closer, watching him tweak the mechanisms inside it. She’s a fast, visual learner. Her own prototypes sit at her feet.

“Don’t you miss her? I haven’t seen you hang around anyone else.”

“She will return soon enough. Her company is appreciated, but I am well-capable of working alone.”

“Seems a bit lonely,” she insists, playing with her hair. The braid Mel had woven it into is still neat enough. “My friends hate to be apart for too long. Last spring, when The Grey got so bad even the upper levels were affected, we created a communication system. We live near each other, so we created a code, using the lights on the helmets of our parents’. Signals to indicate letters.”

“It sounds like a nice way to communicate from a distance.”

“Oh, yes! It’s very useful, too. We warn each other from danger or plan out when to meet. You could come, if you want, of course.”

“I’m not exactly interested,” he looks up. “But thank you for your offer. It is very kind of you.”

“Right.”

She sighs, and her stomach grumbles, loudly.

“I miss the sandwiches Mel brought,” she jokes, a bit too honest. Viktor looks at her sunken cheeks and boney fingers.

“Tough month for your family?”

“We live in the Undercity. What month isn’t?” She laughs, biting at her lip. “I want to do good, but it’s hard to, when starving.”

“You could sell the parts we’re collecting.”

“We need them for your projects!” She refuses, shaking her head. Viktor lifts up one eyebrow.

“And I won’t be able to create any of my projects if one of my partners dies from hunger.”

She sighs in resignation, taking some of the cogs and screws.

“A week.”

“No way,” Sky eats the stew, pushing more into her mouth than she can fit. Viktor nods seriously.

“With no food at all, a week. Then my dad caught a rat and we cooked it. Nothing ever tasted better.”

“At that moment? I don’t doubt that.” Sky sniffs, wipes her face and orders seconds. “For me it’s three days. I thought my stomach would eat itself. When we got food, I felt so sick I couldn’t eat. An endless cycle-“

“- you want to vomit because you’re so hungry, but you cannot eat because you want to vomit.” He nods again, this time in understanding.

“I think my dad might cry once I bring this home,” she points to the bags with carefully packed very illegal meat. Viktor wondered, briefly, whoever’s pet Tamu found an early grave; Shoola’s House had some specimen non-native to Piltover. She, like Salo, had a taste for wild, foreign pets.

No one ever spoke of the hushtail incident of 973 AN. As far as Viktor was concerned, Salo never owned one.

“It will last for a bit, hopefully.”

“I think it would be better to offer the leftovers to my friends and their families, and then, if anything stays, to those who also need it.” She hums. “Not many are lucky.”

“Yes, some have to last two weeks without eating.” She giggles, rolling her eyes at his comment.

“Those are called corpses, I’m afraid.”

“Only if you let them be. Those are called investments,” he corrects, flexing the wallet he snatched from some petty thief. “Like many others.”

“Awful thing, you are.” She laughs, taking a bowl of hot stew in her hands. “But you need to improve your cane. The compartment where you’re hiding a dagger is visible.”

He swears and forces it shut, examining it closely; the faint line isn’t as visible as it was, but it does bring him great annoyance.

“It seems both of us will have a lot of work to do,” he offers instead.

It’s a cold winter night when they meet again; Sky, after all, had her own life to take care of, and however nice their newfound friendship was, Viktor wasn’t a part of her closest cycle.

He’s sitting on a rooftop; the climb was exhausting, but the view recompensated his efforts. He’s playing with the dagger, his cane disregarded, left by the chimney.

There were nights like those, before his health got worse and before Jayce and he started losing touch; the first day of winter, where a gala was held for celebration of the season, comes to mind.

Jayce was on edge the entire day; he kept snapping at anyone who dared to approach him, and when Caitlyn decided to pull a prank on him, he shoved her into the ice sculpture her mother paid for.

“Usually,” she drawls, her accent soaking into the words, “he’s more of a puppy. Currently, though, he’s behaving like a rabid, feral wolf.”

Viktor raises his eyebrow at her; she decided to keep him company in his solitude, most likely because of her perception of him as Jayce’s closest - and, perhaps, only - friend.

She’s still trembling from cold, but keeps shooing away any of the staff who tries to hand her warm blankets.

“I do not see you here often, Viktor.”

“It is not the kind of environment I belong to. Souls like myself are destined for something else than dancing and mindless mindling.” He taps his fingers on the handle of his cane; Caitlyn shrugs.

“And yet you’re here today,” she hums, pleased.

It’s only because winter usually sours his mood, and, since it’s already bad because of the season, he decided that he paid no mind to his usual annoyances, for today. Things he would avoid on habit become more bearable than the coldness of the lab or his small apartment, both with temperatures that make his bones throb painfully against his muscles.

Caitlyn says something else - attempts to start a chat about their respective dreams, telling him about her plans of becoming a sheriff. He’s polite enough to stay quiet, choosing to save her from the embarrassment of realising that he’s a Zaunite and those usually do not hold much great feelings towards the enforcers.

Someone approaches them with a blanket, again, and Caitlyn already begins to shoo them away when Viktor takes the soft material into his own hands.

The maid grimaces but lets go of it under Caitlyn’s intense glare.

“I will have to apologise, miss Kiramman, but I find myself in a dire need of fresh air. If you could be so kind-“

“Oh, sure. Of course! There’s a balcony upstairs. First room on the left.”

He nods, a silent gratitude.

The fresh air is biting at his skin, but he is a man on a mission, and he cannot be stopped; grabbing his cane in his teeth, he slowly climbs up the wall, supporting his bad leg and leaning on the bricks to ease himself into pain. His upper body strength is much greater than what his legs have to offer, and he manages to climb onto the roof tiles, collapsing onto them with a satisfied smile stretching his lips.

Now, hard to find and out of the judgemental view of Piltover’s finest, he lets himself rest, wrapped tightly in the blanket.

Half an hour passes, his hands are painfully sore and his cheeks and nose red, when he hears a muffled sound coming from a balcony on the other side of the mansion.

It takes him a while to crawl above that spot, the snow soaking through his clothes. He grabs the roof tiles, knocking some of them down when he slips.

Slowly, he manoeuvres his body to have a clear view on the balcony.

To his surprise, he finds Jayce, of all people, huddled in the corner.

“And here I thought you were the light of the party,” he jokes dryly. Jayce’s head perks up and his eyes widen comically upon noticing Viktor, in an awkward position, half-hanging above him.

“What-“ whatever bothered him is left forgotten as he takes in his disheveled appearance. “What are you doing on the roof?”

“Enjoying the view. Scientific research needs someone outside a confirmation bias to judge it, though,” he offers Jayce his hand. His partner laughs in disbelief.

“How did you even climb up there?”

“Easily,” comes a sly reply. Jayce grabs the edge of the roof with his shaking hands and, with Viktor’s help, manages to climb up, breathing heavily.

“I hate the cold,” he sighs, shaking wildly. Viktor drops half of the blanket over his shoulders and huddles closer; Jayce must’ve not been outside for long, he still carries the warmth of the mansion on his skin, alongside the smell of some woman’s perfume.

“At least the view is nice,” he offers, smiling softly. He feels Jayce’s eyes on himself, so he taps on his cane in an absent-minded manner, staring at the lights below. “It is a useful skill, to know how to climb,” he offers, reminiscing about kids in Zaun - every single one figured out how to do it, sooner or later. Some for games; wild chases around the city. Some out of necessity; to escape The Grey’s choking fumes, or to avoid enforcers and thieves.

Most did it for fun.

Jayce looks down as well, something painful twisting his face into a worried frown.

“When I was young, I got lost in a blizzard. My mother and I- we thought we wouldn’t make it.” He touches his bracelet, his fingers running across the runestone, tracing the symbol carved into it. “To this day I just- I cannot stand the cold very well.”

“I hate winter too, Jayce,” Viktor offers. His bones ache.

“I don’t mind it as much, now. It’s comfortable, from up here,” Jayce’s voice is creaking, like old floorboards, but he seems sure of his words, even as he flinches when he brushes snow with his fingers. “But maybe it would’ve been better if we stayed inside, for today. The gala was a mistake.”

“We can do that tomorrow. Hate winter together.” Viktor’s amused smile is reciprocated. Jayce puts his head on his shoulder, still shaking under the blanket.

“Sounds good to me.”

The memory is blurred, the past far gone; Viktor cannot remember clearly what had happened after. Maybe an investor found them, maybe they stayed up there until the cold got insufferable and they stumbled back onto the balcony, half frozen.

Perhaps Caitlyn found them and berated them for an hour over how dangerous climbing rooftops is.

Now, alone, Viktor cannot help but wonder. The lights of both of the cities remind him of vast amounts of stars and souls.

Piltover looks similar to Zaun, without Hextech-built buildings on the horizon.

He glances down, on instinct, the lights swirling around just like they did last time, at the party.

He leans over the edge, watching people running around, trying desperately to escape the cold wind.

It isn’t until a small, rough hand grasps his shoulder that he realises how close he had gotten to the ledge.

Sky doesn’t say anything, she just sits beside him and hums a song.

“We should dance, someday, if we’re supposed to attend those Piltie-parties in the future.”

“The best I can do is sway in place,” he offers cheekily, forcing himself to pry away from the edge. Sky snorts.

“Still better than me, I promise. The moment I will start dancing there will be casualties.”

He shakes his head and closes his eyes. Somewhere nearby, in a local bar, a song starts playing.

There’s a girl in town-

He offers her his hand, the other resting on his cane.

“Well then, I presume we are both forced to learn something new.” He helps her stance, then directs her footwork with simple instructions.

With the lights reflecting in her eyes Viktor thinks of how she used to be humanity itself, in his eyes; and with how bright her smile shines, he can’t help but admit to himself that he was right to picture that concept as Sky Young.

Chapter Text

Time has always been a factor which Viktor considered with the utmost respect. He knew how much it meant; just exactly how valuable it was.

He has been dying since he was born, burning out like a candle with half of the wax already melted; he molded it into a new one, with his newfound immortality; one that lasted a day and a half.

There’s always so little of it - Ximena used to tell him that it flies by, fast and uncaring for all the people who are struggling to catch up. Her eyes lingered on her husband’s decorative hammer, hanging on the wall by the fireplace, and on the prosthetic fingers, joints of which were made from the wedding jewellery he proposed with.

Viktor always liked those evenings, once a month, when she invited him for tea - it started as a way to “get to know the young man who saved her boy”, and slowly evolved into gossip sessions with “her dear Viktor”.

At first, he came with Jayce, as a companion. A nice, decorative addition to the Talis House, one a bit rough around the edges. Ximena took a liking to him, in a motherly way that reminded Viktor both of Zaunish traditions, where adults usually would try to force children into accepting as much food as possible, as if feeding was a form of love and something that created a sense of community, and of the fact that Talis House wasn’t an upper class environment - of course, it gained prestige; a lot of it, all with the invention of Hextech - and within the quiet rooms, with temperature equal to the one in Shurima’s desert in summer when compared to the one in their lab, he felt slightly less out of place.

It took a year of visits when he got a letter, one from Ximena, inviting him for tea. As surprising and strange as it was, to travel to her house without Jayce to accompany him, it took them less than fifteen minutes to gossip like old friends.

Jayce had been utterly terrified upon finding out that she didn’t spare his dignity, and shared quite a lot of stories from his childhood.

He had told her about his diagnosis - Jayce would’ve slipped up about his sickness sooner or later, because his caring nature also caused him to be incredibly out there with his emotions.

She took his hands into hers, the closest thing to a mother he had in years, and cried as if she was losing her son.

When they first met, she had told him to take care of her son; then, sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, with her half collapsed onto the floor, he asked if he did good. A selfish indulgence, but one he needed, with the ravine that developed between him and Jayce during the last few weeks.

He would follow you anywhere, she responded, not really answering the question.

He didn’t.

Time was passing, and even with Mel and Sky’s companionships, Viktor felt the hole in Jayce’s shape that was left in his life and soul.

Time was passing, and Viktor was getting older. His second fifteenth birthday wasn’t extraordinary - they didn’t have any money for food left since two days before it, and with Mel back in Noxus, Viktor went to sleep with an empty stomach and a heavy heart.

He heard his father’s coughs; even with a working system of warnings before the gas leaks became dangerous, he still breathed the toxic fumes for the better part of his life.

Time was passing and Viktor was getting slowly terrified of experiencing it all again.

And so, one day he found himself guiding Sky to doctor Reveck’s laboratory, hand in hand, through the tunnels and cave systems. Granted, there always was a path to it leading through the Undercity, but Viktor deserved a little enrichment in his daily routines, and a way to make Sky feel excited about the mysterious scientist.

They became closer, even more since he rejected her a year before.

It was Mel’s birthday celebration, and she invited them to a party thrown in her name; she dressed them all nice and proper into Medarda’s colours, and spew the same nonsense about them meeting in school as she always did in situations like that. Viktor respected her enough not to steal from her mansion - at least for the first three hours. When his leg started throbbing and he grew annoyed at how uselessly big the house was, and who even needs so many rooms? How many people live here? Why is the chandelier gold as well?; he caved in and took some of the silverware.

His justification, if he were busted, would be that, first, Mel wouldn’t mind, as she grew fond of his cleptomancy, apparently finding it cool and amusing, and, second, because the food was scarce in winter and he needed a way to help his parents not die of starvation.

He was resting in the garden, and promptly ignoring how familiar it felt - like the one in his commune, all nice, cozy and warm despite the cold temperatures raging outside, making his leg hurt in more ways that he could describe.

Sky sat next to him, a bright smile on her face, telling him about how she lost Mel after hiding on a balcony to dance together, away from the prying and judgemental eyes of the guests; the other girl was, most likely, trapped in a middle of a conversation that required a knowledge of too much politics for Viktor to consider it even remotely useful.

Sky looked away, suddenly, after a couple of dry jokes Viktor made about rich people and working under them. She unfolded a piece of paper, scanning it before turning to him.

“Viktor, I actually wanted to tell you something-“ she stuttered, her cheeks darkening and gaze stuck on her shoes. “I admire your work, and it’s been amazing helping you, so I hope I won’t come across as improper,” she licked her lower lip and then, in a fit of courage, put the letter into his hands.

Viktor skimmed through it, not wanting to leave her without an answer for long; it was as charming as he remembered, similar to the one he read on that dreadful day.

Now that he had a chance to get to know her and actually work together as equals, not as an assistant who sometimes showed up to the lab and an overworked scientist who was married to his job, he became fond of their bond.

He swallowed and slowly touched her face. She leaned in, eyes wide open.

“I appreciate your kind words, miss Young,” he closed his eyes, hoping to avoid disappointment, “but I cannot repropriate it. You are one of the most important people, to my soul, and I cannot bear to lose you; I would miss you. But I cannot call the bond between us love, and I hope you can understand that.”

She looked away, but then leaned in, her forehead touching his.

“Okay,” she whispered, a bit choked up, as if a sob was working its way up her throat. “Thank you, for not pushing me away. I understand. I think.” She grimaced, but her features swiftly smoothed over. “Mel is a lucky person-“

“What? No. Absolutely not- that’s ridiculous!” Viktor sputtered, then choked on his spit, his face getting paler and, right after, beetroot red.

“So- you’re not… together?” She sounded puzzled, as if it’s hard to imagine. When Viktor coughed, quite strongly, his brain shortcutting like an overloaded machine, Sky hid her face in her hands. “Oh my Janna.”

“Never insult me like that. I beg of you.” Viktor choked. “I fear it would kill me.”

“I’m sorry! I just assumed- and she once started talking about how you might have a secret soulmate or something-“

“That is not-!” Viktor sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and swore in his dialect at how open Mel was with sharing information, when it came to her friendship with Sky.

The letter went unanswered, month after month. He didn’t allow himself to grieve Jayce. He was happier, without Viktor to mess it up. It seemed plausible.

“You both are going to kill me, one day.”

“Not if I die of embarrassment first,” Sky groaned. They sat in silence, a bit uncomfortable. “By the way, I never asked, but how did you know my name, back when we met? I never introduced myself as Sky Young.”

Viktor, glad with the change of the subject at their hands, smiled slyly.

“Magic.”

“Oh, come on. That’s such a stupid nothing-answer.” She scoffed. “Why do you insist on calling me that, anyway? You call Mel by her first name, why call me miss?”

“I like being formal.”

Sky stared at him in silence, for a long while.

“I think you’re curing my crush on you with every second you talk.”

“We’re here,” he announces, pointing to the entrance. Sky leans over his shoulders, straining her neck to peek above his head.

Doctor Reveck is working on a prosthetic lung. He stops as he spots them, eyebrows raised at the unfamiliar guest.

“Viktor,” he greets, voice even. It’s been a year since they started working on making multiple prosthetics, in hopes of helping those in Zaun that need them. The process is still messy: with no real hospitals, they would be bound to treating people in a very unsafe laboratory. There’s also the fact of getting the information about their little gig out: both of them don’t want to risk being found out by the Topside.

Singed might’ve gotten recklessly comfortable with his work in the future Viktor remembers, but it was because of Silco’s watchful eye, protecting him from enforcers and Chembarons as long as he made enough Shimmer to sustain the market.

They didn’t have Silco now; or any patron, for that matter. Viktor opted for waiting, working slowly and patiently, the irony of which was not alien to him. He could almost hear Heimerdinger’s voice, chastising Jayce and him for pushing Hextech too soon, too fast.

“Doctor,” Viktor responds, looking around. Sky does, too, captivated by the multiple machine-organs on the shelves and tables, with runes carved into them and wires sticking out. “This is Miss Young, she’s my research partner.”

“His friend, he means,” she smiles, a bit taken aback by the calm composure of the man standing in front of her. “I’m honoured to meet you, sir. Viktor has told me about your work on treating the ill.”

“It’s still a theory,” he muses, returning to work.

“One that proves to be working,” Viktor responds, staring at where Orianna is standing.

The girl waves at them, shyly, before taking careful steps into the lab.

“Dear, I reckon that I asked you to stay away,” Doctor Reveck chastises her gently. She sticks her tongue out at him, then spins in place and moves in a way that’s reminiscent of the little ballerina in a music box in her room.

“I learnt new twirls and steps, Viktor!” She tells him, ignoring her father. Her accent still has that certain Piltovian edge to it, one that her father lost quite a while ago. “Hello,” she nods at Sky, who waves at her, finally put at ease; Doctor Reveck’s whole body language changed as soon as his daughter was close. He visibly softened at her presence, and seemed gentler, kinder. “It’s mine,” she points to an artificial liver, one that Viktor left on his workbench. It’s almost finished, yet another milestone he doesn’t really have anyone to share with.

“Oh,” Sky looks taken aback by that, so Viktor sits down to his workbench, leaving his cane on the side of it.

“Our people,” he starts, licking his lips as he does, Vander’s infliction entering his voice by accident, “get sick. Undercity is filled with toxic chemical waste and fumes, and our bodies deteriorate faster than average. So, for the past three years, we’ve been working on creating artificial organs, to provide help to those sick, who have to live with a body that’s failing them.” And only repair what’s necessary, he reminds himself, pushing aside his greater ambitions.

“You’re doing surgeries?”

“Not yet, but perhaps we will start soon. It takes a long time to make a working organ, you know?” He rambles on, poking at the wires; Sky leans over his shoulder and watches him work, curious. “Doctor Reveck figured out a way to connect my runes and bloodwork. It takes away the risk of the body rejecting the procedure, as the new organ will immediately mold itself to fit the patient. If I connect the rune and draw it with the patient's blood, with a twin one on their body, they will become connected and remove the concern of the new organ not being compatible with the body.”

Sky looks at him with stars in her eyes.

“That will save so many lives,” she wonders.

Orianna tiptoes over to them, a pout on her perfect, porcelain-pale face.

“You’re ignoring me,” she whines.

“I’m working,” Viktor answers her, then smirks. “Go play with your dad.”

“But my dad is here always, and he’s boring,” Viktor’s heart almost gives out from the sheer surprise of doctor Reveck laughing. “I want my brother.”

“You’re her brother? But you have parents back in the fissures-“

“Figuratively. It appears that, eh, Orianna has took a liking to me.”

“We’re bonded for life,” she explains with all the seriousness she can muster. “He tells me stories.”

“How about you work with us?” Sky glances at doctor Reveck, silently asking for his permission. He doesn’t protest, just sends her a long, even stare. “Those two can be quite much, I am sure, but maybe, since I’m new to this, we can work together?”

Orianna’s eyes are round like coins, and she squeals and starts jumping around Sky.

“Yes! And you can do my hair, and then I can teach you to dance. Viktor gets tired too quickly, and,” she lowers her voice to barely a whisper: “my dad isn’t that good at it.”

Sky laughs.

“You’ll have to guide me, then. I’m sure you’re an excellent teacher.”

Viktor watches them, before returning to work. He ends up being pulled into a session of explaining how to create the pump mechanism that’s most important to the creation of a working heart, and draws a step by step instruction on the chalkboard, when Orianna whines about his instructions being unclear.

When they leave, it’s dark outside, and the amount of The Grey in the air is almost unbreathable.

They walk back, covering their mouths, coughing violently, with tears streaming down their faces.

“Gods, I hate this place,” Sky breathes once they reach Viktor’s house. She takes her boots off and sits on the floor, gasping for air.

Viktor is very, very glad that he has working lungs, at least for now, because the ones he remembered having during his last days before the attack on the Council would’ve given up on him there and then.

“What, you can’t handle a bit of toxic smog?” He teases, then gets thrown into a coughing fit.

“I feel like there’s the Harrowing happening in my lungs,” Sky sniffs. She’s half collapsed on the floor by now, rubbing at her eyes in an aggressive manner.

Viktor’s mother is at work, probably scamming someone naive over their money. His dad is sleeping on the couch, his clothes old and ratty, with smudges of coal and dust on his face and arms. His helmet is laying on the table beside him, barely holding up.

His chest moves in an uneven way, his breath stutters as he rests.

He passed away from his lungs collapsing soon after Viktor started attending the Academy.

Now, the sword of Damocles is swinging right above his head, and it only puts more pressure onto Viktor to finish his prosthetics project and take it into motion.

He gets Sky water and then they both collapse on his bed; his leg is throbbing painfully, bones digging into places they should not. He takes off the brace, its metal frame leaving blue-ish imprints and marks on his body. Sky closes her eyes, still coughing from time to time.

“You made lungs in that lab, right?” She asks suddenly, and Viktor frowns, before giving her a confirming nod in response. “They must have a filtration system, correct? One that would differentiate between oxygen and carbon dioxide, breaking them apart.”

“Well, yes,” Viktor shrugs. “I’ve based them on actual human lungs. The mechanisms are quite tricky, but with enough runework and sleepless nights I figured out a way to make them work properly. What about that, Miss Young?”

She smiles, soft and tender, but there’s also a sharp glint in her eyes; determination that Viktor hasn’t really seen before - perhaps he wasn’t paying enough attention.

“You were able to create a filtration system that breaks apart dangerous chemicals.” She hums. “Would it be possible to make it on a bigger scale?”

“There’s an idea forming in your mind,” Viktor prompts. Sky taps on her knees, looking at the ceiling.

“If you’re able to create a machine that works just like lungs do, why not make lungs for the Undercity? If we scale up the filtration system, we might be able to break the Grey apart into oxygen. Filtrate the excess chemicals, the toxins.”

“Maybe, with a transmutation rune, we would be able to turn the waste into an energy source,” Viktor adds, eyes wide.

It wasn’t a secret that Kirammans sponsored a ventilation system, under the generous statement that the people of the Undercity deserved to breathe.

But ventilation only could do so much - it allowed Zaunites to get access to fresh air, thinning out the Grey to the point it wasn’t deadly or as dangerous, but it didn’t remove the toxic waste from the air, only made it less of a problem.

With an actual filtration system, there’s a chance that they might be able to clear the air in Zaun.

“It wouldn’t be as easy,” Viktor says, his mind already running with ideas. “The lungs only work in a way human ones do; they don’t filter out the toxins, they only break apart what is needed to breathe.”

“But enforcer’s masks do. They have air filters that render the Grey completely lenient towards their airways. It’s a primitive construct, and if we wanted to create machines that would clear the air in the Undercity from all the toxins, we would need years of research and improving what we already have to work with, but-“

“But we could change this place. Really, actually change it,” Viktor says, breathless. He grabs Sky by her shoulders and looks her in the eyes, his own shining with joy. They must be more gold than they ever were, since he became the Herald. Perhaps he looks like his old self, again. “Sky, this is amazing.”

She grins back at him, then jumps off to grab his notebook. Opening it on an empty page, she starts sketching. Viktor grabs a charcoal from his desk and joins in, scrabbling little comments and ideas of his own.

“I am away for eight months and I return to you two acting as best friends?” There’s a note of judgement in Mel’s voice, one clouded by jealousy. “It took me years for you to open up!” She accuses, pointing at Viktor.

He gives her a shrug in response, enjoying the lollipop she bought him; there’s a whole bag of sweets that she smuggled to the Undercity. Sitting on the bridge and enjoying some peace, Viktor feels a bit more at home than he ever did in Piltover.

“The water is toxic, too,” he says aloud, watching as Sky unwraps a darkpowder candy. She hums in response and taps her chin.

Mel huffs at the lack of attention.

“The filtration system is already a big project. Why not target the rivers too? Once you get a hang of how to filter the air, it should be easier. A basis for the project, ready at your hands.”

“Would be easier if we had any resources,” Sky hums, deep in thought. She turns to Mel, her legs swinging over the edge of the bridge. “When is your mum planning on putting you here permanently?”

“Never,” she grumbles. “She wants me to be the next matriarch. The training has become worse this year. It’s like she enjoys watching me struggle. She doesn’t want a weak daughter, and that’s who I am in her eyes. It’s a matter of time before I disappoint her.”

“Hey, at least you’ll have a place to run off to,” Viktor offers. Sky whacks him in the back of his head and he makes an offended noise. Her harsh glare softens when Mel laughs.

“I really found my family here, huh?” She looks down at the murky waters. “I wonder how different it would’ve been- perhaps, had I never met you, I wouldn’t have grown to care for this place as much as I do now.”

“It’s a great thing, to learn to love something through someone you care about.” Sky tells her, nudging her. Viktor hums in confirmation, massaging the sore spot Sky hit.

“I’ve never got to be myself. I fear that one day, during my stay in Noxus, I might forget this honesty between us, and revert to who my mother expects me to be. I don’t want to lose this. I like not having to be Medarda, at least when I’m with you,” she confesses.

Viktor isn’t one for physical affection; though some of his little habits from his time as the Herald stayed, with how the urge to touch other people’s faces always lingered, and how he was quick to hug his parents. In how he let Orianna guide him by his hands, a ghost touch of Jayce’s lessons on how to dance waltz just out of his reach.

He pulls Mel into a tight hug, one akin to the last one he shared with Jayce. He lets her melt in his arms, her face hidden in the crook of his neck, her hands grasping the back of his shirt.

“I quite enjoy Mel, I’ve told you before,” he whispers. “I do not care for Medarda.”

She takes a shuddering breath, her eyes closing. He can feel her face scrunching up into something painful on his skin. She nuzzles into him, the tension dropping from her shoulders.

Sky joins them, struggling to join the hug without toppling Viktor, but manages to do so; she pats Mel’s forearm in a comforting gesture, and for a long moment they stay there, simply in each other’s presence.

Mel untangles herself from their hug and sniffs loudly, but doesn’t avoid looking at them.

“So, the filtration system. Do you know where to start?” She asks. It’s an easy out, and they let her take it.

As long as she knows she doesn’t have to be what she is not, at least with them, it should be enough.

He doesn’t know what had brought him to this point - really. There have been a lot of things he has done, and this might be the riskiest one yet.

There’s a man, his breathing heavy and laboured, his face pale. And Viktor is guiding him through the streets of Zaun, towards the familiar lab.

Doctor Reveck looks barely phased by his arrival, but has the decency to disregard his work for a moment.

The man vomits blood all over his shoes.

“He needs the procedure. Now.” Viktor doesn’t leave any room to argue. His leg is aching painfully and his own lungs sting.

The man doesn’t even say a word when the scientist puts a needle in his neck. Viktor wants to look away, but Reveck stares him down.

Like a little kid.

“You have to learn,” he says, voice devoid of any emotion. Viktor presses his lips into a tight line, feeling nauseous. He was an inventor, not a surgeon - and yet, he probably should’ve expected to be treated as one.

The operating table isn’t much - it’s stolen from Piltover, though maybe Reveck has bought it legally, during his time as the scientist working for the Academy.

It cannot be capable of passing any standard safety procedures, but then again, at least it’s not a drug-den, this time around. Could’ve been worse, Viktor tells himself in faint amusement as the man, reflective of how he will end up one day, is dragged onto the table.

“His lungs are collapsing, and there are tumors that are causing them to be filled with fluid. It’s not possible to drain it. I need you to bring me one of the artificial pair, boy.”

Viktor nods and stumbles to bring a pair of new lungs and a short, narrow knife he uses for carving the runes.

The procedure is tricky. Even in a drug-induced sleep, the man looks uncomfortable. Viktor almost turns away when the doctor opens the rib cage, cutting through the bones with a few clean moves.

The lungs are barely working.

It takes them over two hours to switch them to a new pair; probably caused by Reveck’s insistence on Viktor doing most of the job.

He tries not to think of the fact that, in his old mentor’s eyes, this life is the one they can afford to lose. How Orianna got a treatment from someone who was well versed in medicine, and how this random, perhaps lucky, Zaunite gets a deranged idiot of a scientist trapped within the body of a child, whose only experience in healing is whatever he was doing as the Hextech Messiah.

To his utter surprise, the man survives the surgery. He stays in the lab, with a cannula carefully inserted into the vein on his right forearm. The drip is filled with a fluid Viktor lets himself feel suspicious of. It looks like a different coloured version of Shimmer.

He tries really hard not to think about it.

He doesn’t return home for two days, keeping himself busy in the lab. Sky knows better than to lead Mel into it. For how close they have grown, she’s still an outsider, a dangerous one at that. Doctor Reveck wouldn’t tolerate her presence, they both know it.

He picks up the shift that happens in the air; a sudden flush of magic, one so familiar to him by now.

The man groans from his cot before slowly waking up. He has a panicked look on his face and it’s only because Viktor grabs his wrists that he doesn’t tear the cannula out of his forearm.

He searches for Reveck and finds no signs of him. It’s typical, to leave the worst kind of work for Viktor to handle. Sure. First his mother insisting on sweeping dust off the floors as if it isn’t a pointless task (he made sure to point that out, explaining that they will get dirty in few hours anyway and receiving a smack on the head for his unnecessary opinion), then Sky insists on introducing him to her other friends (a feat he had won, his stubbornness way stronger than hers) and now he has to deal with empathising towards others.

Last time he did that, he ended up having a cult.

Wonderful.

“I helped. Like I said I would,” he says out loud, wishing for the wild look in the man’s eyes to disappear.

He coughs, then takes a few deep breaths, testing the capacity of his lungs. Surprise crosses his face upon finding no pain in breathing.

“It’s a miracle. Thank Janna-“

“The name’s Viktor, actually.” He responds dryly.

“So it is,” the man nods, a grateful look on his face. “Dear boy, thank you. Thank you- Thank you so much. When I collapsed I thought that this might be it-“ just another body for people of Zaun to rob, because survival meant that people couldn’t count on a proper burial.

“I have the same sickness,” Viktor confesses. It’s sudden, and he’s surprised by his honesty. Perhaps it’s easy on his soul, after seeing that a person with this condition truly can be saved. “I understand- I’m glad I found you.”

The man nods, before a look of despair shines in his eyes.

“I don’t have any way to repay you- I will find a way. Please-“

“Just go. I will lead you out.” Viktor hums. He must seem like a child now. “You are not indebted to me. I’m seeking to help people. As far as I know, you’re one of them.”

The man stutters, thanking him and offering kind blessings, as if Janna would come and join Viktor on his scientific adventures.

It’s impressive, but he doesn’t let himself feel too hopeful yet. For all he knows, that man can as well collapse on his way home and die anyway.

Just because Orianna’s body worked didn’t mean everyone could be saved.

And yet, a part of him wonders.

Chapter Text

He stares at the mask with a foreign feeling in his chest. Maybe the Universe is mocking him. Maybe this isn’t a second chance, but instead an elaborate scheme to make him feel annoyed and guilty.

Sky is sipping on her tea, looking at him from the armchair standing in the corner of Mel’s bedroom. It’s big, spacious - which, in Viktor’s opinion, is just a nicer word for saying the word empty - and minimalistic. There are paintings decorating the walls, the abstract lines devoid of any meaning and yet full of passion.

He supposes that it should’ve been expected for Mel’s room to be influenced by the Noxian culture, it’s just- with all this gold and pearly white she loves, he expected something… brighter. Richer. Kiramman’s manor was filled with pointless knick-knacks, a display of all the things they could afford. Even Salo’s chambers had silk hanging off the walls.

Mel’s room seems… bare.

But it’s not his current problem. It’s the mask sitting in his lap. There’s a nice, neatly tied bow on it.

A present.

Gods, he hates those. This is just another reason for him to stay convinced that they are the worst.

“If you’re going to be climbing up the ventilation system, you need some protection for that pretty face of yours,” Mel explains, tapping her chin. “Also, the proper reaction is, still, saying thank you.”

Viktor scowls at her.

“It’s Ionian steel. I know you’re excited about that. And, with Sky’s help, we even put an air filter in it. You’ll be breathing as if you are prancing through the gardens of Ixtal.”

Viktor turns to Sky, the traitor. Oh, he’s definitely not missing their talks now. She grins at him and adjusts her glasses - a gift from Mel, made with great care. The frames are gold, and Viktor wonders if Sky is aware of that yet.

“If we want to create a filtration system for the entire Undercity, we need to rely on the Kiramman’s vents for now. They’re a good place to install it in. At least for now, until we can, maybe, build a giant machine that would walk around the Lanes and clear the air by itself. It’s a safety measure. There’s a lot of toxic air around.”

“You could’ve made yourself a mask, then. I can steal one from the enforcers,” he blatantly ignores Mel’s muttering about how he probably shouldn’t talk about stealing with her sitting right there. As if she never prompted him to do some petty thievery.

“And you’ll let me go into the vents by myself, yes?”

Viktor grumbles. He does need to do it himself - after all, he has to check the state of them, take measurements and plan out how to install the filters. A map of the entire ventilation system would be good, too, but he’s not brave nor foolish enough to steal from the Kirammans.

So, he will need to map the ventilation system out the old way. By crawling through them with nothing but pure spite running in his veins.

He puts the mask on, reluctant. It feels odd on his face; the ghost reminder of his face splitting in half, a new one breaking through his old features.

The lines carved into this one resemble it, in a way. A cruel, cosmic justice, perhaps.

Mel leans into his personal space and switches something on the side of the mask, smiling slyly.

“I asked one of Piltover’s engineers to design a device that would slightly change voice. A safety measure, too. It’ll be easier to hide if someone sees you.”

“I despise the fact that you are bright for a politician.” Viktor tells her, then jolts in surprise. The mechanical tint in his voice makes his accent sound sharper, and a bit loud, maniacal. “You’re trying to make me seem scary.”

“You should say something scary, then,” she teases. Sky strikes a dramatic pose, gesturing for Viktor to follow her lead.

“Relinquish the flesh!” She exclaims, a joyful smile on her face.

“Adapt or be removed!” Mel echoes, laughing maniacally. Viktor sighs. He truly is a child at heart after all.

“Steel can fix all your flaws!” He joins in, posing in a threatening way. Sky giggles.

There’s an echo of his god-like self, extinguishing what’s left of free will in his followers, changing them into a form of perfection. The glorious evolution, the final improvement. No more pain, no more rage nor war-

Fields of dreamless solitude-

“You need a cape. And a proper outfit.” Sky’s voice snaps him out of it. She puts her hair in a ponytail, sitting cross-legged in the armchair. Viktor looks at his clothes, leaning on his cane for support.

“What is wrong with this one?”

“It doesn’t match the aesthetic,” she tells him at the same time as Mel says: “it’s ugly.”

They both throw pillows at Mel until she gives up and apologises.

“I need your assistance, Sky,” he admits, grimacing. The mask is comfortable, but he almost had an anxiety attack when he caught a glimpse of his reflection earlier. The gold lines on his skin remind him that Arcane’s influence is still ever so present, and it carried over - there’s a chance that he will, one day, wake up with his face split in the middle and cause his mother to die of a heart attack.

They’re climbing up the walls of an old temple dedicated to Janna - Sky helped him move the sacrificial altar closer to the entrance of a vent. There’s a lot of rubbish laying around, a reminder that they’re in a place that is no longer sacred but abandoned. It doesn’t make the eeary atmosphere any better; the eyes of the goddess, carved into a stone wall, seem to be following them.

Sky is sporting an enforcer’s mask and goggles - Viktor took it upon himself to distract one so she could steal them. For what it’s worth, once a softer, younger one is found, still full of ideals and not yet corrupted beyond belief, Viktor’s job becomes easy. All he needs to do is sell the poor little boy with no parents and a bad leg act for long enough.

She grips the vines, climbing past him, and then lays down on the dirty ground of the tunnel, anchoring herself before reaching out to Viktor. He takes her hand, helps her drag him upwards.

The tunnel is empty, dusty, and old. There’s wind howling through it, a gentle breeze reaching them and messing with their hair.

Sky looks at it with the same wonder Viktor saw shining in her eyes when they explored Vander’s mind.

“It leads to Piltover?” She asks, touching the walls. Her fingers leave a dusty imprint.

Viktor searches through his bag, taking a moment to find his notebook and one of the warning-birds. He lets it squeak to life; it flies in front of them, shining with a gentle blue light.

“I haven’t expected for those to be so… enormous,” he says, looking around. The tunnel is huge, twice their size. He’s been fully prepared to crawl through them, ready to bear the consequences of this decision, ones that would definitely show up later in the form of an agonising pain in his leg and back. It’s a relief, to say the least.

Sky takes her own notebook out - she started carrying one after spending enough time around Viktor and realising that he was right about how ideas sometimes sprout within a moment, and with a few more are gone forever - and notes some calculations.

“The air flow- we should take it into account. It might impact how the filters will work.”

“The pleasurable outcome would be for us to have the chance to monitor how the ventilation works during different kinds of weather.” He agrees, noting it down. “Seasons, too. Winter might be impactful. And early spring, when the rivers overflow. There’s more toxic waste on the streets.”

Sky nods and notes something down. She looks up, the wind brushing her hair out of her face; she gestures at Viktor, who grimaces at how uneven the ground is.

“Are you coming?” She asks, and he huffs.

“As if I would let you go by yourself, Miss Young.”

Sky laughs.

They walk until Viktor’s leg almost gives up. He points to a tunnel on the left; they go there and lean on the walls, catching up breath.

“It’s a dead end,” Sky says, eyeing the end of the tunnel. She’s squinting, the goggles too foggy for her to properly see. Viktor tilts his head to the side.

“It’s an opening mechanism. This must be one of the crossways. The system seems to be split into sections.” He takes out his notebook and leans closer to Sky so she can see his sketches and calculations. “This means that we’ll have to build different types of filters for each of them. The ones in the first subsection, ones that run directly through the Undercity, will need to be strong enough to handle most of the toxins. Maybe we could be able to create some sort of trading mechanism, where bad air would not only go up to be filtered, but the process would be also assisted by the overground air flowing into the system.”

“We might need funding to do that, no? It’s a really big project. Even if we manage to build a working filter, it would be one of many that are needed.”

“That’s why we’re going to focus on the parts of the Undercity that need it the most. Prioritise them until we can do more.”

“The fissures,” Sky hums. “Most folks there catch lung diseases early on.”

He nods, already sketching a prototype - it’s easier to work when he has measurements and an actual vision of the project. It’s what happened with Hextech, after all.

It takes them three months to map out most of the ventilation system - at least the parts that are accessible.

Viktor promptly avoids telling his parents about the little accident Sky and he had during the first week - when the wind picked up so strongly they kept losing balance and struggled for four hours to get out of the section that became a death trap.

Nor does he say a word about how air pressure kept either rising or dropping every now and then, causing both Sky and he to have impossible migraines by the time they got out. It was, though, a good push for him to start working around their masks, searching for a way to improve them - at least enough that they wouldn’t feel as if their heads were about to implode.

Sky also stays silent when her parents ask her about the expeditions she partakes in. Viktor, seated next to her at the family table, chokes on the Fazolová Sky’s dad served them - the ingredients a bit old, but not half-rotten as he’s accustomed to, signifying their status as the better off kind of Zaunites - because Sky’s parents suddenly are adamant about giving them The Talk.

Sky looks horrified and they leave the table with more regrets than ever before.

“I am so sorry-“ she mutters, covering her face. Viktor, very slowly, turns to face her.

“I think we made many mistakes, Miss Young, but introducing each other to our families might be the biggest of them.”

“If my mum goes to talk with yours, I will have to disappear forever,” she bites her cheek.

“But if they find out about us crawling through the ventilation system, we will both turn up dead,” he reminds her. Despite how supportive both of their families were, there were limits to that.

Go to the Academy and pretend you’re a student is far different from climb up the vents. For example, the first one would get him thrown out and put in a holding cell for a few days so he could rethink his choices. The second might put him in Stillwater. Or become a victim to a furious mother.

“Let’s get back to work,” Viktor offers, somewhat mercifully. Perhaps his time as a Hextech Aspect reshaped his empathy in a way his ego never allowed it to be before. Then again, he still finds out that directly connecting to the souls of any sentient being has had consequences that, in all honesty, he should’ve expected.

“Great idea,” Sky tells him with a wry smile gracing her lips.

The news of an air filter spread through Zaun just like the fresh air it brought.

Chembarons don’t care, as long as it doesn’t interrupt their work nor gets in their way - Renata Glasc, a figure not only well-known but also respected, offered her help with the air filters, seeking to take people behind them in. She was known for searching the streets in the pursuit of gaining new talent for her businesses, offering jobs and making offers the poorest of the innovators could never refuse. Viktor, meeting up with her wearing his mask and covering all of his skin, not about to give her any upper hand or way to identify him, declined.

He grimaces at the thought even now, because after the news about new inventions, ones that got rid of the toxins in the air, spread and got fuelled further by the gossip about a pair of doctors who would do risky operations and could even replace a dying heart, Mel had to give him several lessons on politics.

She’s a bright person, enough to know how to manipulate people for her personal gain. Viktor hated every second of learning how to follow her lead, and then hated even more when it turned out that he picked up on her advice and used it when needed.

So even refusing the generous offers of the Chembarons, he keeps himself somewhat safe by smooth-talking them out of making him a target.

“He’s not in the way, why bother? Sick people waste time. Sick people can’t work. It’s better for us that he’s a lunatic who believes in a better tomorrow,” one of the Chembarons said when they met.

It does take time to build more air filters - it’s easier because Renata Glasc, as well as a few other giants in the Chemtech industry, to show their good will, offer him resources. It’s good for their image, to support someone whose inventions make their work easier and smoother.

There’s a lot of work, and Viktor is so busy that Sky needs to force him to eat, because he gets used to forgetting that his body needs other things than science to function. His friend is far from the shy woman who silently let him work, disappointed over his disinterested behaviour. Nowadays, when he acts detached or tells her that he will stay up late, she drags him away from work, chastising about how he won’t do any good if he’s exhausted and hallucinating. There’s not a lot of food for those who are poor, but at least sleep is a thing that there’s no limit to.

Then Sky, one day, comments about how they need more hands than they have, and he spends a week isolating himself before finally leaving his room like a grown butterfly leaves its cocoon. He presents his newest invention that is also the oldest one from what they’ve been creating, but she doesn’t know that and he’s happy to leave it at that.

“So, it’s a third arm?” She looks at the runes carved into metal, twin ones to the runes on the glove, connecting the arm to it.

“The Hexclaw,” he corrects, an instinctual response. Sky snorts in amusement, the corners of her lips twitching upwards.

“That’s a stupid name.”

“It’s terrible, right?” He dares to joke. If Jayce is out there, maybe he’s sneezing like crazy. “But, anyway - it’s efficient. I’ve been testing it out, it’s going to be useful with parts that are too dangerous for us to touch with our hands.”

“Aw, so lab-safety did grow on you.”

“It did not. But you and Mel did, akin to mold, might I add,” he nods his head seriously, and Sky shakes her own, disappointed.

She coughs into her fist.

“I fixed the wiring in the west tunnel, the metal parts got rusty. I’m suspecting the humidity might be higher there, so we will have to switch for something that won’t get eroded by the next year if we want the filters to stay efficient. I sent a warning-bird to monitor it, we should get the read back by midnight. There might be issues with water gathering somewhere in the tunnels during rainfall, so we’ll have to address that, too.”

“Mhm,” Viktor leans over her desk to look at the rapport she’s been writing. It’s nothing less than perfection.

“It would be difficult to install a drainage system there, I am afraid.”

“We don’t have to be innovative for that. We could just use some pipes to let the water out. There are underground lakes. It’s just - we don’t know how the pollution levels are looking, and to be fair with you, Viktor, I don’t have high hopes on those readings.”

“So it’s either we possibly pollute the water further or leave it be for now and make our work inefficient, thus slightly polluting the air every time the machines get rusty, because it will take a lot of time to get to them and replace their parts.”

“It doesn’t seem too good.”

Viktor hums.

“Or, we can start working on some basic filters for the water. It’s where most of the toxic waste goes; it would be, eh, expected of us to handle it, no?”

“By this point, all of Zaun is expecting us to do something,” she jokes, scratching her neck. “But it is true. When water evaporates during warmer seasons, the toxins just get up in the air. Maybe if we manage to filter most of them out, the airflow system won’t get pushed to the brink of death. It would work better if it didn’t have so much to handle.”

“Either way, a lot of work, and not enough time,” he hums; it’s a familiar formula, one that he raced against for seven years of Hextech development. Now, it’s not the investors that are causing him to rush his project, expecting to gain wealth that would sustain their lavish lifestyles, but the people of Zaun, who need help every day, not just in the near future.

To work they go.

Adding the laser is not an intimidation tactic, despite what the gossip says. Viktor is perfectly aware of the usefulness of having one near; just in case.

Orianna helps him test the third arm, first by throwing little balls made from gem-like material at him, applauding every time he manages to catch them with the Hexclaw.

Then, the tricky part comes - he trains his aim; they make for a good moving target, with the girl’s unpredictability. He glares at her once she throws a ball at his face, smiling innocently when he manages to catch it.

“Is the laser really necessary?” Sky asks, helping Orianna clean the mess they made. Doctor Reveck entrusted them with his daughter - only because he needed to run some errands, ones Viktor sincerely hoped to be shopping for groceries and not finding a random corpse to rob of organs (again).

“It’s going to come in handy,” he waved at her, nonchalant. The rune on the glove shines brightly.

There is an itch he’s been feeling lately - one of discovery. He remembers - however vaguely - the runes carved into his Mage-self skin. Jayce paid great attention to detail, and Mage-Viktor’s hands were really clear in the glimpses of his memories that Viktor saw. He carved runes into his skin before, it’s not something he’s unfamiliar with.

The whole concept is tricky, but there is a chance it would help with his connection to the arcane. He tries to wave those thoughts off every time they come, still too wary of using runestones, but they are persistent.

He sits down, watching Orianna run to her room for a book. Sky half-collapses on the floor, a content smile gracing her lips.

“Can you make something to drink?” Orianna calls, peeking her head out. He glances at the kettle in front of him.

Sky frowns when the Hexclaw moves, its fingers opening up and revealing the core. Viktor relaxes in his armchair, watching with blissful ease as the laser hits the kettle and starts heating up the water inside it.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?” Sky asks, hesitant and wary. Viktor waves his hand at her.

“I know what I’m doing-“

The kettle explodes and the whole lab turns into chaos.

“WHAT HAPPENED?”

Truth be told, Mel Medarda is one of those people who are always capable of keeping their composure. She never yells, choosing to use softly-spoken words and cunningly smart gestures to express herself.

Now, though, she’s too busy grabbing Viktor’s newly robotic hand and examining it with such scrutiny as if it had murdered her entire family.

“I think this friendship is making me age rapidly,” she whispers, staring in disbelief at the metal fingers.

“It was a small accident-“

“He wanted to heat water for tea with a laser. The kettle exploded. Shrapnel hit him and,” Sky makes a sound of explosion and waves her left hand in a dramatic manner. “No hand.”

“I’m beginning to think he did not deserve it in the first place,” Mel says in disbelief, still tracing the metal plates of his fingers with her organic ones.

“I am here and I do not appreciate being talked about in this manner.”

“I don’t appreciate you exploding yourself- a kettle?” She turns to Sky, sharply. “A kettle?” She asks again, now facing Viktor, who shrinks into himself. Perhaps not his brightest of moments. “You lost a hand making tea?”

The disbelief lacing her words is rather humiliating.

“No, it was whilst I was in the middle of a battle to the death, with my mortal enemy.”

“And your mortal enemy is a kettle that Orianna made for her dad’s birthday?” Sky asks.

“Clearly.” He answers dryly. Mel sighs.

“That’s one way to put an end to a fearsome and amazing reputation. Defeated by a kitchen appliance.”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” he flexes his new fingers into a gesture familiar to any Zaunite’s heart, takes his cane and slowly escorts himself away from their meeting spot.

“So, how was Noxus?” He hears Sky ask. Mel sits down and starts cleaning the cogs of their boat, a soft smile on her face.

“The worst- but Kino was there for me, so I’m glad-“

Viktor shakes his head and leaves them be with a fond look on his face.

Chapter Text

The aftermath of a failed revolution is always bloody. The city, washed in a cascade of light, baptised by the flames roaming among the buildings, is more alive then it ever was before; the screams of agony and terror are welcoming a new era, the same way a newborn greets the world; bloody and angry, not alive until it’s screaming as loud as the nature-given lungs let it.

There are bodies on the ground, both of enforcers and citizens, those who fought and those who tried to escape, to no avail.

Rushed, the word comes to mind. There isn’t enough time - never is and never will be - but this violence was rushed, unplanned; senseless. Utterly avoidable, and that is the greatest tragedy.

Sky coughs into her forearm, the air filters of her mask malfunctioning after an enforcer smashed a bottle in her face. Her nose, broken but already reset, is bleeding. She throws up on the pavement after stumbling over a corpse too torn apart to be identifiable.

Miners equipment lies alongside the corpses; a painful reminder that those people were not trained mercenaries nor fearless revolutionaries, but instead workers who knew their fate and wanted to try fighting for it.

Viktor picks up a warning-bird that’s lying half in the sewer. He examines it closely; the runes are undamaged, but the whole mechanism has been torn apart by bullets. It must’ve followed the people it was designed to protect; out of the fissures and into the streets.

There’s a sound of a gun loading; a young enforcer points his weapon, shaking hands washed in blood. There’s a woman holding a baby, both dead, at his feet.

Viktor turns to face him and holds his hands up, the third arm following suit.

“Get on the fucking ground-“ the man yells; it’s cut short by a bullet piercing through his throat. Sky yelps, her whole body shaking.

“There’s no way I’m allowing the only decent fucking doctor in Zaun die by some coward’s shaking hand,” a tired but cocky voice sounds.

The woman who saved them - Sevika, the Hound’s right hand, as all Zaunites know - cocks her head to the side, biting on a cheap cigarette. She brings the gun to it, and manages to light it.

“You’re a lot smaller than the word suggests,” she nods her head at them. “Looking for organs?”

“We’re here to help. Those are our people,” Viktor tells her, carefully watching her movements.

“You sound just like that old fool,” she grits, pulling her hair back.

“All these deaths were… pointless.”

“Shitshow of a revolution. Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty, just so you know you can. Your kind should know what I’m talking about.”

Sky grabs Viktor’s shoulder and shakes her head.

“We… appreciate your assistance,” she says out loud, her voice raspy. The tear gas - Viktor doesn’t remember the last time he saw it be used; perhaps when Jayce ordered the blocade? Or when the whole of Piltover was hunting down Jinx? - is biting at their skin, even with their faces covered.

“Where’s Silco and Vander?” He cuts in, the mechanical voice making him sound more impatient. “They orchestrated it. Where are they now?”

“Beats me. Last I saw them, they were beating the shit out of each other.” She shrugs, breathes the smoke of the cigarette out of her mouth, then extinguishes it on the metal part of her lazily-made armour.

“If you find someone injured, bring them closer to the fissures. We organised help for survivors,” Sky tells her; Sevika looks amused at the sentiment, but nonetheless appreciative of it.

Left alone again, with unmoving corpses and walls smeared with blood to keep them company, Sky makes a choked sound.

“We won’t find them.”

“Maybe,” Viktor agrees. He tries to think of his brief connection to Powder and Violet; the few minutes he spent as an Aspect of the arcane proved to be useful, for how horrifying of a memory they were to him nowadays.

Memories of two girls, both a bit too young to remember the events clearly, weren’t good enough, though.

He saw the events in Vander’s mind as well, felt his anger as if it was a part of himself.

Viktor can picture the vision of Silco’s wide eyes, of Vander’s bloodied knuckles as he hit him again and again, until he stopped moving, and then left him in the shallow shores of the river, with bodies floating around.

Viktor grabs Sky and pulls her inside a half-dilapidated building, muffling a groan of pain as he forces himself to crouch, the pain in his leg spiking up in the protest.

Two enforcers walk right past them, only a half-collapsed wall between them.

Doctor Reveck calls his aversion to killing admirable, in the worst way he can mean that word. Viktor is too haunted by the screams of his dying commune to argue that, in all honesty, killing hasn’t been a problem for him in a while.

Sky and he end up wandering through the smoking streets of upper Zaun, directing people towards their lab and collecting anything valuable off of corpses - it’s of no use to them anyways.

The life that we live, and the love that I give-

“Oh, for Janna’s beloved sake-“ disbelief is apparent in his voice. An annoyed grimace forms underneath his mask.

Sky starts laughing histerically, her face pale, smeared with blood and tears.

“Our love, is a bubbling fountain-“

“Stop that,” he groans, shoving her aside. She laughs even louder, and it isn’t until her laughter calms down and shifts into sobs that he turns, alarmed. “Miss Young- Sky,” a sigh.

“I know- we must move, but- my dad used to sing it with his friends all the time and now he might end up losing them, and-“

“I know,” Viktor takes her hand and starts leading her between the ruins. “I know.”

“I hate this song so much,” she laughs, wiping at her face with a dirty, bloodied glove.

He doesn’t say anything to that; just makes sure to let avert her eyes as they walk past the rubble where her honorary uncle used to live.

“It’s awful,” he agrees, causing her to snort.

“Maybe, one day, when everything is over, we can force Mel to attend a Zaun party. Get this song stuck in her head.”

“You are an evil woman, Miss Young.”

“Someone has to keep up our reputation, seeing how you lost your hand to a kettle, Viktor.”

“Not this again-“ he groans, tension disappearing from his shoulders. He glances at the sky, covered in smoke and bright from the fire raging below; the dawn is approaching.

“I couldn’t find you,” Mel half-sobs, her face in Viktor’s hands.

“It’s idiotic you even tried to; do you have any idea how dangerous, stupid and reckless it was of you to try to find Miss Young and I in the middle of a bloody uprising?” He questions, knowing perfectly well that she got this type of sense of preservation from him.

“I wasn’t just expecting to return to the news of a civil war of all things when I arrived!” She exclaims, examining his hands. “You carved runes into your fingers.”

“I had to perform many surgeries in the past three months-“

“Three months that I spent worried sick, wondering if you or Sky got yourselves killed!” She sobs again, cradling his organic hand in hers, then putting it to her chest. “Can you feel my heart beating? It was almost torn apart by this uncertainty.”

“And it was better for you to, eh, risk your life, in a futile attempt to find us?”

“I didn’t know it would be futile,” she argues, but Viktor is not a politician she can impress, so instead her strong facade crumbles further. “I got caught.”

“Mhm. Perhaps for the better; enforcers are taught to respect those who come from… prosperous families.”

“It wasn’t an enforcer. Some boy from a lower house got too curious for his own good-“

“Ah, and you’re certain you’re the right person to judge him?”

She scowls, all compassion and worry gone from her features in an instant.

“I offered him the honour of escorting me back to my manor, to keep him away.”

“Because a boy from a lower house would, for sure, find our lab and put an end to our endeavours.”

“You laugh now, but he was dedicated. Kept insisting on sneaking out,” she smiles, fondly. “I asked him, how does he expect to protect himself against all the violence-“

“Because you had a plan-“ he chimes in. She ignores him with a pleasant - and amused - smile.

“He said, with such courage and confidence, I assure you, an amusing little thing he was, I know how to keep myself safe, and then presented me a hammer of all things, wielding it as if it was a weapon that could go against bullets and knives.”

Viktor snorts.

“Alright, I can see why you were enamored with him.” Like Jayce; so much passion and conviction. The stupidest-smartest man he ever met.

“Reminds you of someone?” She teases softly. He scowls, knowing perfectly that, judging by her sly smile, his eyes turned pink - as they always do when he thinks of his partner.

He stops fiddling with the artificial heart - the Hexclaw stops moving abruptly - and lifts his eyes to meet hers; that’s when he notices the tears shining in her own, the slight shaking of her body, the tension in her shoulders and how pinched and forced her smile looks.

The jewels that decorated her wrists, signifying her status as a Noxian ambassador in training, are gone; she’s wearing grey and white colours, as if in mourning.

There’s longing in her eyes, one that he cannot place until it fully hits him - a longing for home far away, and a grief of losing it.

“Actually, yes,” he speaks softly; Mel perks up, surprised. “He was- he was important. And I failed him, I fear.”

She leans closer, watching him search for the right words.

“You two were close?”

“We-“ they shared a dream, they always found each other. He bruised his throat with his hands and almost took his life when their shared dream turned to no longer be; “we were partners.”

Mel hums, tilts her head. She looks bare without the gold.

It was red and grey, was it not? Viktor always associated House Medarda with white and gold, the colours Mel always wore, but originally, in Noxus, it was grey and red; for the fur of the Wolf and the blood spilled; now Mel is wearing grey, but no red in sight.

Grieving.

“What happened to him?”

Viktor looks at her, a strange feeling in his chest.

“I-“ she looks pained, but still concerned with him, because they’re patching the aftermath of a failed revolution, and the amount of people needing their work is greater than her need for comfort.

And then it hits him, like fresh air hits the faces of miners who leave the fissures after a long shift - there’s never going to be a right time.

“Remember,” he starts, looking at his hand; Mel’s eyes follow suit, “when I said that I once used a runestone to escape?”

“You told me that we’re not close enough for me to know more,” she laughs weakly. He presses on the rune engraved into his skin; the ones on his fingers are thin, red lines. This one is different; a mark of his fate.

“I believe it’s time for me to share this story.”

Her eyes are wide open when she looks at him.

“You don’t have to-“

“You’re feeling lost, and there isn’t a single person who might understand your pain and confusion,” he interrupts her; she stops speaking, protests dying in her throat. “But it gets better. You find your place and grow into it. I saw-“

The gold lines on her body. The confidence with which she used magic, the force she was born with and reborn into. The cunningly smart leader who, for all her faults, cared for the people. The endless attempts to love and please her mother, all while believing that she doesn’t need her approval to feel worthy, and yet still working hard to gain her respect.

She holds his hands, a wordless attempt to make him say more.

“It’s an acceleration rune,” he slowly admits, letting her trace its shape with her fingers, “it can, to my best understanding, be used to transport someone.”

“An escape route?”

“More than that. It could be used to transport things in space, from here to, for example, Shurima,” they used this rune on Hexgates; it was the main one, allowing them to teleport airships across Runeterra, “or, as I discovered by no fault of mine,” perhaps a bit, because, after much consideration and sleepless nights, he may have deserved to get a time anomaly thrown at his head, “to transport things across time.”

“Across time,” she repeats, staring at him. Her eyes slowly widen, and her hold on his hands tightens. “Have you-“

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She leans backwards, not letting go but visibly hesitating. “Oh, that’s-“ speechless, she stumbles over words.

“You’re the first person I’ve told,” he reveals; that makes her hesitation disappear.

“I’m pleased that you trust me this much, Viktor,” she breathes. “It means… a lot, to me.”

He hums, taking his hands back - Mel lets him, still taken aback by both his silent admittance of care and by the reveal.

“My partner and I,” he starts, years of grief overcoming him, “we invented this thing. Our goal was to help people, but instead we lost ourselves, pursuing something greater. Then-“ a part of him blames Jayce, the other part knows that he would’ve done the same, like the hypocrite he is, “I died, and my partner saved me, by any means necessary.”

Mel frowns, a perfect little line forming between her eyebrows.

“You weren’t born a mage,” she remembers. Viktor nods, looking away.

“I became more, and when he finally learnt of how dangerous it was, he came to stop me. I almost ended the world, Mel. I became so focused on perfection, on rushing people to evolve into something more, something better, that I lost myself yet again, further and worse,” she doesn’t speak, a contemplative look crossing her face. Viktor looks at the rune on the palm of his hand. “A boy threw a device containing an anomaly at my face. It gave my partner time to show me what I became,” he looks at her, his brows furrowed: “we were meant to finish it. Stop the corruption, the evolution that I started.”

He sighs, wondering about the memory of Jayce’s hug, of his gritted teeth as they were torn apart, surrounded by light, their souls splitting and becoming one, the lines between who they were blurring into each other.

“I was meaning to stop it, and he didn’t want me to be alone. I had no idea that I would wake up again, much less in the past.” It feels like he took the opportunity to have a normal life again from Jayce. If he was destined to travel to his childhood, it meant that Jayce's sacrifice, just so he wouldn't die alone, was in vain. He could've returned to his mother after their confrontation. And now it seemed that both that timeline and this one were devoid of him.

“You were meaning to die,” she says in a tiny, quiet voice, barely above a whisper.

Viktor takes a deep breath. There’s something comforting about his ability to do that. His lungs don’t hurt when his chest expands.

“I was always meant to die. I just got good at avoiding it.”

Mel sits in silence, comprehending his story. She looks conflicted; a deep frown decorates her face, paired with nervous glances in his direction.

“Promise me, that you won’t. If we are capable of forging our own destiny, promise me you will become the best blacksmith this world has ever seen.”

“Mel-“

“And if you can’t, then please, lie to me.”

“... alright.”

“You’re my friend. I cannot bear to lose you,” she tells him, open and honest. “You know. You know, correct?”

He nods, hoping that pity doesn’t show in his eyes.

“I was exiled. I’m too weak, and I disappointed my mother. Though I wonder if there ever was any way to please her.” Bitterness and grief mix with her spit. She looks up. “Can you tell me- I know I wish for more than mortals should, but may Kindred be merciful on my curious soul, I have to know-“

“You grow into someone strong and capable. You were a great foe.”

“I wiped the floor with you?” She teases weakly. Viktor smirks.

“Oh, I was too strong. The only powers capable of defeating me were time itself and the death of my ego-“

“It would’ve been over sooner if someone just brought a kettle.”

Viktor side-eyes her, because he can’t bring himself to insult a friend in despair.

She relaxes, laying her head on his shoulder.

“There is more, is there not? You have a troubled expression, dear friend.”

“I suspect it might be quite a lot,” he tells her; she smiles softly.

“The Wolf will aid me with his strength,” a quiet agreement for him to tell her. Viktor prepares himself.

“You are a mage. Not one touched by the arcane, but one by birth.” It’s a dangerous thing, to allow such power to exist in the hands of a person in power.

Mel stills beside him, her whole body growing tense.

“I see,” she murmurs, forcing herself to relax. It’s apparent she’s wary and shocked, still. “Will you be able to help me understand it?”

“You won’t need my help once you do. It’s as much of a part of you as the blood that flows in your veins is.”

Mel hums.

“Or, perhaps you’re worried we won’t need you as our team mage anymore.”

“I cannot believe you’re going to be a councillor soon.”

“The world will be changed by our wisdom and growth,” she looks at him, searching for something. “Viktor?” He hums, acknowledging her. “I’m deeply sorry, about your partner. I cannot begin to wonder how lonelinesome of a feeling it must’ve been, to wake up and exist without him. I sincerely hope that you two will meet again, some day.”

“The universe wouldn’t have it any other way,” he says, then, quieter, adds: “but I am glad for this life I was given. I believe we made good use of this second chance.”

“And if the opportunity came, I would do it all again.” She tells him, finally calm. “Scraped both of my knees and ruined all of my dresses.”

“That’s quite the conviction, Miss Medarda.”

“Please, we both know you like Mel better.” She smiles softly. “I find her quite enjoyable as well. It’s a good thing you found her.”

“She found me, if anything. Surprising, how people can grow on you.”

“Like mold,” she teases, nudging him. Viktor responds with a playful shove of his own.

“One that cannot be removed.”

Chapter Text

“It’s an Academy uniform,” comes the astute observation. The seams are neatly done, with a golden thread - an evidence pointing to Mel’s involvement - and the whole thing, although very obviously second-hand, is in an amazing condition.

His mother claps her hands together, a bright smile on her lips.

“Happy birthday,” she exclaims. Viktor scowls at her, and at his dad, who’s scratching at the stitches on his chest; something he should not be doing, especially not so soon after the surgery.

Zaunites don’t celebrate birthdays - mostly because, with how high the mortality rate is, most don’t know the day they were born on. Besides, it’s hard to differentiate between dates when living so far from the sun.

It’s a Piltie tradition, one Viktor got really accustomed to during his time as the dean’s assistant and, later, as Jayce’s partner.

They’re all weird about it, always insisting on how much importance a proper birthday celebration holds.

“Mel has put you to it,” he accuses, already aware of how guilty she must be feeling to be missing this - her new duties took a lot of her time to complete, but all that effort proved to be worth it - she skyrocketed in popularity and quickly became the most influential person in Piltover, despite her young age and new status.

The seat on the Council was practically given to her.

“She is a bright young lady. You should be grateful for friends like her and Sky.” Viktorie shares her opinion, still attempting to hand him the uniform.

“I prefer my mask and Hexclaw,” he informs both of them gladly, letting the latter wave at them. “I cannot be bothered to entertain such useless ideas when there’s so much to be done. I have seven surgeries planned this week alone, and on the top of that, I’m expected to fix the air filter in the north of the Lanes, because rats keep eating through my wires-“

“And you could find a day or two to take the entrance exam and pretend to go to the Academy. It will be fun-“ he scoffs, which earns him a glare from his mother. The slipper finds its way to her hand scarily quickly.

“You could learn something fun,” his dad tries to defend the idea. “Show those Pilties how bright you are. Maybe you’d impress them enough to gain a sponsor-“

“I don’t need a sponsor. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”

“Dear, I just don’t want to see you throw your life away like that. You’re such a smart boy, those inventions can change the world. What evil would it do if you came out there and showed your passion to the public?”

“An arrest warrant, that’s the evil it would’ve done.”

“Oi, don’t talk back to your mother, wiseacre.” He dodges the slipper flying his way. 

“That’s, still, child abuse.”

“You’re nineteen. Grow up-“ she takes a deep breath and he smiles fondly. “Please?”

“Mother, I am not wasting my life here. Zaun is my home and its people are my family. This is where I always belonged-“

“That doesn’t mean you can’t try something new. Piltover has more to offer. Please, if not because you want something out of it, do it for fun?”

Perhaps daughters are ones who bring the undoing onto their parents, but mothers are the ones it’s always hurtful to disappoint.

“You know that I would never be able to disagree with you, mum.”

His dad laughs.

“That’s what I always say- do not hit me, I just had my lungs removed-“

Against all odds, Viktor feels excited. He takes the uniform and leaves his parents for their loving bickering.

“This is counterproductive,” Sky says and he nods furiously, Haxclaw’s grip on the window shutter tightening.

“That’s what I tried to tell them-“

“Not the Academy stuff, Viktor. This is counterproductive- what even is this supposed to accomplish?”

“Great things,” he attempts to convince her, failing spectacularly.

They must’ve been too loud, because thundering footsteps start approaching.

“Violet, I know you’re curious, but those drinks are too strong for a kid your age to handle,” the voice of a man sounds exhausted and his words are interrupted by a loud yawn.

Viktor can sense the moment his eyes landed on their frames as they broke into the bar.

“Who are you?” The man’s voice drops dangerously low, his whole body shifting into a fighting stance.

“The first one was easier,” Sky half-cries.

“Because he walked to the doctor by himself-“ Viktor hisses, fumbling with the pockets of his trousers. The metal chest and arms armor proves to be needed as two glass bottles fly his way and smash on his body. “Shit-“

“I don’t know who you think you are, pal, but you’re one foolish asshole if you thought it was a good idea to target me-“

Viktor throws a vial of shimmering blue-ish substance at his feet and quickly motions for Sky to get out.

Vander tries to approach them, fists ready to smash through their faces, but by the time he reaches the window, he’s already stumbling.

He collapses on the floor, a giant thud echoing his descent.

“This might be tricky.”

Sky glares at him. Here goes the rest of that crush she had.

Doctor Reveck allows Sky to take Orianna to her house, promising to give her some dolls she no longer has use to - a remnant of her ancestors’ lives in Piltover; no native Zaunite ever had dolls like hers; all toys came from scrap yards and trash dumps - if a kid knew where to look, they would be able to find quite a treasure.

Viktor’s proudest findings were a collection of three-dimensional puzzles and an aircraft model he put together, after recreating some of the missing parts.

Doctor Reveck himself, though he is kind enough to let Viktor borrow the lab, leaves, mumbling about his own research and how he has no time to waste for such impulsive stupidity.

“You’re both weirdly hard to find, gentlemen,” Viktor tries to sound disinterested, fiddling with a prosthetic arm for a kid Orianna’s age, one from the nearby neighbourhood.

Vander groans; there are sounds of struggle, a muffled yelp of surprise and another groan, one distinctly more annoyed than the previous.

“Silco! I swear, if this is one of your fucking ploys-“

“Do I look like an imbecile? Perhaps, if you used your eyes, your thick head would’ve realised I’m in the cage with you!”

“That could be part of your plan-“

“A plan to what, exactly? Have you tear me apart-“

“I should’ve listened more to all those tales about therapy,” Viktor sighs, suddenly missing the aristocrats whispering about some made-up craft of healing those impacted mentally; his commune was quite successful at reaching that catharsis they often spoke about. Mostly beacuse he took away the capability to process negatibve emotions.

Currently, he’s as far from catharsis as one can be, and seems to only be getting further.

Maybe he should’ve introduced Shimmer to this timeline. He could use some now, with how much of a headache this seems to be proving to be.

“You-“ Silco growls, forgetting Vander and throwing himself at the bars of their cell - one which presence in Reveck’s lab Viktor didn’t question. He knew better than that. “You’re the crazed lunatic all of Zaun’s dead set on protecting! The Machine Herald!”

“… have they really been calling me that?” He asks shyly, cocking his head to the side. Silco sputters, spit flying from his mouth.

“What do you want from us?” Vander crosses his arms over his chest; “cause I doubt you kidnapped us for some friendly chatter.”

“Actually, I did. But not between you and I; instead, I was hoping for you two to talk things out. Your rage can be quite destructive, you see.”

They both stare at him in disbelief, lost for words. Viktor huffs and returns to work, the Hexclaw flexing. There’s silence in the lab for first few minutes, and only gets interrupted when he stands up and grabs his cane, looking around for the correct type of screws - Sky is always insistent on segregating their resources so they’re easier to find, and they argued many times over his messy habits of dropping things anywhere and mixing them up.

Silco stumbles backwards.

“And what kind of weapon would that be? A tranquilizer?”

Viktor blinks, dumbfounded. He slowly looks down.

“It’s my cane?” He says, sounding unsure. “I need it for walking?”

Somehow, this makes Vander burst out laughing. Silco scowls, his grip around the bars tightening.

“You may think you are funny, but believe me, time will come that you will regret crossing me.”

“Not to agree with a lunatic, but he’s got a point. I’m daring to think you don’t know who you have in this cage. We’re both not of the kind to be chained up and bark at your orders like dogs.”

“If I ever wanted a pet, I would’ve gotten one,” Viktor hums, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a piece of paper.

“What is that?” Silco moves to snatch it from his hand; Viktor hands it to him calmly.

“It belongs to you, I believe.”

Silco skims through the letter, then his brows furrow and he starts reading it again; his eyes widen, his hands start to shake and blood drains from his face.

Vander lifts his eyebrow, leaning on the wall in a nonchalant way.

“Is it a list of torture he prepared?”

“You seem calm about all this,” Silco says, but his voice is trembling, choked up.

“Sevika seemed sure about these guys not being much of a threat,” he shrugs, his eyes narrowing. “So?”

“It’s a letter.” When Vander barks a laugh in disbelief, Silco’s next words cause it to quickly die down: “from you.”

“What?”

Viktor could’ve been doing something more useful by now. He used to be a god. He used to be powerful.

And now he’s playing therapy with two most dysfunctional adults he met since Jayce and himself.

“As if I could ever be so stupid to believe such nonsense. Implying that something so clearly forged could be real, why? As some sick and twisted display of superiority?”

“Silco-“

“I have no idea who do you think you are-“

“Silco!” He turns to face Vander, anger easing down at the look of his face. “It’s real. I wrote it a while ago. After- Listen, I know that things could never be the same between us, but there is not much in my life I regret as badly as that day.”

The letter crinkles in Silco’s hand. He touches his eye, runs his fingers down the scar, an unreadable look on his face.

“And you’re just- forgiving me? Just like that? After everything-“

“What more is there for us to give than forgiveness? Wicked people like us don’t have much else to offer.”

Silco frowns, looking at the letter with both disgust and adoration. He lets it fall to the ground and outstretches his hand in Vander’s direction.

“What could’ve changed such an old fool like you?”

“Daughters,” he jokes wetly, grabbing Silco and bringing him close.

They let go of each other, something broken between them, but manageable. Something they can now both mend, fail to do so and start all over again, as many times as they wish to.

“We are still kidnapped.” Silco decides to remember. Viktor pushes his mask aside. “By a kid?”

“I thought you were more robotic under that. Kinda assumed that was your face.”

“Which explains why you threw a bottle of vodka at my head,” Viktor says dryly, considering both of them. “I’ve seen what hatred can bring. I truly have no intentions to harm you, but I am inclined to believe that you might not feel the same way.”

“Did you seriously kidnap us so we would talk things out, kid?”

Silco looks at Vander as if he wants to tell him not to encourage such nonsense.

“What else was I supposed to do? Let one of you to become a kingpin who would flood the streets with a dangerous drug and take over the Lanes?”

Vander immediately looks at Silco.

“What the fuck have you been doing-“

“It was business-“

“My ideas were compromised. By the time I found your letter, I didn’t have to look for Silco, for he came to me by himself. And after realising he searched for doctor Reveck to have a scientist capable of creating a strong addictive substance I panicked and- well, this was the next best thing.” Viktor scrambles for his keys. “I will let you out. Like I said, I never wanted any ransom or to bring you harm.”

“So you reunited us to stop a potential scenario of -“ Vander grimaces, staring at Silco; the other man looks baffled as well.

“I’m a scientist, I had my theories and I had a solution.” He muses over the prosthetic again, stands up and walks to the cell. “Besides, you two are the brains behind Zaun. Perhaps, one day, your intellects will be needed.”

“Well then, Herald. May we come to an understanding when that day comes. Zaun would be pleased to have your assistance.” Silco nods.

Viktor steps aside, letting them out. In the split second his back is turned to the wall where the ventilation is installed, something flies at his head, accompanied by a loud battle cry.

He clutches at his temple where he’d been hit, the mask clattering to the ground. The Hexclaw immediately points at his attacker; a young boy with dark skin and bright hair, who poses to throw yet another grenade; the one that hit him doesn’t explode, but the impact was great enough to crack it. A load of glitter slowly spills out.

“Aw, man, it didn’t explode.”

“But look how hard it hit him!”

“Little man’s right. Good job, Powder.”

“Maybe if you stopped praising her for nothing she would be actually useful-“

Viktor, very slowly, turns to stare at Vander. He looks too proud for his taste. Silco cracks a smile.

“Motherhood suits you, it seems.”

“Oh, shut up,” he laughs, clasping his hand on Silco’s shoulder and dragging him towards the group of kids who decided to make their way into the lab.

Viktor grabs his mask and sets it aside. A long day awaits him.

Vi, after staring him down with a rather impressive frown, slightly tilts her head back and huffs. Mylo tries to copy her, his arms crossed across his chest, and Claggor sheepishly looks at all of them from the corner.

Powder - a part of Viktor is a bit sad that he can’t use her name to insult her anymore, she did deserve that; under further consideration, maybe he shouldn’t have beef with someone who is a child compared to him - is staring at his designs in wonder, accompanied by Ekko, whose hands are getting dangerously close to Viktor’s expensive tools.

He coughs, his grip on the cane tightening.

“You’re bold, if you think messing with our family is a good idea,” Vi’s voice cuts through the tension.

Viktor notices Vander’s proud smile and Silco’s raised eyebrow.

“He’s a genius!” Powder interrupts, holding onto one of the blueprints. “Look! He can make mechanical animals and bring them to life!”

“Oh, do you think you could make a hoverboard of sorts? I have this really cool idea in mind-“ Ekko yells above Powder, who quickly raises her own voice in an attempt to be louder:

“I have many ideas too! Can you teach me?!”

Violet looks close to losing her patience. Claggor coughs in his fist.

“I found a broken golem near the abandoned mineshaft recently-“ he starts shyly, paling when Vi turns to him so fast her neck cracks. “I was careful! I know we need to stick together, but we couldn’t go there with Powder and-“

“Aw, why not?” Powder whines.

Viktor rubs his left hand on his temple and tries to fend off the incoming headache. For so long he didn’t have to deal with so many people at once, all dead set on talking to him - or, in case of Violet and Mylo, scoffing at him as an intimidation tactic.

“I’m rather interested in the fact that so many of your designs have runes included in them,” Silco’s smooth voice joins in. Viktor tilts his head in his direction. “Topside doesn’t take kindly to mages, and if you’re a born Zaunite, like the word on the street suggests, you would know that.”

“Heimerdinger can be a fool, sometimes,” he says, his mouth feeling dry all of sudden. Was he, really? He was proven right, after all. “If something can be used to improve lives, why should we fear it? I only intend on aiding those who need it. There’s nothing for me to gain. Piltover has abandoned Zaun a long time ago, so if they are not willing, someone else must help.”

“Intriguing,” Silco smiles slightly.

“So, your main goal is to help Zaun,” Vander’s gruff voice stops him from spiralling. Violet looks at him in wonder, clearly focused on his words and movements. The Hound has always been a great inspiration to many; it’s only fair that his daughter takes him as an example for her to follow as well. “You say that you needed us to mend our relationship. Why? One of us, surely, could be sufficient? We both designed Zaun as a nation. One would be enough, if that’s what interested you. You are dangerous. I don’t doubt that you could’ve just killed the one of us who was in your way, I’m not stupid.”

“I’ve come to realize that big projects are done best in the right partnership,” the Hexclaw grabs a mug of sweetmilk - cold, as it was standing in the corner of his desk, long forgotten.

Silco raises his eyebrows.

“You both worked best as partners,” Viktor continues.

“The last time we tried it, Zaun paid the price,” he scoffs, his hand raising to the scar on his face. Vander grimaces.

Powder and Ekko are quiet, same with the rest of the kids. Vi looks down, a painful look crossing her face, her lips twisting as if she tasted something sour.

“Rushing things often leads to those types of consequences.”

“What are your plans then, Herald?” Vander asks, leaning on the wall. Viktor smirks.

“Take care of your plans. Polish them until they’re perfect. I have someone to introduce to you that you might be interested in talking with.”

Silco, curiosity peaked, leans in.

“Well then, it seems that this won’t be the last time we see each other.”

“Guess not.”

Viktor watches as Vander, after hesitating, grabs Silco’s shoulder and brings him closer. He motions for the kids and they follow, a bit wary of the new presence in their group.

Ekko lingers near the exit, his face screwed in worry and guilt. He looks down, frowning.

“I’m sorry I threw stuff at your face, mister Machine Herald.”

“Ah,” Viktor waves his hand at him in a dismissive manner. The anomaly, time itself, cracking though his mask and mind- “I’m pretty sure I deserved that.”

The boy laughs and turns; Viktor hears him yell after Vander, for them to slow down, to let him catch up.

“A hoverboard, hm?” Viktor hums, thinking back to the pure speed of it; Ekko, a flicker of green light, maneuvering between his puppets, too fast for them to catch.

Never one to stifle someone’s potential, Viktor looks back at his blueprints and smiles at the sight of a simple sketch left on the pages by Ekko. They could work on that, he’s sure of it.

“Two men, the most important figures in Zaun aside from you,” Mel ignores him when he tries to argue with her statement, “are inviting me for lunch?”

“Dinner, rather.”

She levels him down with a glare.

“I can tell them to wait for a date that’s more comfortable with you,” he offers, his eyes softening. “Are you okay?”

“That’s a first,” she laughs, then stops when he doesn’t join her. She looks tired. “I’m going to be. I’m still figuring out the mage stuff, and one of my contacts caught wind of something called the Black Rose. They don’t seem to be active right now, but I am afraid that they might prove to be a foe in the future.”

“And how are you feeling in Piltover?”

“It’s not Noxus,” she sighs, looking at him. Her eyes shine with the gentleness not many are granted the honour of seeing. “But it feels like home.”

“I’m glad. Though, if you’re a councillor now, should I address you as Miss Medarda?”

“You try that and you’ll get to see how it’s like to lose a second hand.”

“Oh, you’re going to unleash a second kettle after me?”

Mel laughs, snorting for air. She leans on his shoulder and closes her eyes, gold traces on her skin, glistering in the sunset.

“Have you considered attending the Academy?” She asks, her voice a soft murmur. Viktor leans to lay his head on hers, looking at the city.

It’s not often that heights don’t look tempting. The urge to jump is always there - he wonders, if Jayce felt the same. If ever since Viktor found him in his ruined apartment, taking what he, at the time, must’ve thought was his final breath, he had his mind turn against him every time he was too high up. If he wondered about the speed of the wind, and how fast the way down would be.

At least, now, it became a passing thing; a thought he doesn’t pay much mind to. Sometimes he will glance outside a window and think about jumping, and then go back to doing whatever he was invested in just a second before.

“I might have to, if I don't want to outgrow the uniform,” he whispers, a soft smile tugging at his lips. She hums.

“I can try to talk to Heimerdinger-“

“Oh, come on now, Mel. You should know me better by now. If you’re all forcing me to attend, I’m going to do it on my own terms.”

“I would never expect any less,” she laughs. “So, tell me, the Machine Herald,” he groans at the name, and she chuckles with fondness, “what should I expect of Vander and Silco?”

“Probably be ready for them trying to kill each other.”

“Not me?”

“I think they hold much more grudges against themselves than a Noxian mage turned Piltover’s Councillor.”

This time it is her turn to groan. She pinches his forearm and frowns.

“Mind yourself, I think I should be qualified enough to be seen as a Zaun advocate as well.”

“That’s also what I’ve wanted for you to consider,” he glances down at her hands, the golden markings on them mirroring the ones on his; though his skin has decorations that look more mechanical, and her look like a form of art. “I believe that Silco has a lot of potential. He is a very dangerous figure, but his ambition would do great things for both of the cities. I would suggest for you to look into making him an ambassador for Zaun. Perhaps he will surprise you, and one day you will offer him a permanent position on the Council all on your own.”

Mel frowns.

“Mhm. Perhaps I have taught you too much politics, dear friend.” She drums her fingers on the balustrade, a distant look in her eyes; she shakes it off, something mischievous glittering like stars in her expression. “You would make a nice addition to the Council as well, you know? You’re gaining a reputation, Viktor. Piltover has you for a Zaunish legend, one equal to the likes of Janna herself. I don’t doubt that, proven to be real, you’d make quite an impression on the people of Piltover.”

“You know they would not respect me-“

“Then they would be forced to,” she says simply, leaving no room to argue. “Viktor, I won’t pressure you into this, but I do think it would be a great opportunity for Zaun if it was represented by someone so beloved by its people. I’m not saying that you need to swim in the ocean of politics; but there are bright minds there, innovators that would be interested in hearing you out. You’re already using the ventilation system sponsored by the Kiramman House, and you have only improved it by far! Think of what you could accomplish if you showed them your inventions!”

“They would take them all for themselves or force me to create things that would serve them and their wealth, not the general good of the people below them, those of lower status.” He ignores how a pang of sadness shows up on her face; perhaps recollecting that he has lived through this once and his words are not empty, but spoken from experience.

She nudges him.

“Alright then. So, this Silco. What should I expect?”

“I did not expect for you two to move in together,” Viktor says, his eyebrows raised high. “Weren’t you still in the wanting to kill each other stage the last time I saw you?”

“The greatest thing we can do in life is find the power to forgive,” Silco says with a smug smile tugging at his unscarred side.

“Vi said she will kick him in his nuts if he tries anything,” Powder chimes in, earning a sincere chuckle from the man. “Will you look at my bombs later? Ekko said you invited him over to build something! I want to do that too!”

“I don’t see a reason against-“ Violet appears in the room with Vander, “ah, there it is.”

“Alright, Flutterbugs. Go join Mylo and Claggor, and I don’t want to hear any fighting,” Vander crosses his arms across his chest and nods towards the room. Vi glances at Viktor, distrust evident in her every move. “Silco and I decided it’s for the best if we give it a try,” he tells Viktor, not looking at him; he watches Violet leave, something in his face betraying that he’s suspecting they will try to spy on their conversation regardless.

“Yes, if we want to mend our relationship, we need to push each other without, let’s say, trying to drown one another.”

Vander shakes his head, pain mixed with guilt hidden behind a chuckle.

“And Silco’s place’s shit. Figured it would do some good if he spent time among people.”

Perhaps Viktor had made a critical mistake in his calculations. Maybe he hasn’t learnt anything at all, and rushed into this too early.

“So, this friend of yours. What exactly makes her interesting enough for us to consider telling her about our plans for Zaun?” Silco straightens his jacket - one he must’ve retrieved from their hideout in the tunnels; Vander wears a matching one.

“I promise she will prove herself,” Viktor says instead, looking around the bar. Vander moves behind it, preparing a drink for himself and Silco; Viktor gets some kind of fruit juice, much to his dismay. He slowly reaches for sugar and starts pouring it in, teaspoon after teaspoon.

It’s after the tenth one that Silco’s glare turns into bewilderment.

“You have a sweet tooth worse than Powder and Mylo combined,” Vander laughs, adding something glowing into his drink.

They wait for a moment longer; Viktor uses his Hexclaw to hold the teaspoon and add some more sugar.

Mel walks in on time, wearing a white cloak - an unusual, attention grabbing piece of clothing, one certainly not belonging to Zaun.

She slowly approaches a barstool and sits down, her elbows pressed against the cold surface of the table.

Silco and Vander lean in, twin suspicious expressions on their faces. The smaller of the men straightens up, quickly putting on the serious political persona Viktor associates with the kingpin he could’ve become. The facade is strong, but not enough to fool Mel; she moves confidently, full of herself in the way that her presence fills the room and leaves no doubt that she’s not a person who should be crossed.

“I’ve heard some good things about you,” she speaks, her voice even and carefully calm.

“The tincan said you’re interested in our plans for Zaun,” Vander studies her movements. She tilts her head.

“It is true that I have grown fond of this place, and desire to see it flourish. I’ve been told you care about Zaun as well.”

Silco scoffs.

“And what use is this conversation if we don’t know who we’re speaking with? For all we know, you’re one of the Machine Herald's puppets, speaking things he dictates to you, so we don’t grow wary of his presence in Zaun.”

Mel hesitates, then takes the hood off her face, her expression calm and collected. She takes Viktor’s drink and looks at the sugar swirling in it.

“One would say that it is regarded as offensive to address a councillor in such a manner. I assure you, I am no puppet, and I come here from my own free will.”

Vander chokes on his drink and coughs furiously. Silco looks surprised, his eye wide and his lips parted, as if he had frozen half-sentence. Mel catches his drink before it spills, golden flickers dancing between her fingers.

“What does a councillor do in Zaun, then?” Silco asks, a weird tilt in his voice. Mel smiles, as if it’s an inside joke he’s letting him on.

“Finds friends, obviously,” she answers, grinning when Viktor, against himself, snorts.

Vander frowns, moving to the side. He’s on Silco’s blind side, Viktor realises; most likely to protect him from any harm he wouldn’t be able to spot.

“How does a doctor from Zaun come across a councillor and get to know her in such a manner that he’s trusted to not harm her when inviting to a meeting?”

“I’m his patron, in a way,” she carefully avoids talking about their childhood friendship, taking a tactical approach to the matter. “You worked in the fissures, have you not? I saw helmets on my way in. You must know about the warning-birds.”

“What about them?” Silco asks, frowning. Viktor shrugs and drums his fingers on his brace.

“They are our joint creation. Miss Medarda has been aiding me for a long time.”

He waits, certain of the impending insults. A Piltie’s dog, he was once called. He recounted that, during his time as an coinventor of Hextech, any Zaunite who was aware of him and his origin regarded him with utmost disgust.

“Fascinating,” Silco says instead, leaning in. “And why are you concerned with Zaun, then? I must admit, a person of your standing, councillor Medarda, must be aware that Vander and I aren’t the most pliable people.”

“I’m not looking for pliable. I’m looking for those who are of strong will.” She flexes her fingers. “I am here with an offer.”

Vander grunts and Silco hums, both vaguely curious. A fish taking the bait.

“My partner,” she motions to Viktor, “has told me that you have plans for Zaun that are good. That you two would be able to lead it away from the place those above has destined it to become.”

“Are you here to arrest us for dreaming?” Silco taunts. Vander laughs.

“Good luck going after a guy who pours everyone’s drinks.”

“No, of course not. There is no need to threaten me, gentlemen. It’s rather the opposite; tell me about your plans. What you wish for Zaun to become. I’ve been told,” she turns to Silco, “that you are a capable politician. If you impress me, I will grant you a place within the Council, as Zaun’s ambassador.”

Vander’s eyes widen. Silco tilts his head backwards, his brow furrowed.

“Such a position insinuates that you perceive Zaun as its own nation.”

“Is it not? Piltover has long been disconnected from politics of the Undercity.” She looks satisfied with the surprised looks on their faces. “If you prove what I heard about you to be right, I’m ready to grant you a seat on the council as well. But it is not an easy task to accomplish.”

“What’s the catch?” Vander leans in, taking a sip of his drink. Mel glances at Viktor, who offers her a slight smile in return.

“I wish for there to be peace. I was raised in Noxus, I know what war brings. How many lives it costs and how damning it can be. I wish to create a world that gives more than it takes.”

“That is no easy task.” Silco warns. Mel hums in amusement.

“But it’s one that’s worth any kind of struggle,” she defends.

“Well then, councillor Medarda,” Silco offers her his hand to shake, “welcome to Zaun.”

She takes it.

Chapter Text

The snow that coats the streets looks closer to mud by the time Viktor manages to make his way to the Academy.

The building is a monumental piece of architecture, one filled with golden references to Shurima; there’s some nature-like designs incorporated into it as well, an inspiration taken from the Bundle City. It’s a technological wonder, and students of different kinds are scattered through it, all busy with either mingling or studying in an attempt to meet their examiners' impossible standards and expectations.

He steadies himself, his hand gripping onto the handle of his new crutch - this one is in the colours Mel chose to represent her; the new signature of her House, gold and white.

She looked pleased with herself when she gave it to him, proudly explaining that she took some time to make parts for it by herself.

(“The boy I told you about, he helped me put it together. He works a lot on accommodations for the people who need aid. A great mind, like yours.”)

Viktor stares down the doors, frames gold and shining, and grimaces.

He’s wearing gloves, his uniform is slightly too big and too scratchy for his sensitive skin, and his hair is wild and unruly; he tried to tame it in a fruitless attempt.

His outer brace is pressed tight against his leg, bruising it; it’s something he had to come to terms with, unfortunately. The road to Piltover’s Academy was long, and he needed to be sure he would keep stability in his legs by the time he got there.

He manoeuvres around the students, overly aware of how different from them he looks. Even with better access to food and sunlight, both thanks to his friendship with Mel, his frame is lighter than theirs, and his skin too sickly pale.

He moves, confident, perfectly capable of understanding how much of his image in their eyes depends on how he presents himself.

He pushes the doors to an examination hall; the room is enormous, the poor young adults it is housing whispering among themselves, some looking more miserable than others.

Slowly, he sits down near the exit doors, waiting patiently for the entrance exam to begin.

Viktor signs the sheet of paper with the name Giopara - an alias Jayce liked to use when he was out incognito - and his own, then looks down at the questions.

He has the advantage of years of experience above the other students, and perhaps he is a bit vain, because a sly smile does tug at his lips the moment he realises he will do better on the exam than any of them ever imagined they would do.

A perfect score should be easy; the questions are all about theory, something he perfected years ago.

When he leaves the room fifteen minutes later, most students turn to stare at him in pity. Another soul crushed by Professor Heimerdinger’s high expectations, or so it seems.

One of them must notice the smug look on Viktor’s face, because his expression turns from one of compassion into one of annoyance and suspicion.

Viktor takes a long way home, in spite of his protesting leg. He stops by his favourite Piltover’s bakery, basking in the fact that it’s his first official visit to it in this timeline. It’s nostalgic, in a way - just yesterday Jayce and he were sitting there together, minds railed up with enough caffeine to kill a person, both rambling about their theories on magic-induced science.

He eyes the cupcakes put on display, smiling to himself when he sees a blue and green one, both in shapes of cats, with decorative sprinkles thrown precisely to make them look even more appetising. He pays more than he should with how his funds are looking, but the baker has a kind smile and he is fond of their work.

He walks into the alley next to the building and leans on the wall, shaking the paper bag with a knowing smile.

“If you consider to stop following me, perhaps we can have a truce and enjoy something nice,” he speaks into the open air, waiting patiently.

Powder slowly, very slowly, leans from behind the wall, her cheeks red in embarrassment at being caught. Ekko follows, looking everywhere but in Viktor’s direction.

“I told you, Little Man. The Herald sees all,” she whispers, her elbow making its way into Ekko’s side. The boy groans and gives her a playful shove.

“Yet another thing to add to the reputation board we’re building,” he tells her and she nods with a serious look on her face.

Viktor shakes the bag again and Ekko, in a blur, is next to him, snatching it from his hands and looking inside.

“Aw, sick! Look at those!”

“Can we really have them?” Powder asks, taking a bite before she gets an answer. Viktor taps his fingers on his crutch.

“I wouldn’t be giving them to you if I didn’t want you to try them out.” He stares at them, a fond smile on his lips. “Does Violet know you are spying on me?”

“We had to see if you’re up to some funny business,” Ekko justifies; Powder immediately chimes in:

“Claggor said you know the councillor! The pretty one who visits dad and Silco nowadays! Vi said you’re a spy who barks how Pilties tell you to.”

“Ah,” that does seem like a response he should’ve expected. Violet always had strong beliefs and held grudges. Perhaps he will have to admit that Sky was right and kidnapping Vander was a bad idea. “What are your conclusions?”

“You have a good taste in food,” Powder holds one finger up, then the other: “and you look stupid in those Piltie clothes.”

“Lovely.”

“And that you’re not that scary without your mask and that third arm. I could mistake you for a human.” Ekko joins in. Viktor raises his eyebrows.

“I am human.”

Both kids squint at him, clearly doubting his words.

“Let’s go to Last Drop before Vander decides to hunt me down. You two get into a lot of trouble, hm?”

“We’re the smartest of the bunch! Trouble is our middle name!”

“How can it be our middle name if we don’t even have a last one?” Ekko asks. Powder shrugs.

“Dunno.”

Ekko is the first one to get into the bar; he starts running in an impromptu race with Powder; the girl stays behind with Viktor after pretending to run. She fidgets with a glitter bomb of hers, the mechanism busted.

“You really want him to feel like a part of the group, hm?” Viktor asks, nudging her with his crutch. Her eyes get bigger, she almost drops the bomb and trips over her feet.

Flustered, she looks up.

“Is it that obvious?”

Viktor chuckles.

“Machines are easier for me to understand than feelings, but it’s clear that you two care for each other.”

Powder looks down, a stern look on her face. She’s considering something for a while, then turns to Viktor yet again, nervous.

“Do you think you could teach me like Ekko?” She asks, hopeful; it is true that Viktor has been promoted to a glorified babysitter as of late.

Ekko isn’t his apprentice per se, because Viktor never asked him if he wanted to study under his guide; the boy decided that for himself, stubbornly refusing to leave the lab until Viktor caved in and allowed him to come visit once every few days, to learn and to work on the hoverboard.

Sky made both of them sit through a lab-safety lecture, and gave Ekko a stern look, in a motherly way, after he started commenting how cool Viktor’s prosthetic hand is; Sky was disappointed of this reaction, because she specifically used that example to scare him into not doing risky experiments without proper preparations.

“If you want to, I don’t see why not,” her gifts, as he told another version of her once, could be used for good.

She has a weird look on her face and starts slowly, absent-mindedly pulling on strands of her hair, tugging hard enough to rip some singular ones.

“Mylo says I’m a jinx, and that I will ruin your work,” she finally admits, something bitter in her voice.

“I wouldn’t worry about that. We’re scientists, failures are a part of discovery. I’m sure you would never be able to cause more trouble than I do on daily basis,” he assures her; Powder looks down on the bomb and smiles.

“Okay, Machine Herald.”

Viktor groans.

“That is the worst nickname-“

“I’ve been telling people that you want to replace flesh with metal and that you rip heads off of rude little boys and put robotic ones in their place.”

She grins as Viktor stares at her wordlessly.

“Why.”

“Right there,” Viktor steps aside, letting Mel enjoy the view; his hideout at the Academy is just the way he remembers it, maybe with more flora around. The ivy climbs up the wall and curls its shoots around the frame of the opening in the wall.

Viktor sits down and lets Mel enjoy the view for a moment longer.

“It must be strange, to get to visit places you know so well for the first time again.”

“Nostalgic, maybe,” he offers, staring ahead.

Mel frowns, sits next to him and holds his hand. She hasn’t yet gotten a grip on her powers, but she did admit that she felt them buzzing under her skin, like a fire raging in the coal mines underground, close enough to the surface to be noticeable by those who know what to search for.

“I do not like seeing you so close to the edge,” she speaks softly; Viktor cranes his neck to look in her direction, his eyes wide in surprise. “I am afraid that, one day, you might jump.”

“Mel-“

“Don’t- we’ve known each other for long, Viktor. I’ve seen how you look down the ledges. Like it’s a promise to be fulfilled. There's longing in it, one that scares me.”

He looks away, squeezes her hand.

“My partner stopped me before,” he admits, surprised by his honesty. It feels strangely vulnerable and painful. “A bad thing happened, because of me. Something I couldn’t ever possibly take back. An unfixable dilema.” He thinks of Sky, who he knows is safe, playing with Orianna as the girl made her promise to have weekly meetings to train new dancing moves, “I fear that once you get so close to the edge, the urge to jump stays forever. When you crack a teacup, even if you put it back together, you can still see that it has been broken. There’s no fixing that, it becomes a part of it. It’s a voice in the back of my head; always there, but it’s become a passing thought. Nothing that poses any threat. Just a brief moment that goes away quickly.”

Mel hums, her hand tracing the shape of the rune on the palm of his. Viktor sees her look in wonder at it, her eyes shining.

“You are not broken,” she promises, and his heart squeezes tightly, because he can almost hear Jayce’s voice in her words.

“Neither are you,” he tells her, then offers a wry smile; “you are not an object to stare at and adore. Even if sometimes people look at you that way.”

She chuckles.

“Are there any face-eating spiders here?”

“Hm, I haven’t checked.”

“You are an awful, terrible, mean thing, Viktor.”

“Haven’t you heard? Rumours say that I replace people’s heads with metal ones.”

She laughs.

“Oh, those kids do have quite an imagination,” she rolls her eyes; “they take after their fathers. Both of those men can be so exhausting.”

“Worse than the Council?”

“Nothing is worse than the Council.”

Mel looks down, her eyes following the stream; it ends in the distance, falling in a loud cascade into the sea. If they had a spying glass, perhaps they would be able to see the pirate ships cruising nearby.

Viktor tilts his head, his eyes shining a contemplative blue. He looks at his hands, letting the flickers of light appear; the tendrils of arcane magic dance from his fingertips like puppet strings cut loose.

“Do you remember when we first went to the Undercity together?”

She smiles, melancholy tinting her soft smile.

“I remember seeing how human all of Zaun is. Miners were coming back from work. It all seemed so… ordinary. Clumsy, in a good way.”

“You tried to steal my sweetmilk.”

“Lies and slander, you were just being a terrible host,” she sighs, examining her own hands. There’s a faint golden shine to them. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Because you need to understand just how much you’ve grown. Your heart is in the right place, Mel.” She peeks at his hands, her eyes widening at the sight of the strings of blue-golden light dancing between them. “Back in my old timeline, I sought ways to help people. I found a power to heal them of any injury,” except for heartbreak; Violet asked him once, after a week of sessions with Vander, if he could heal that kind of pain; take it away. He remembers clutching his blanket, a tinge of affection long extinguished still present in the familiar smell clinging to the material. No, he had told her, briefly wondering about the possibility. “It’s easy to lose yourself when you have power. It’s even easier to convince yourself you’re doing the right thing, when you are instead becoming a worse version of yourself. But we all change and grow. It’s human.”

“Human, how silly it is to be a creature so simple,” she leans into him, brows furrowed. “What if I fail?”

“You’re Mel Medarda. And, even more importantly, you are my friend. I know you will do everything you believe is right. You grew up to be good. Don’t let those thoughts about your mother distract you from seeing that.”

“She would be disappointed in me, though. Collaborating with two leaders of a failed uprising to help Zaun, instead of squeezing that rebellious spirit out of it like any good leader should.”

“Then don’t be a good leader, but a kind one,” he looks into the distance, smiles. “Besides, I reckon that you have another mother right here.”

“Who?”

“My own, of course. She adopted you as soon as you took measures to visit me in the fissures when I was feeling unwell. Not many would have remembered the details and had the commitment to find a house with a painted door, just to visit their friend. She cares about you as if you are her own,” he promises; it feels familiar, in a way. An echo of what Jayce did for him. Ximena, treating him as something precious, even though he shouldn’t have been much more to her than a stranger who knew her son.

Mel closes her eyes; Viktor keeps quiet about how they shine with tears. She never was one to cry.

“I’m glad, then.”

Maybe, just maybe, she won’t need to be instinctually searching for her mother’s approval this time around.

He got in; of course he did, but he still is staring at the list hung on the Academy’s door in bewilderment.

The highest score of all; he collected every single point. Granted, the advantage of being far more experienced is what gave him the opportunity, but it still feels a bit surreal.

He quickly makes his way home after noticing the hushed whispers among the students; all curious as to who the mysterious student is.

“I haven’t heard of any Gioparas.”

“Maybe he is from some other region?”

“Can you imagine? Oh, think about it, a bright Ionian assassin, smart enough to get into the Academy and compete with Piltover’s brightest.”

“His name doesn’t sound Ionian at all,” Viktor glances at the group of students. All are wearing Academy's uniforms, and holding onto bags with symbols of their Houses engraved into them.

He picks up his pace and quickly manoeuvres around them.

“Hasn’t the Magic Boy Talis used that surname when he got busted sneaking around?” A young man asks; the one standing next to him snickers, shoving him playfully.

“Maybe they are related?”

“Then I feel sorry for this Viktor guy,” a woman snickers, shaking her head. “Prideful Azir, imagine there being two of them.”

“Stop that, that’s mean-“ another of the group giggles, clearly amused with their comments.

Viktor pauses, glancing at them in curiosity; he was well aware that Jayce didn’t have many associates before they proved the Hextech theory to be real.

“Excuse me?” He turns to them, leaning on his crutch. The students turn, looking at him.

“Are you lost?” The woman asks, staring at his leg brace, but attempting to be subtle about it.

“No, I was just wondering about this Talis person you were talking about.”

“Ah, so you must be the first on the list!” One of the men smiles broadly and grabs his shoulders; he ignores Viktor’s grimace and the attempts to shove him away; “Being around Talis is a social suicide. The guy is mad, and I don’t say it easily.”

“It’s a wonder that Kirammans took pity on him.”

“I feel a bit sorry for his mother. It must be hard for her. The future head of her House will definitely lead it to ruin,” the woman shakes her head in faux sympathy. Viktor frowns.

Ximena’s appeal to the Council saved Jayce from exile after that unfortunate explosion, but her words were ones that Jayce never truly forgave her for; once, drunk, on some anniversary of their breakthrough, he admitted to Viktor that being seen insane was worse for him than anything.

No one ever believed in me.

Well, maybe that’s why Viktor understood him so well from the beginning.

“And yet he still seems to be twice the person any of you could ever dream of being,” he grits out, hitting the man who is still holding onto his shoulders with his crutch. He scowls at all of them. “If you are adamant of such childish behaviour then maybe you should stop wasting places in the Academy that someone serious and valuable could take instead.”

They whisper among themselves, few of the group trying to argue; Viktor turns and continues his way to the Undercity.

He collapses on his bed with a loud sigh leaving his lips. There’s a lot of work to do, and he promised Ekko that he would check out the newest prototype of his hoverboard, but he feels exhausted in a way he rarely does.

“Busy day, wiseacre?” His mum stands in the doorway, a sympathetic look crossing her face.

It was a lot less sympathetic when he came home with information about losing his hand; she chased after him with a dirty rag and kept screaming about selling him to the bounty hunters, because if he couldn’t afford to have brain cells, then he could at least be of use and sponsor her something nice.

(“With a mind as useless as yours maybe they will sell it for the scientists to study how it’s possible for a head to be this empty!”

“Father, help!”

“You’re on your own. And also grounded.”)

“Those people are the worst kind of toxic waste I’ve seen.”

“Even though you live in the fissures?” She asks, sitting down. She puts her forehead to his, a fond look in her eyes. “There you are.”

“I shouldn’t rest-“

“You will burn out if you don’t.” She hums a song, brushing his hair with her fingers. “You should hang out with Mel and Sky, take a break from all this science.”

“We’re too busy,” he explains patiently. “Sky is working on the filter in the southern wing. The tunnel collapsed and we don’t have a way to remove all the rubble. Mel is still busy with politics, and I have so many people counting on me and my experiments-“

She smiles and tugs at a strand of his hair, forcing him to look up at her.

“When you’re going to change the world, don’t ask for permission,” she reminds him, “but don’t do it alone either. It’s easy to get lost, if you let your ambitions consume you.”

He closes his eyes. Somewhere out there is a Jayce, one that still hasn’t met him yet.

“I always knew you’d be extraordinary,” she says, her hand still in his hair. “And I knew that I would lose you, in a way. That’s just how it is, for us, parents. The best thing you can do is let your child flourish and accept that they’ve been destined to something greater than you could ever give them. You will take it for yourself, I know.”

She stops, lays down next to him. Viktor turns to face her; there are first wrinkles on her face, ones telling stories of worries and ones holding a ghost of her laughter.

“I think I’m almost where I’m supposed to be,” he tells her. She flicks her pointer finger at his nose.

“I’m glad.” There’s a moment of silence, one that feels calming. “Perhaps you should find another mage to help you with your runes, if it’s too hard for you to do on your own.”

“What?” He sits up and stares at her. A sly smile graces her lips.

“I am your mother. How could I not notice that you have abilities that any human would not be able to possess nor understand?”

He blinks.

“You knew?”

“Your eyes change colour, wiseacre. I’m beginning to suspect that you left all that brilliance of yours at your lab.”

He groans into his hands.

Claggor leads him towards the golem he found with so much excitement that Viktor is suspecting the boy might explode if they take any longer.

He quickly makes his way to a pile of trash and starts moving it aside, uncovering a big dirty sheet underneath; Viktor leans on his crutch, the third arm making repairs to his voice changer - the side of his must got crushed after Ekko smashed into it with his hoverboard during their first test-run.

“There it is,” Claggor - quite dramatically - uncovers the giant pile of metal. It’s rusty, but some golden plates peek out from between the dirt.

“Impressive,” he says, walking closer. Claggor fidgets in place.

“Do you think you could fix it?”

“Hm,” Viktor brushes some dust that’s coating it aside. “Scientists seek not only discovery but challenge,” he offers, inspecting the design of the creature.

“Mylo and I think it must’ve been a mining golem for the first Undercity colonies. Vi said she heard her mum talk about some things like this years ago. A bedtime story, you know?”

Viktor examines it; most of wiring is intact, but there are some components he will need to change for newer ones; besides that, the machine needs a powerful energy source.

He ruffles Claggor’s hair.

“Take notes, I will tell you what parts we need to fix it.”

The boy complies.

“I am really, really sorry, man,” Ekko shields himself with his hoverboard. Powder is standing further away, scribbling “zero days since last incident” on the blackboard.

Sky hands Viktor some more ice; he thanks her, the Hexclaw waving at her before returning to repairing his robotic hand - one that got absolutely obliterated by the impact of Ekko crushing into him at full speed.

“Do you have all your teeth?” The boy nods and Viktor sighs. “Then we will count that as a success.”

“You shouldn’t be encouraging that,” Sky chastises, returning to work. Orianna tries to climb onto her; she throws herself at her back and hangs her arms around her neck, her legs swinging wildly as she tries to pull herself up. “No, not a surprise attack!”

With his organic hand - bruised but at the very least not ripped apart - Viktor carves a rune into a metal cog and channels the arcane.

They all quiet down, looking at the magic traveling though his body and into the component.

“That is so cool!” Powder runs to him and takes the cog from his hand, staring at the little streaks of light dancing across it; she touches one with her hand and giggles when it reacts, running through her skin.

“We will need something stronger for, eh-“

“Them,” Powder tells him, giving the cog to Ekko, who stares at it in wonder.

“Yes, them. Doctor Reveck was able to obtain some runestones,” he points at Sky before she can smugly remind him of how he used to be against using them; she stills smirks at him, ”With them, it will be easier to create an energy source powerful enough to bring the golem back to life.”

“I will tell them to beat up Mylo.”

“You won’t.” Viktor points at Powder, who frowns. “It is a crucial moment for our experiments. The golem would be able to remove the rubble and go to the dangerous parts of the ventilation system without facing as much risk as we do.”

“What do runestones do?” Ekko looks around, clearly searching for where Viktor had hid them.

“Oh, it’s easier for me to channel the arcane through them. I’ll probably search for more in my free time, if I ever get any. They look like blue, stone teardrops, with symbols engraved into them. Normally I have to carve a rune into something to make it work. With runestones I would save some time on this.”

Powder’s eyes shine.

“We will help you,” she tugs Ekko close to her and gives him a confident smile.

“Splendid,” Viktor mutters, then pushes his mask on his face. “Orianna, can you grab me a pair of tweezers? I found a shrapnel.”

Ekko stutters.

“Again, I am so, so sorry-“

The Winter ball Mel invited him to was postponed because of the snowstorm raging outside. It’s rare that Piltover experiences weather so powerful; it makes for a good excuse to rest for a while, and, admittedly, avoid social gatherings.

Viktor slowly tightens the bolts on his brace, grimacing when it squeaks from the pressure he puts onto it.

The Last Drop is empty; most people huddled in their homes or in shelters the Chembarons agreed to sponsor for Viktor and Sky’s aid in the factories; there was an explosion in one of them recently, and thus a lot of money was lost. The two of them are seen as the obvious choice for making improvements to any kinds of designs.

In a way, it reminded Viktor of his previous life, before he sneaked into the Academy and faked it til he made it.

Vander appears in the hallway with a saxophone in his hand, and yawns loudly.

“Kids are in bed.” He rests his head on the counter, sighing.

“Did Violet try to show off her musical skillset once again?” Silco prompts; Vander answers with a tired smile.

“The kid has lungs, that’s for sure.”

“Good, in case you one day decide to drown her,” Silco shots back, playing with a little umbrella Vander put in his drink.

Viktor stares at them, wondering if he should interfere, but Vander laughs and shakes his head.

“Sure.” He drags himself towards his own room. “I’m going to doze off. Silco?”

“I have some reports from Miss Medarda to go through. I’ll join you later.”

“I’ll heat the fireplace.”

Silco reads through the papers on the table; all written in a neat cursive, decorative and somehow still looking stern.

Mel’s work on the Council ate away at her days, consuming them with no rest. She hasn’t spoken much of it, but it was obvious how exhausting it was.

Thankfully she is respected enough to not be laughed at for her proposition to let Silco attend their meetings; the Councillors are reluctant, hesitant to the idea, but agree to consider it if Silco meets their standards.

Thus he was thrust into the word of studying law and politics, to make sure his first impression is perfect.

Viktor leans in his chair, takes off his mask and stares at it.

Somewhere out there is a young man named Jayce Talis, and he does not yet know how special he is.

Maybe Viktor will terrorise all those rude people with Blitzcrank once they’re finished.

“I’ve heard that congratulations are in order. It’s not every day that someone from Zaun gets enrolled in the Academy.”

“It’s a dumb thing my parents wanted me to try out,” he leans forward, grimacing when his back cracks.

Viktor can’t fully remember when exactly he had his spinal surgery; maybe in his late twenties?

“There is nothing stupid about taking a step forward,” Silco sorts through the documents.

They’re alone now; Viktor can hear Vander’s snoring. The room downstairs is calm too. Violet has had more time to relax and be a kid recently; ever science Viktor started frequenting The Last Drop, all the bullies strode away; the gossip Powder provided only aided their decision to avoid Vander’s kids.

The scar running down Silco’s face paralysed his muscles; he only emotes with the half that’s clear. It’s ugly, rough. The kids were intimidated by it; vaguely, Viktor remembers that Silco used to wear makeup during any public dealings.

He taps at his mask, Hexclaw drumming its metal fingers on the table top.

“Why did you forgive Vander?” He asks. “I’ve read that letter. It wasn’t enough to grant such trust in his regret.”

Silco pauses; he slowly puts the papers down, his fingers sliding down the paper. He tilts his head upwards in a confident and nonchalant manner; something sparks in his eye; analytical, curious.

There’s an echo of a man feared by both Zaun and Piltover. Some shadows are just a part of one’s soul, Viktor can assume.

“You’re right. It was not.” He studies his expression.

“Then why?” Viktor wants to understand; he longs for it, because it’s the same kind of forgiveness Jayce offered him back on the top of the Hexgates. His look, the silent realisation that Viktor would die alone and that he would never let that happen.

“As I told you, the best thing is to find the power to forgive.” He hums and reaches for his glass; some expensive alcohol swirls in it as he takes a hold of it. “You are not asking that to understand me, though.”

“No.” Viktor is silent for a moment. He looks at the rune in his hand, at the ones he carved into his fingers with a thin scalpel-type knife. Red lines run down his knuckles. “This type of loyalty to another person is terrifying. Destructive.”

“Kid, look,” Silco leans forward, slicks his hair back, “one day, you might make a decision that will be unforgivable. The fortunate thing about this world is that you will never be the only monster walking in it. The path to redemption is a long one, but one day you might meet someone who makes it easier to walk through.”

Chapter Text

Viktor holds the runestones in his hand, the other one resting atop the golem. Orianna grabs Sky’s hand in anticipation; Powder leans closer, stepping across the safety zone line that Sky stubbornly insisted on drawing on the ground.

Mel flexes her fingers, a concentrated look on her face; her eyes search for Viktor’s. He nods, trusting his judgement. Together, their abilities should be enough to create a power source so powerful it could rival the Hexgems.

Mel needs to be pushed into her abilities; her hold on them is still weak, but she’s a determined person that cannot be swayed with little failure.

She closes her eyes and digs her fingers into the golem’s arm. Viktor lifts his hand up, clenching his teeth as a strike of pain runs through him, and starts moving.

Like a reflection in the mirror, Mel copies his gestures; it’s on instinct, she has yet to open her eyes, completely entrusting her magic to guide her.

Following Viktor’s lead, she lifts her hand up; Viktor presses the runestones into the golem’s heart, and watches patiently as streaks of arcane run across his and Mel’s fingers.

Magic starts floating around them; runes, blue and gold, surround them as the wind picks up.

The final strike comes and Viktor almost stumbles; he digs his feet into the ground in a matter that makes it agonisingly painful, grits his teeth together and squeezes his eyes shut.

A strike of light comes and blinds them; for a moment, all he can feel is the energy running through his body. Then there’s nothing; even is leg and back are void of any pain; the kind he always fills, the full ache he’s king since accustomed to.

There’s silence, and he’s weightless; he opens his eyes and sees a vast emptiness of space; golden lights dance across it, moving and shifting every moment.

He looks down; Mel is there, her frame gold but in her own unique way. Her eyes are wide open and she’s looking at him with something akin to wonder and disbelief.

His body is glowing alongside the arcane, his skin like the night sky, with stars glowing on it, scattered on his limbs like freckles.

He sees everything, but cannot open his mouth; now that he’s aware of it, his eyes still remain closed, but it’s as if they’re not.

He touches his face; it’s split in the middle, surrounded by runes; they float around his head like a halo.

He reaches for Mel, and in the blink of an eye they’re back in the material world, and the blast caused by the magic throws them far from the golem.

Sky rushes to help him move from the ground; the pain comes back to him in an instant, overwhelming his mind.

Mel groans and slowly walks up to them. She regards Viktor for a long moment before turning to where the golem is laying.

“Did it work?” She asks; there are gold lines running down her hands and on her face.

There are flickers of lighting running across the golem’s frame. It remains unmoving for a long while, then very slowly shifts. Its moves are awkward, sporadic, as if it doesn’t yet know the working of its own limbs.

“Holy shit,” Powder grins, running to it before Sky can grasp her shirt and drag her back to the safety zone. She stands in front of the golem with a broad smile stretching her features. “Hi! I’m Powder!”

The creature makes a mechanical noise; it’s eyes flicker with blue light, and little bolts of arcane-made electricity crack around its massive body.

“Hello,” it greets, “Fired up and ready to serve.”

Viktor grabs his crutch and slowly approaches the golem, looking at the runestones turning inside its chest in an attempt to recreate heartbeat.

“Who are you?” It asks, tilting its head. Powder grabs Viktor’s arms and laughs.

“That’s your dad!”

“I am not- this is ridiculous!”

Powder pouts. She clings to him and points at the golem, gesturing sadly.

“You fixed them, that’s a dad thing to do! Vander always fixes Vi when she gets into fistfights with some idiots!” She jumps in place. “You need to give them a name!”

“Oh, something nice and witty!” Orianna joins in, a bit shyer in her approach.

“Blitzcrank,” Viktor decides instantly, after looking at the arcane crackling across them in little lighting bolts.

Powder yawns.

“Bo-ring!” She exclaims, Orianna shoves her playfully.

“It’s decent! Viktor has good ideas!”

“It’s as stupid as hexclaw ,” Powder argues. Viktor turns to Blitzcrank and regards their stance.

“Your operative is to help the people of Zaun. There is a collapsed tunnel in the southern wing of the city, where one of the main air filters used to be. You will need to remove the rubble so I can access it and scavenge what little of it can be saved.”

Blitzcrank churns, the gears turning and squeaking. They let off some steam from their structure and start moving.

“I will succeed,” they inform him, already walking out of the lab.

“Return in one piece! I won’t patch you up if you do something stupid!” He yells after them; then, he turns to the rest of his ragtag team. “So, sweetmilk?”

Powder cheers and Orianna joins in, grabs her wrist and pulls her towards the doors.

Sky shakes her head and walks past him to join the girls - and keep them out of trouble.

Mel studies her skin, her fingers dancing across the golden lines. The design is symmetrical, simple and yet complex enough - it suits her.

“Are you alright?” He asks, searching for her eyes; she looks up at him, her face unreadable.

“When you said you became something else when your partner saved you,” she starts, studying him, “I never quite understood what you had in mind when giving me that description. Not a mage, you kept saying, and yet displaying skills that only someone gifted with magic would possess.”

He sits down on his desk; Mel joins him, their shoulders brushing together.

“You aren’t a mage; you are an Aspect,” she doesn’t ask; the statement feels final, somehow. Viktor shrugs.

“I’ve never thought about it, but perhaps, yes. I had an absolute mastery over magic and the arcane, likes of which I’ve never seen a mage attempt to achieve.”

“And now?” She asks, frowning. Viktor makes a vague noise.

“I think that, while I remain human in most ways, the arcane’s influence seeps through; it somehow slightly altered me; an echo of it remains within.”

Mel looks at him; her expression softens into a playful smile.

“I’m friends with an Aspect. Who would’ve thought?”

“It’s not like it was my choice-“ he tries to defend, scowling. “My brilliant idiot of a partner fused me with something that allowed the arcane to be awoken.”

“So, he’s the one to blame?”

“No, of course not.” He is, slightly, but so is Viktor - and even more, the system that Piltover had set up, creating such a rift between itself and Zaun that a grieving girl would turn to violence and make the world burn if that meant her own pain would be eased.

He remembers the rubble falling onto him; he blinked and suddenly he was collapsing under a concrete block, his body in an unbelievable amount of pain, before all of it was gone and he woke up in the lab.

“I’m still glad. It brought us together.” Mel muses; in spite of painful memories, Viktor is glad too, in a way. This life he’s built amounts to something greater than his previous one; he’s actually helping others, not watching from the sides, basking in Jayce’s light while standing in his shadow.

At the same time, he would never be here if it wasn’t for the mistakes he and Jayce made.

A silver lining, one could call it.

“Does it change anything?”

“I don’t think so. For all that matters, you are still Viktor to me,” she taps her fingers on her thigh. Contemplative, she looks up. “Although it was an intimidating sight. You could use it to gain some respect. I can promise you that Zaun would be given independence the moment the Council would’ve seen that form of yours.”

“It’s the face split in the middle, isn’t it?”

“It was a bit surreal, yes.”

“It was an aesthetic choice.”

“Mhm. It sure was - a choice.”

He cackles, his chest feeling lighter.

“So, as I said: do you want to get some sweetmilk?”

“Well, I can’t say no to an Aspect, can I?”

He shoves her and, for good measure, trips her over with his crutch.

“Unbelievable.”

Viktor isn’t one to pay attention to the lectures - for one, he doesn’t need to, as his knowledge is vastly different and improved. Still, there’s some semblance of familiarity within how the professor holds his chalk and dances around the blackboard, explaining the basic concept of chemical engineering.

He taps his fingers on his desk, face twisted into an unpleasant grimace. His notes are filled with calculations for his actual projects - things that are valuable and important, unlike his morning classes.

When the Academy bell rings, he’s the first one to leave his class. He hurriedly collects his notes, grabs his crutch and limps towards the door - his fall two days earlier has impacted him greatly, more than he assumed it would.

Wrestling with Blitzcrank for his tools also didn’t help, surely.

“Ah, young boy!” A voice greets him; Viktor makes a big step to the side. There are footsteps following after him. “You must be Viktor! I have seen your scores on the entrance exams, you’re, how do young people say it? Quite a hot-shot!”

Viktor sighs and forces his lips into a pleasant smile. Professor Heimerdinger looks at him with curiosity.

“Forgive me, Professor, but there seem to be more classes I should be attending, and it takes me a while to get to them.”

“Oh, nonsense! Young lad, I’m inviting you for tea in my office. I will gladly get to know the brightest of the freshmen!”

With nothing that could aid him as an excuse, Viktor decides to follow what Mel taught him - be pleasant and tactful enough not to get too much attention. Sometimes it’s better to compromise and stay in the shadows than to stick out.

The office is big, filled with trinkets, experiments, books and papers. Heimerdinger is organised; at first glance, his space might look like a mess, but in reality everything is carefully segregated and set into their rightful place.

He’s offered a seat; the armchair in the professor’s office has always been a bit too short, too small; perfect for a Yordle, but not for anyone else. It’s a conscious choice on Heimerdinger’s part - there aren’t many Yordles in Piltover, if any (aside from him). But he still made sure that his office was designed in a way that prioritised their comfort.

Viktor understood the need to keep his space in a way that pandered to his needs; it still was a pain in the ass during his time as his assistant.

At the very least there could’ve been compromises, like a chair that didn’t make his knee hurt as if it was getting dislocated from how painfully wrong his sitting position was.

“I must say, I was quite surprised to read your papers. You have no records of schooling.”

“I had a private teacher,” Reveck would’ve found it funny, or at the very least slightly amusing, if he knew that he was referred to as some role-model kind of figure.

“I see. My dear boy, you’ve caught my attention,” promising, is the word that crosses Viktor’s mind. “On the entrance exam, there is a trick question; one that no student has ever answered, because of how complicated and advanced the math is. Not many graduates of the Academy are capable of answering it either, and yet you made it look as if it was nothing more but a child’s play.”

“Am I being punished for my skills?”

“No, no, of course not-“ Heimerdinger gives him a pen and a paper. There’s another exam question on it.

Viktor frowns.

“What is it?”

“You see, with many bright minds entering the Academy’s grounds, we must ensure that they got in fairly.”

“You’re accusing me of cheating.”

“No, but there are suspicions on how you were capable of answering a problem that’s on an advanced level.”

A trick question; a trap supposed to weed out anyone who cheated, one that he fell right into.

“So, I have to take this to prove that I wrote my test fairly?”

Heimerdinger nods, clasps his hands.

“I’m glad you understand,” he says.

Viktor could use it as his excuse. He could leave and stop this nonsense, not waste any time attending the Academy to learn about things he already knows.

But he also is a prideful man, and it’s a flaw that he never truly got rid off.

So he starts writing. Solving the problem takes him less than five minutes, and most of it is because he has to write down his calculations instead of just the answer.

He hands the test back, watching with content as professor’s eyes widen as he assess the math he just did.

“That is impressive,” he finally says, an apologetic look on his face. “I’m sorry, Mr Giopara, it seems that the board was wrong to be suspicious of your talents. I’m sincerely glad to have a mind as bright as yours attend my school.”

“Pleasure is all mine,” Viktor says, his voice betraying that it really isn’t.

“Are we there yet?” Orianna almost hangs on his arm, tugging it. Viktor sends her a pointed stare - one she returns with one of her own, and he’s reminded of the fact that her parent is no one else but doctor Reveck, and she spends too much time with Sky, granting her the power to withstand his glares.

“We are,” he says, resting his hands on her shoulders and slowly turning her to face their destination.

The shore is impressive; there are waves crashing into the sand, washing away any signs of previous human activity. Drawings and footsteps all disappear under the uncaring force of the water.

Orianna looks in wonder at the endless sea; the horizon line is clear. The sky isn’t yet setting, but it is low enough to emit a soft, cozy glow that colours the sky pink.

“You spend so much time in Zaun; I figured that it would be, eh, cool to see something else.”

She’s silent, for the longest moment; Viktor holds her when she turns and embraces him.

Her eyes are shining.

“Is it a bad thing, that I cannot be grateful?” She asks, softly and embarrassed. Viktor makes a vague questioning noise; she turns her face towards him, glancing up. “I appreciate the Undercity, I really do. But I missed this. I never thought that I should be allowed, with how much you all do to help me, but-“

He never thought about it - how she must’ve been aware of her situation all this time. A sick, dying child, who saw her father lose himself almost completely, searching for a cure that wouldn’t be possible to achieve - at least not until Viktor.

Perhaps he is the only person who would understand, in Orianna’s eyes - the sacrifices made in the name of keeping him going.

She looks at him as if she knows that he won’t be judgemental.

She’s right.

“It’s normal, to miss what once was,” he adapted quickly, because that was the prize for living when you’re a disabled Zaunite thrown into the Academic life in the pursuit of something greater. 

She lets go of him and crouches; her legs are porcelain white, enforced with metal bended to assist her muscles with the help of the runes.

Her fingers comb through sand; Viktor joins her, sitting slowly, the mud clinging to his trousers.

She holds a lime-green stone, one that catches the light of the sun.

“Pirate glass!” She explains, a fond look on her face. “When I was really small, my dad used to take me on walks. He said that sometimes pirates from Bilgewater lose their bottles in the sea, and that the waves shape their shards into little stones. I think it’s neat.”

Viktor sees one with a blue tint, half buried under pebbles and seashells. He washes it in the incoming wave and positions it in a way that allows the light to shine through it.

“It is,” he agrees. Orianna nods.

“I’m glad you’re here. And even if I miss Piltover, I’m thankful that you saved me.”

Hoskel is easily the most infuriating person Viktor has ever met. He sends a death glare in Mel’s direction, hoping that she can sense it under his mask.

She winks at him the moment no eyes are on her, a smug smile gracing her face - she absolutely is aware of how insufferable this whole thing is.

Viktor is at fault too - honestly, he has no one to blame but himself. He, under immense pressure from Sky, agreed to take part in the meeting, as Zaun’s pride.

Silco just shrugged when Viktor asked him for a reason to include him - and then, with utter horror, he was faced with the worst kind of fate: the fact that he became Zaun’s mascot, apparently.

Professor Heimerdinger hasn’t looked at anyone else since he entered the lab.

Silco is leaning on his forearms, elbows deep in documents prepared for the session - Viktor was, fortunately, not included in the political part of it, but Mel did bring him in as soon as it was over.

“I hear you are the one responsible for the air filtration system? Very impressive,” Shoola says, eyeing him up and down. Viktor remains still, but he does answer her:

“It is only thanks to the ventilation system founded by the House Kiramman that I could provide Zaun with fresh air.”

“Why are we even entertaining this? That man clearly is some crazed lunatic,” Salo’s bored tone cuts through; it’s a rare moment that makes Viktor wonder if he truly did a bad thing by removing the ability to process negative emotions from his followers, or if, rather, he did everyone a favor. The audacity-

“Councillor Salo, please-“ Heimerdinger lifts his hand up, sending the younger man an unimpressed stare: “He’s our guest, and, as the brightest of minds in Piltover, surely we can admire one that shines just as such.”

Mel coughs in her hand and stands up.

“The Machine Herald has been improving the lives of people in the Undercity for years now. Not only are the levels of air pollution lower than ever, but he recalculated his inventions for them to be used in waters too; he was also capable of creating sources of energy from the toxic waste left in the filters. He repurposes everything for goodness,” she takes a deep breath, “and I believe that he is aware of the workings and needs of Zaun more than any of us are. We abandoned our twin city, and are no longer capable of meeting its needs.”

“Scandalous!” Salo stands up, frowning. Bolbok lifts his hand up.

“Is that true?”

Viktor gathers his confidence. When he speaks, he tries to do so in a way his old self would, one influenced by the Hexcore. The one who first saw the patterns.

“Yes. I am aware of your intelligence, and trust your judgement, but Zaun has strode away from Piltover. The rift is too great for any to cross, and too deep to be mended. If Zaun was treated as an equal nation, the Council would’ve become an institution that benefits from those relations; currently, the only ones benefiting from the arrangement are those who are rich and gain more wealth by exploiting Zaunites. The chaos we face is one that weighs heavy on all of us. Zaun no longer belongs to you. It’s been long since it did, and you never met its needs. With all due respect, but independence doesn’t need a total cut-off.”

There’s a crashing noise - the councillors raise to argue; Silco rolls his eyes, but gives Viktor a subtle nod of approval. Mel looks content as well.

Professor Heimerdinger raises his voice.

“Everyone, please-“ out of respect, they all quiet down. Heimerdinger always did have the respect needed to be the sole force behind most important decisions - it wasn’t until Jayce gained influence thanks to Hextech that his voice lost its value, no longer needed in the era of magic. “It is true that your inventions have greatly improved the Undercity. But is it enough to stop the infighting?”

“If you allow me,” Viktor uses the Hexclaw to pick up some papers and hand them to the Yordle. “People unite most under a common enemy.”

There’s silence.

“You are risking riots and then, when people are fed up enough, civil war. How many have to die to settle an issue where the solution is obvious? Not in a violent uprising- do you know how many die because of the violence caused by the enforcers? Diseases that would take fifteen minutes and a couple of pills to be fixed, and yet they are a leading cause of death? Zaunites have to rely on my help, because the Council has abandoned them.”

“I offer a deal,” Mel speaks up; she looks at Viktor, calm, collected. “You all were introduced by ambassador Silco to works of the Machine Herald. You are aware of his inventions and how much they improve lives in Zaun; how they could be used to improve Piltover as well.”

“You’re offering an exchange?” Cassandra asks, frowning. “Councillor Medarda, that’s-“

“An independence and an union,” Mel says. “Zaun will operate as its own nation, equal to Piltover. An union would ensure cooperation between our nations. We would aid one another, if it’s needed, we would share a tax that would go for things beneficial to both Piltover and Zaun, such as trade. In return, the Machine Herald will share his inventions with Piltover.” She sends a pointed stare to Salo, “Your Houses should know by now that how he handled the pollution benefited us greatly. The explosions in our factories aren’t common anymore, the sea is clear and the water isn’t laced with toxins that cause outbreaks every few years.”

Viktor stares at Professor Heimerdinger, who contemplates for a while.

“I assume, perhaps, that Councillor Medarda might be right. There are many benefits that would come from this collaboration. But we will need to work the kinks of it out before any important decision happens, first. Rushing things can only bring failure.”

Maybe not so strangely, Viktor finds himself agreeing.

Viktor is working in his lab, the third arm tinkering with the wires attached to his wrist; in his organic hand is a pair of tweezers.

He frowns under his mask, the mechanical hum of it conveying his frustration.

He’s wearing an armor, one that covers most of his body - a rule enforced by Sky, Mel and, surprisingly, Silco - all agreeing that, with Viktor’s “lab safety is just a suggestion” tendencies, it’s better for him to wear protection gear that minimises the chances of him losing another limb in a kettle-induced explosion.

The structure of the reinforced man-made spine is still not good enough.

His back pain has been getting more and more frequent - he is aware just how much his body deteriorated because of his work on Hextech the first time around. He probably should’ve expected that living in Zaun and spending all his time on surgeries and inventions would’ve had a toll on him as well.

The trick is to create a metal reinforcement for his spine, a sort of alloy that, with the help of his - fine, - magic, would absorb into his bones, altering them but doing so without having to manually - and very, very risky - undergo a procedure of having each part of them slowly replaced.

During his stay at the Academy, he had a metal rod inserted into his spine, and then had it reinforced with metal screws bolted into his back.

If he could just switch it with magic for something stronger, he would never have to worry about it again.

He throws a loose screw at the jukebox - a present from Vander, that he unfortunately had to accept under his insistence that “he healed his and Silco’s relationship” (and, really, if that kidnapping extravaganza was all it took, then it’s no wonder his previous timeline got doomed so quickly).

The music starts playing, and he sighs, fixing the bolt on one of his fingers; he isn’t going to admit it, but he misses his puppets, sometimes.

Their limbs were elegant, swift; unlike the clunkiness of his hand prototype.

He will switch it for something more advanced when he gets funds for it. Mel was practically vibrating when he showed her his designs - all purple with golden accents, because if there isn’t anyone he can make an inside joke with, he will enjoy it by himself.

All that matters is that the range of movements and nerve-based control that imitates the nervous system of an organic hand, are enough for him to get the job done.

It still happens that the parts of his design get rusty, because the metal he used isn't of the highest quality.

Our love is a bubbling fountain-

He still hates this song.

Mel found it nice, unfortunately, and made it loop in the jukebox, to his utter disgust.

At the very least Sky found it amusing.

The sound of footsteps shakes him out of his focus. They are approaching in a rapid speed, one that he deems concerning.

There’s a slight stutter to them; the sound is light and clumsy, indicating that they belong to a child raised on running across the rooftops.

He opens the doors to his lab just in time to catch Powder in his arms; his brace creaks in protest under the sudden collision.

He peers at her, the eyes on his mask glowing a warm orange light; the whole lab is dim, the shadows looming over the experiments making it look uncanny.

Rio blinks slowly at them from her container - it’s been a side project of his, go either help her and ease her pain, or to force doctor Reveck to let her die.

Powder takes breaths concerningly quickly, her brow is covered in sweat, her cheeks are red and she looks agitated.

She grabs her hair and tugs at it, her other hand clutching at her throat and squeezing, as if air is stuck there and she wants to claw it out.

Viktor slowly takes her hair and untangles it from the blue strands; she looks up at him, wincing - Viktor wonders if she’s seeing something else, or if there is something behind him, in her eyes.

Nonetheless, he takes her other hand too; fretting over Vander’s kids came easily to him. He saw how gentle Jinx was with Isha. He saw her potential for kindness, if she was ever taught patience and impulse control - if she was ever taught that love could be unconditional and stern at the same time - Silco allowed her to do as she pleased, only worsening her impulses. Vi and Vander - and even Mylo, as an authority figure of sorts - were all capable of showing her that she can be loved even if they don’t approve of things she does. That love doesn’t disappear the moment they say no.

He hopes, and perhaps a part of him knows this by now, that Powder will grow up to be more than a grieving teenager filled with anger and hatred.

She flings herself at him and clings to his body, hiding her face in the plates of his armor.

She shifts on her feet, her whole body shaking. After there’s a sound of two other sets of footsteps approaching, she clings to him even harder, but moves to hide behind his back.

Viktor points the Hexclaw at the entrance, the core of it heating up with a ray of light that’s ready to be let out at his opponents.

He steadies himself, grabbing anything that might be used as a weapon - his crutch, alongside the dagger in the secret compartment, is set aside, leaning on his desk; he grabs a metal pipe, only for it to turn out to be one of his prototypes for street lights for Zaun.

He lets the rune carved into it spark to life, an ominous glow appearing from the centre of it.

Now, basked in not-so-good weaponry, he straightens his back and makes sure to keep Powder as hidden behind him as they both can manage.

Two people appear in the entrance of his lab soon after;

“GIVE THAT BA-“ a man’s voice booms, stuttering to a halt; “-ack?”

He outstretches his arm, causing a girl following him to bumb into it, giving a stop for her impromptu run.

Caitlyn Kiramman stares at Viktor with her eyes wide, clutching at her sides, visibly searching for a weapon - to his relief, she doesn’t have one.

The man’s eyes are wide, a look caught between anguish and horror painting his face. He has a beard, neatly trimmed, and hair that is wild and, in Piltover’s standards, would be seen as unkept.

There’s a brace on his leg, mirror to Viktor’s.

He takes a step back, stumbling. His eyes flicker to Powder, something complicated shining in them; anger, grief and absolute disdain. Hatred, almost.

Viktor glances at her too; she stares at him with her big, blue eyes, welled up with tears.

Do something, she mouths, shaking.

And Viktor almost breaks in half, because Jayce Talis is standing four feet away and yet he couldn’t ever be further.

He takes a deep breath and manoeuvres his body into a position he hopes is intimidating. He lifts his robotic hand, clutching his improvised staff with the other one; the Hexclaw is still glowing, pointed at the pair.

“I will pave the way, as I am the first of many! Embrace progress, metal is perfection!” He laughs maniacally, mostly because if he doesn’t let it out, he’s risking falling into hysterics. Jayce takes another step back, forced by Caitlyn who attempts to drag him towards their escape route. She keeps her face even, but she’s pale and her eyes are tearing up in fear. “You both will soon be upgraded!” He points at them.

“Yes- Herald, I brought them to you, so you can improve them!” Powder chimes in, stuttering. She’s still clinging to him. “Replace their fears with the dreams of emotionless unity-“ she tries, her voice creaking like a rotted floor panel.

Caitlyn manages to pull Jayce away as Viktor lets the Hexclaw shift in place and reach towards them in an attempt to scare them off.

“Beware, the true power of the Hexcore!” He yells, and that seems to be enough to motivate Caitlyn to force Jayce to escape with her.

Viktor stares as they run, Jayce stumbling and looking back, that absolutely terrified look still present on his face.

It’s only after they’re gone that he allows himself to untense, a hollow feeling filling up his chest.

He pushes his mask aside and grabs the bridge of his nose with two fingers, pushing on it. His eyes feel wet and his lungs feel heavy, and can moon ever shine if the sun doesn’t love it anymore-

Powder tugs his hand, round eyes staring into his.

“I’m sorry! I just wanted to help, I just wanted to help and I led them here and now I ruined everything, and it’s all my fault-“ she’s crying, sobbing, clutching at her hair and at her shirt, curling into herself, moving quickly on her feet. “I jinxed it, I swear I didn’t want to- I just wanted to help-“

Viktor rests his hands on her shoulders, swallowing the bitter feeling building up in his throat.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Powder, look at me,” he pushes her chin up, the look in his eyes soft and fond, “I am glad that you came to me, instead of facing trouble on your own. But you need to be careful.”

“I’m sorry, Viktor-“

“Don’t apologise.”

“Okay- Thank you.” She looks down, sniffling. She wipes her nose with her sleeve, doing so looking pitifully.

“Why did they chase you anyway?” He asks, stumbling towards his desk. With the comfort of his crutch back in his hand, he relaxes, ever so slightly.

Powder looks shy, all of the sudden. She averts her eyes and fidgets in place.

Then, she pulls something out of her pocket.

“I saw this on his wrist, and you said that you need runestones, but they are hard to find, so I wanted to help you-“ she gives him the bracelet.

Viktor holds it gently, the greatest treasure in his life. It’s worn down, and it has the smell of Jayce’s perfume, the ones his mother makes him use after a long day in the forge, clinging to it.

The weight of it is familiar in Viktor’s palm - it always belonged there, after all.

The rune is familiar - the acceleration one, the same the arcane has branded him with, carving it into his skin as his molecules collapsed in on themselves and as time ripped him apart.

“You stole it?”

Powder nods.

“It’s a runestone. You said-“

“I know, just-“ he caresses it, slow and careful. “Not this one.”

Chapter Text

No matter how many times he blinks, the wall in front of him doesn’t disappear. Neither does the ache in his hand, knuckles red and swollen. He lifts his other hand up in front of his face, examining it once again.

The rune carved into it looks more like a scar than a brand, and it stopped glowing an hour or so ago, but it didn’t disappear, taunting him with its presence. He brushes it with his fingers, an echo of the touch of someone else. Two souls split apart, forever bound to seek each other, across every timeline, every reality.

There’s a butterfly on the windowsill - a quite normal sight for Piltover, but, still, a pleasant one. Its wings flutter before it flies away, purple, white and blue, the pattern reminiscent of the touch of the arcane.

The voices behind the wall raise once again - they do that every few seconds, in a frequency that is surprisingly falling into a pattern he can follow.

He clutches the material of his tunic, attempting to glare at it hard enough to burn it with just his eyesight. The indigo fabric mocks him, the gold stars embroidered on it laugh at his face.

It’s still not as bad as the pointy hat that’s left under the chair, trampled and broken.

His mother leaves the principal’s office with a worried look on her face; she still looks stern, and Jayce, age eleven and thirty two, wonders if she could ever be truly proud of him.

Granted, this situation might not call for it, but two hours ago he was saving the world, and, honestly, he deserves some points for that.

“My dear boy,” she crouches to be on his level - he hates how small he is now. “Why did you do that?”

Now, the answer isn’t that complicated, but he attempts to make it look like it.

One moment, he’s everything. His mind fuses with Viktor’s and then, with the whole of the arcane. His soul is ripped apart by time itself, and he sees reality after reality, existing at every fixed point in time and those that are uncertain in the same, single moment.

The next thing he knows, he’s sitting in a playground, his notebook on his legs, pen snapped in half and sentence stopped in the middle, with a splatter of ink indicating a change in his way of thinking.

“Magic Boy Talis,” he hears the mocking tone of a kid twice his current size; he has a snobbish look on his face, and his uniform is neat and pristine clear.

His mind is overwhelmed - he sees multiple timelines merging into one, he sees the arcane rot, spreading and consuming.

The boy kicks his leg and laughs, something about calling him weird, and telling him that those like him belong in the Undercity, with other idiots who won’t achieve anything.

And the phantom pain flares up, because even if his leg is healthy, he spent a year with it being nothing but a burden, the bone healing wrongly. The pain is there, carved into his muscles. A memory of another life.

He thinks of Viktor, who had to crawl from the fissures - metaphorically, and also not entirely, because his way to the Academy, before he got an apartment in Piltover, surely was hell - and a part of him knows it’s irrational, that he shouldn’t step down to this level, but he just saw someone doubt himself, saw his insecurities, and his fist collides with the boy’s face before he can think about it.

“Jayce, I know it’s hard, but you have to try,” Ximena pleads, holding his tiny hands in hers. She has that sad, melancholic look on her face; the one he remembers from his childhood, the one who pierced his heart like an arrow after the insinuated that he was crazy at his trial.

“He said that Zaunites are stupid,” he explains, hating how small and childish it sounds.

“Zaunites?”

“People from the Undercity.”

She’s quiet, then stands up and holds his hand. Jayce grabs the hat, something shameful building up in his chest. Strange, he never saw his obsession with magic as a child as embarrassing - even more, Viktor called his dedication admirable at one point. Perhaps, with Hextech, he never had a true reason to find his passion weird.

Now, dressed in a poorly made costume that’s supposed to imitate mage’s robes, he feels silly.

“We can get it fixed, how about that?” Ximena asks, looking at the hat. The offer is kind; she must’ve noticed the grim look on his face.

“I think I would rather stick to normal clothes for now,” he says; his mum has a strangely sad look in her eyes, but doesn’t say anything.

A do-over, that’s what this is, but Jayce’s chest feels numb and his lungs feel heavy. The rune is still there, on the palm of his hand, a testimony of something so intimate, the only thing that makes sense; the perfect clarity that Viktor and he are to each other.

It would be easier to handle, if not for the arcane seeping through the cracks his travel must’ve left. His head is pounding and he hallucinates those husks left by the Glorious Evolution with a frequency that is worrying.

“I just need to find Viktor,” he says, stubborn. The doctor examining him raises her eyebrows, glancing at Ximena, who shrugs helplessly.

“My son is not well,” she pleads; Jayce tries not to consider just how much grief he’s giving her.

The fistfight on the playground was the first of concerns, but one she was willing to sweep away and pretend never happened. But when he keeps stumbling as he walks, covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut, yelling at empty rooms, sobbing without any reason to, and cannot stomach a meal, it’s only fair that she comes to the conclusion that he needs a doctor.

“Who’s Viktor?” The doctor asks, patient and kind. She reminds Jayce of how Mel would act with the Councillors. There’s a condescending note in her voice, one she tries to conceal with a pleasant smile.

“My partner,” he tells her, because that’s who he is - and the sooner Jayce finds him, the sooner it will all make sense.

Ximena makes a choked noise.

“How do you know this Viktor?”

“We worked on magic together. He saved me,” Jayce still sometimes halters when someone asks him to talk on a balcony. Heights are an awful thing; the call is always ever-so present, and when it’s not, he imagines Viktor standing on the edge, tethering closer to it, unsure and hesitant and yet determined enough to consider it in a serious manner. Other times, he sees that kid, falling down, down and down, building momentum until he lands with a sickening crack.

“Can you wait in the waiting room, Jayce?” The doctor asks, offering him a cookie. Jayce glares at her, distrustful.

“I don’t like sweets, thank you.”

He leaves the room, knowing that his limp must concern his mum even worse. There’s a chair, painted red, and colouring books spread across a small table.

He sketches the anomaly, then, almost absent-mindedly, an outline of Viktor’s silhouette.

“Sometimes, when children face a traumatising event, they create their own coping mechanisms,” the doctor explains; the words are too quiet for Jayce to hear, but they are clear to Ximena’s ears. “Your son doesn’t have many friends with his peers, correct?”

“He’s a strong individual,” Ximena defends, but sighs. “His interests cause him to be isolated. Children don’t understand this passion.”

“It’s not a bad thing, but he will need to learn to differentiate between fiction and reality.”

“He was alright just two days ago. He is really passionate about magic, but it was never a problem. He’s a good kid-“

“Mrs Talis, I don’t doubt that. This Viktor might be an imaginary friend. Perhaps Jayce feels the need to be protected, and he created someone who understands him and doesn’t push him away. It’s not uncommon in children who face trauma.”

The doors open a while after that; Jayce looks up. This spacial awareness isn’t something that came to him easily, before.

Viktor and he worked so well because they understood each other - in ways most people never could. They both would lose themselves in their work, uncaring to the world around them.

Once, when Caitlyn decided to visit, it took them two hours and sixteen minutes to finally notice her - she timed them, finding it absolutely amusing.

After his journey to the ruined timeline the paranoia lingers, and he strains his hearing to notice the lightest creak of the wood panels.

Ximena pauses, looking at the pages of calculations and scribbles scattered around. Jayce collects them all, sending her a pleading glance. She sighs, forces a smile on her lips:

“Let’s go home, alright?”

He nods, holding her hand - he wonders, briefly, when they stopped fitting together.

School is a special kind of torture invented to stifle out bright minds. Jayce is leaning on his desk, brows furrowed. He finished assignments for the next two years in the span of three days, and yet he still needs to sit in class as if he’s a normal child.

“I’ve heard you can bite now,” a girl walks up to him, huffing. Jayce doesn’t pay her much mind - he needs to find Viktor, but his mum is set on monitoring him like a guard dog; maybe he should feel bad for comparing her to one, but the situation calls for it. “What, magic took your tongue away now?”

“Go away,” he mumbles.

She laughs.

“Hey, at the very least you’re not embarrassing your House with those stupid robes now. I can only assume how sad your mother was to know that her only son is some crazed lunatic-“

“Sit down,” the teacher appears next to them. The girl huffs but compiles, apologising for the intrusion.

Jayce doesn’t pay much attention to the lesson. It’s all basic knowledge, one Viktor would’ve probably laughed at for being taught at age eleven.

Then again, Viktor was a genius who desperately avoided the subject of who taught him advanced math and biochemistry at the ripe age of ten - his young age when he started learning subjects on an academic level was the only thing that he slipped about during their conversations about their past.

(“You were taught basic calculus that late?” He laughs, and it’s something that happens so rarely that Jayce pauses to savor the moment.

“It’s a normal age- what, you’re an expert on the schooling system now?”

“You’re so easy to rile up, Jayce. I’m not doubting your intelligence, I wouldn’t be here if I did.” Viktor muses, his fingers brushing Jayce’s as he grabs his notebook. The calculations are all filled with scribbles left by Viktor’s favourite pen, corrections to his theories. “I am surprised, is all. I expected children in Piltover to be more, eh, advanced by that age.”

“Because you were taught calculus at age six,” Jayce teases. Viktor smirks.

“I was taught bioengineering at age ten. As a matter of fact, I did learn calculus at age six. And I was self-taught. No schools in Zaun yet.”

The yet is sharp, haunting. A promise of a change.

Jayce’s pacing comes to a halt. He turns to look at him, the piece of chalk that he’s holding hovering just above the surface of the blackboard.

“You were taught bioengineering when?”

Viktor just smirks and teases how Pilties aren’t as advanced as they think. Jayce doesn’t sleep that night, wondering about a tiny Viktor who is noticed by some great scientist, one that teaches him the ethos of science and how to follow it. How to make the world a better place.

Maybe they could’ve been friends; maybe he would’ve found his obsession with magic amusing, but not laughable.

Maybe tiny Jayce would’ve impressed tiny Viktor with his magic tricks and his ability to play the lute.)

Jayce feels an idea spark up; he looks at his hand, the rune looking like a plain old scar. Without the light, it’s just an ordinary mark on his skin.

Viktor has to be somewhere. If Jayce knew where his childhood home was - the only information he holds about it is that it was in the fissures.

Viktor never even told him if he had parents.

It might be troubling, to find it, but Jayce is a dedicated man. And if his partner is now stuck in the Undercity, alone and confused, perhaps suffering from what had happened to both of them, he can only imagine that he will need Jayce to be there for him.

All the hardships he faced before, to finally reach Piltover, could be avoided. Jayce would give him his House’s name, if Viktor only accepted. Granted, House Talis no longer means much - far from the prestige Hextech brought it - but it’s still a name, and one that’s attached to Jayce at that.

They could find a new, better way to help people. Maybe open their own lab, connected to the forge.

It’s almost there, he can feel it.

Jayce absolutely hates how his body refuses to cooperate with him now.

The vomit on the carpet makes another wave of it rise in his throat; he swallows the bile, dry-heaving, saliva hanging from his open mouth.

Ximena holds him, whispering words of comfort into his ears, her hands against his back - it’s overwhelming, but her love has always been big, even when he felt that she didn’t believe in him. And his heart grew in size to fit all of it; her constant presence is a routine he falls easily into. He never forgot how to be her son, even if he was once very close to.

“I’m sorry, mum,” he croaks, choking on his nausea. The meat on his plate remains untouched. He tastes the raw flesh of the lizards, the stench of rot. His hands are covered in bone marrow, as he desperately tries to create a fire.

It’s so cold, and he’s so hungry, and the meat is awful but he eats it like a starving man would. He chokes and sobs and tears the animals apart, the bitter taste bringing him back to sobbing even more.

The meat on the dinner table is good, he knows it. It’s his favourite, one that Ximena always makes for his birthdays or to celebrytę his accomplishments in school. She uses expensive spices and makes a special sauce that goes well with it - one that always left Viktor red-faced, choking and swearing that, “it is good, there’s just not many spicy foods in the Undercity”.

It’s his favourite and he can’t stomach it, or even look at it, without feeling the taste of half-rotten flesh and the stench of rot.

„It’s alright. We will figure it out,” she promises, still holding him in her arms, even though his clothes are stained with vomit.

Jayce closes his eyes; maybe he should wait with finding Viktor, until he doesn’t feel so broken. His partner is already facing a lot of guilt, Jayce doesn’t want to be a part of that chorus of self-hatred for him.

Maybe once he’s mended, just a little, he could face him and show him the wonders of their situation - of the second chance.

Its hard to imagine a singular him now, all those versions twisting and turning, changing - Jayce would love and admire every single one, but he still feels the fingers of the puppet, or the Herald, tightening around his throat.

He sees Viktor’s eyes, colourful, wide with fear as a blast from Mercury Hammer tears through his body. He sees his shaking form, surrounded by light. He sees his cynical partner, one who never was afraid to speak his mind and tell him off for being stupid.

Viktor adapts easily, Jayce shouldn’t be worried.

It’s selfish, but he doesn’t want to see him like this. It’s not about perfection; it’s about holding onto the person who wouldn’t judge him, and Jayce knows that it would break him far worse than any ravine and isolation could right now.

What a great horror it is, to be known.

The forge is calming, as always. His peaceful solitude, one filled with fire, smoke and sweat.

His body isn’t strong enough to endure working there yet, but Ximena allows him to poke around, collect scraps of metal she won’t be turning into anything worth selling.

“What are you working on?” She asks, leaning over his shoulders. There’s a bunch of blueprints and calculations on the table, alongside the sandwiches she made him - ones without meat, because, as he found out, any kind of it was out of the question. 

Jayce tries to fix the screw, gritting his teeth; Ximena takes the tools out of his hands and helps him, the two prosthetic fingers glistering in the light from the fire.

It’s always easier for both of them to be in spaces that could cause a heatwave.

There was only one time when Jayce enjoyed a winter - there was some gala, or maybe an investors’ meeting. One of the rare occasions where Viktor agreed to join him and keep him company; only to disappear a few hours into the event. Last time Jayce saw him, he was with Caitlyn, and it made him feel at ease to see two most important people in his life (besides his mother) bonding.

Jayce finally cracked, suddenly stuck in the middle of a snowstorm, his mother unconscious at his feet, her fingers stiff and black. He curled up in the corner of the balcony, because ironically, outside was far better than the crowd inside.

And then he was greeted by his partner’s face, appearing right above him.

Viktor teased him about how bad he was at climbing up on the roof. Jayce wasn’t sure if his partner ever realised just how much his gesture meant. To hate winter together, just for a while.

He frowns, but thanks his mum for fixing his issue. She nudges him gently.

“It’s for Viktor,” he explains, then turns to her. “He will need one.”

(He asked about it, once - he was pretty drunk, and the etiquette he was taught his entire life apparently decided to vaporise.

“I shouldn’t have asked-“

“People from the Undercity can’t afford surgeries or aid that might help them. Ideally, I would be wearing a leg brace. I have needed one since I was young. If I had it, my condition wouldn’t have gotten worse over the years. It would be, eh, manageable.”

“But it’s not now?”

“Jayce, I can’t keep my balance without my cane,” Viktor raises his eyebrow and hands him a bucket. Jayce looks at him.

“Why?”

“You had too much to drink, and I won’t allow you to throw up on our research.”

“No, why won’t you get one now? Even if it won’t change much, surely it would improve your life, a bit?”

“I haven’t met anyone capable of meeting my standards,” Viktor admits. It’s true - even his cane, the one he had before, one that was broken on the night they figured out Hextech, was made by Viktor himself, or at the very least under his supervision. He is a picky person, understandably so.

But he still holds to the one that Jayce gave him as an apology for sacrificing his old one for their cause.

“Let me, then,” he says, then the world spins. Viktor helps him sit down and puts a mug in front of him. Jayce takes it, thankful. “I’ll learn.”

“Are you ready for my constructive criticism?”

“It’s a destructive criticism. You made our investors cry, the other day.”

Viktor smirks.

“Alright, then. Surprise me.”)

Something shifts in his mum’s expression.

“I’m sure he will appreciate it,” she says in a calm, even tone. Jayce smiles softly.

“He probably won’t, he hates gifts.”

Chapter Text

The early summer, and with it, Jayce’s graduation and summer break, comes far earlier than he expected. Time has always been running fast for him - perhaps because of his busy schedule, as Hextech inventor and the head of the Council.

The days seemed to pass even quicker after Viktor’s diagnosis. The terrifying reality of their time running out, of how all the progress they did with Hextech, although monumental and impressive, was simply not enough.

He is used to having his days be a blur, but it still leaves him with a bitter feeling in his chest and a dire need for something more; it’s a second chance, and he is wasting it, reliving his childhood and pretending that he is yet another Piltovian child, one with wild imagination.

A boy leans over his sketchbook - Jayce tries to shield it, to no avail.

He wasn’t good at drawing, before. His whole thing were schematics, useful for inventions and for his work in the forge; he loved doodling on the pages of his notebook, especially during boring lectures or sessions with the Council that otherwise would’ve left him exhausted and annoyed

Now, he has picked up some books on the subjects of sketching, shading, even an anatomy textbook that doctors of Piltover used, just to get a grip at proper proportions and bring his visions to life.

His mum, thankfully, doesn’t say a word when he proclaims that his new passion will be art; she does have a sad, contemplative look on her face when he tears down his posters about wandering magicians; she looks concerned when he puts all his magic-related stuff, clothes, toys and books, in the depths of his closet, never to be seen again.

She simply gets him art supplies; Jayce is a perfectionist, in the way that he must always excel at things he does. From making weapons, to being the first in his class, to making sure he’s likeable by the public.

“I wonder how would those stupid idiots feel if they knew what I would accomplish,” he mutters to himself when his classmates refuse to talk to him, or warn other kids that he isn’t worthy of their time, too weird to be liked.

His sketchbook - this one is his fifth - is filled with random sketches, from simple designs, to the horrors from the doomed timeline; those mechanical improved puppets, their stretched limbs.

He sketched Mel, once, then scribbled over it angrily, because he managed to make her eyes look too soft, too loving; a dear memory he once held onto. 

And then there’s pages upon pages dedicated to Viktor; his coy smile, the mask of the herald - that Jayce spends too much time staring at, trying to prepare himself mentally in case if that’s the version of Viktor he will get - and the soft, pained look he shared with him in the astral plane.

They all look slightly wrong, and Jayce cannot even correct his mistakes, because he doesn’t know where exactly they lay. His partner isn’t there to model for him, and the sketches are a testament to exactly that; his desperate attempts not to forget him.

He sketches him so when they meet, Jayce will know it instantly. The hunched back, the crutch by his side. The gold eyes, shining with determination and such cleverness: the only person to ever match him.

The boy is still staring over his shoulder.

“Do you mind?” Jayce snaps, frowning.

He grins, blond hair falling around his face, electric blue eyes staring right into the sketchbook.

“I don’t, actually. But you sound like you might,” he jokes, leaning to get a better view; Jayce snaps the sketchbook shut, glaring at the boy in what he hopes comes off as intimidation.

“So, you’re the weird magic kid, right?” The boy asks, nonchalant. Jayce frowns; he’s younger than him, and something about him seems strangely familiar.

“I’m not interested in your companionship,” he says dryly; if he was any older than twelve, then, who knows, maybe it would’ve sounded more serious. He fidgets in place, the environment around him slowly smudging into something unrecognizable, twisted and lonely-

“Ezreal,” the boy sticks his hand out. “You know, the custom is to shake it.”

Ezreal, from a family of well-respected archaeologists; a known adventurer and, to some circles, a handy thief.

When Jayce was nineteen, he went off into the deserts of Shurima, chasing after anything left by the Old Civilisation.

“He is the best you can find, and one of the few that are not scared of those lands. That boy does not know fear, only trouble; but it’s good, for those like you, who actively seek it,” a vendor had told him, after Jayce tossed him a few coins for helping with the directions.

He was stuck, his measuring equipment and most science-related items left forgotten in his apartment back in Piltover; the seventeen notes filled with reminders that he put around the place were no match for his environmental blindness. 

The vendor had left it unsaid how talkative and troublemaker his new guide, Ezreal, was.

During the three months it took for Jayce to locate something extraordinary - what later became known as Hexcrystals - he learnt that Ezreal originated from Piltover, his parents were the same archaeologists whose books Jayce read with a devotion that only his obsession with magic could complete with and explain, and that he definitely was a temple and grave robber.

For someone who didn’t know them, they might’ve seemed like a good team - in reality it was a constant effort from Jayce to stay calm in his company. He never thought he would find a partner who would keep up with him, or not judge him for his strange habits, and he kept thinking that until he met Viktor, because those months with only Ezreal as company had led him to a conclusion that he was right.

“I’m not interested,” Jayce repeats, eyeing the hand that’s being waved in front of his face. Ezreal’s smile becomes strained.

“And here I thought you were interesting,” he ponders; Jayce doesn’t take the bait, turning away and continuing his work.

There must be a reason for the second chance, just like there was a reason for mage-Viktor to abandon him in that gods-forsaken ravine.

If it’s not a lesson, then, perhaps, his presence is needed; or maybe he needs to save Viktor again, before it’s too late; stir their paths away from Hextech, find something new to do.

Ezreal leaves, eventually; Jayce doesn’t seek any company, as he knows that there isn’t anyone who would be quick enough to keep up with the pace of his thoughts.

His sketchbook is filled with Viktor by now; Ximena buys him a new one, not asking questions - she has that pitying look in her eyes every time she catches the sight of his classmates, playing outside or working in groups.

She doesn’t ask nor comment when Jayce - struggling to find his footing, because while he has gotten used to wearing a brace on his adult body, this one is fully abled, and the change is sudden - starts reading textbooks created for medicine-oriented students, written for people twice his age; nor does she speak when he spends much more time in the forge than he previously did, surrounded by the various sketches of his new projects. Most of them are leg braces, their designs perfected to a t. There’s crutches and canes decorated with various designs, and Jayce is not obsessed, but at the same time he is the kind of person who puts his whole soul into what drives him.

He is glaring at his wrist, an elaborate design of a wheelchair waiting on the table in front of him, to be assembled and finished.

His heart is breaking, and something inside him is torn in two; Jayce isn’t really sure who he is, without magic.

It has defined him; it was a part of him, the greatest wonder in life. He was ready to die, if living meant giving up on his dream.

And now he’s here, willingly pushing it all into the shadows of his past.

There’s many things he has done in his life; he isn’t vain, not after what he experienced, but his ego allows him to seek shallow pride in his achievements. Most of them, as great as they were, were, unfortunately, connected to either Hextech or politics - both of which he doesn’t plan on chasing after.

And thus, he is faced with a sour realisation - he dedicated his whole life to magic. Without it, there isn’t much else, now. And so, he clutches to the only thing he knows; the hope to see Viktor again, some day.

And with this, comes his shy attempt at finding new purpose, maybe, if he’s lucky, one that will drive him just like his obsession with magic did; after years of working alongside Viktor, he became similar with the tools that made his life easier.

His partner is a stubborn and demanding person; picky, he would say, but Viktor has beaten him with his cane once for calling him that. But dealing with someone who has high expectations was a challenge Jayce gladly partook in.

All the canes and crutches he has given Viktor over the years - he tended to switch the old for a new one at least once a year, just to make sure his partner had the best version he came up with, and did so avoiding letting Viktor know. If he is lucky, then perhaps his partner never caught onto the fact that his crutch was not the original one; he switched it for a new, improved one when he collapsed onto the desk from exhaustion, after he refused to sleep for sixty three hours - have been perfect.

And with nothing else to guide him, no new obsession, he throws himself into something that he at least knows - it brings him comfort, in a way.

He cannot do magic, he cannot reinvent Hextech. He has to figure out a way to save Viktor, to not let him slowly rot, until he dies way too young. And, most of all, he needs to not mess it up. No Hexcore. No childish dreams that only bring concern to his mother’s eyes.

His fingers linger above the leather strap with the runestone; it’s nostalgia, the worst kind of it, but he can’t find the energy to take it off and toss it aside, despite removing all things magic and magic-related from his life (except for the cruel nickname, this one will perhaps haunt him until he gets popular or dies).

He keeps it, for the sake of something that shouldn’t happen. He sits there, in the middle of his room, contemplating. The wheelchair taunts him, and he sighs loudly when he takes notice that the patterns on the wheels are an exact copy of Salo’s.

Jayce slowly traces the outline of the acceleration rune on the palm of his hand with the fingers of his other one, humming. His head is hurting.

There’s a flash, and he sees the wheelchair with gold and red accents. A Vestaya girl is lingering around the abandoned ability aid.

His screwdriver feels heavier in his hand, it’s pulling him down; the Mercury Hammer, coated in blood. Salo lays at his feet, dead.

Shaking us head, eyes closed, he claws at his wrist; something painful appears in it, an never ending itch crawling under his skin; he glances at it, hesitant.

The arcane rot slowly consumes his skin, leaving discolouration in its wake.

His leg isn’t much better.

Jayce never used to be religious, but he did remember how Viktor sometimes praised Janna, or murmured prayers Zaunites sang to her.

For the first time, he finds himself asking her for mercy.

“It’s an infection. An unusual one, but infection, still,” the doctor who is attending to him says.

Ximena exchanges worried glances with a nurse standing near, one that is definitely too nosy for Jayce’s standards.

He grunts, scratching at the coloured patterns on his skin and asks:

“So is there a treatment?” His mum looks horrified at his lack of manners. It’s a tight situation, he really should be excused from trying to be more pleasant the next time he has to gather critical information on whether or not he’s dying.

The doctor stares at him for a moment, then fishes a piece of paper from his desk.

“It’s a very advanced stage, an unfamiliar sort of decay to the tissue. But it doesn’t seem to be spreading any further. Curious,” he squints, writing something down; “two injections a day, into the wrist. That should keep it at bay, if it proves to be of any danger.”

“You should have monthly check-ups, just in case,” the nurse adds, and the doctor gives them an approving nod.

Jayce glares at the injector they present to him; he knows, from Viktor’s complaints, that Undercity had those too, mostly used as a quicker way to inject Shimmer. The needles are seen as too impractical, and the stigma surrounding them proclaimed that they were not suitable to use when the City of Progress offers alternatives that are less in your face.

He’s pretty sure he saw the young man Ambessa had played with using a normal needle, in the bathroom, not long after their first meeting. He shot Jayce a certain look, his eyes wide, and staggered into an empty stall, shutting the doors close with a thud. It’s not uncommon; injectors are a sign of class, of status. It’s lower class that couldn’t afford them, or had to have them made in the Undercity - but those latter ones were easy to spot, and their quality was lower, as they weren’t used to inject expensive medication.

“And it’s necessary?” He asks again, earning a stern look from his mum; “doctor,” he adds.

“It’s always better to be safe than sorry. Although, young man, do you know what might’ve caused it?”

A cave filled with newts and lizards, faces of his loved ones contorted in the flames of the fire he managed to create, the calculations upon calculations carved into the walls of the ravine-

“Not really,” he manages to come up with the most nonchalant tone he can afford.

“Well then,” the doctor seems a bit lost. He sends Ximena an apologetic look. “Keep an eye on it, young man.”

Jayce nods, then glances down at the injector, again.

Testing the mechanism he briefly wonders on how to improve it.

The ground is cold and unforgiving, and Jayce’s place is five feet under it, pushing daisies. A butterfly lands on his nose; he frowns, huffing at it in an attempt to make it go away.

The insect doesn’t answer his pleas, but it does move its wings, white with a golden pattern.

He sees his mother, exiting the forge; she’s holding a piece of paper in her hand. It’s creased beyond belief. An envelope, he recognises, but it looks as if someone had stuffed it into their pocket for safekeeping.

She has that worried, sad look on her face that he’s become way too used to, for his liking. The same one she had when she found out that there was no one who wanted to sign his graduation album. The same one he remembered from when someone whispered something harsh behind their backs.

Shrugging, he turns to her.

“Do you know where my book about the basics of engineering went, mum? I couldn’t find it.” He left it in the forge, he’s sure of that. But, when the morning came, it was gone.

If he accidentally threw it into the fire when he was cleaning, he might cry - it’s his favourite, he had personalised it with notes and little doodles. His first designs came from that book!

And, more importantly, his schematics and sketches of crutches, braces of many kinds and prosthetics.

“I don’t think so, but we can always look for it together, right? Keep our minds busy.”

It’s a strange thing for her to say, but Jayce is willing to ignore it.

“It’s fine. I just had an idea for a back brace, for Viktor. I don’t know his current measurements. I’ve run the math, though, so I have estimated them. More or less.”

Ximena’s smile becomes strained.

“I’m glad you’re so eager to help him. A bit like that mage helped us, correct? It’s really kind of you.”

Jayce pauses. The mage did save them. He also did leave him in a ravine in a world destroyed by their creation, possibly tossed him those damn lizards, and maybe, just maybe, this past year has given him the time to consider that mage-Viktor definitely held some kind of grudge against Jayce, for not keeping the promise of destroying Hexcore.

It was, however, less traumatising to gaslight himself into thinking that Viktor just really wanted to see Jayce with a beard.

“Hm, I guess so.”

He really, really doesn’t like the way she’s looking; it’s too close to the look of pity that she carried from the trial up until Hextech was announced.

“And have you talked to any other kids?” She asks, in vain. Jayce scratches at his wrist; his new gloves aren’t enough to cover the discolouration completely, and he duly accepted his role of the class freak.

Besides, he knows that somewhere out there, there’s a person who will understand him, who will complete his thoughts in a way he never knew they could’ve been.

And, more so, kids are stupid.

“No. I don’t need them- they won’t understand,” no one but Viktor ever would, unless it benefited their wallets.

Well, there is Caitlyn - and though Jayce’s goal of having Kirammans as his sponsors was initially caused by both his need for funds for projects that could’ve been seen as risky by others, and by the pleasantness of being close to a Councillor, with the many benefits and privileges it provided, he did end up caring about her - but she must be a toddler, and it would be quite sad if his only friend (until he finds Viktor, of course) was a literal child.

She is bright, even if prone to making mistakes caused by her sheltered upbringing. He knows how harsh she became after the bombing, never having to experience such violence first hand - none of them had, and Jayce tries not to think about it, about Viktor’s disgust after their confrontation on the bridge, when he scolded him for trusting a Zaunite, nor about Vi’s features turning into a deep scowl when they finished raiding that factory.

Now, though, he is alone.

He never got close to any of his peers, most of them were strangers to him, and though after Hextech’s success he was seen as a charismatic, golden boy of Piltover, all those friendships he made when attending various galas were shallow and meaningless.

“Are they giving you a hard time?” Ximena presses, and Jayce snorts.

“Mum, it’s nothing,” he assures. “Besides, sooner or later, Viktor will be here. You will love him.”

“I love everything you create. I’m just glad that you don’t feel alone,” she kisses his forehead. Her words don’t make sense, but Jayce is too tired to look into them. “Even if I don’t understand it.”

“Sure,” he says, frowning. “I should get the stabber,” he pushes himself up. The injections help ease the pain and itchiness, but when he glances at the rot on his skin for too long, he gets trapped in the cave again, and he hates to make his mum deal with those episodes.

She huffs, amused, and watches him go. With the corner of his eye he notices that she turns to the forge, the envelope in hand.

A girl at his school has a dislocated knee - it’s nothing dangerous, but she’s been complaining about her crutches and how inconvenient they are for the last week.

“My mum told me that they will have to put my whole leg in plaster, if it keeps happening,” she groans on Monday, again, for the seventeenth time since their classes started, which is two hours prior. Her friends nod in sympathy, patting her back.

“It needs to be stabilised, otherwise it could get worse,” Jayce butts in, then looks up from his notes. It’s all just sketches of Viktor. He’s scared he might forget how his partner looks, before he ever finds him. The memory of his voice is already corrupted by that deep mechanical rumble that echoed the Herald’s voice. “You’re sitting on my desk, could you please move?”

She looks down at him, raising her eyebrow.

“Magic boy can speak now? Are you going to cast a spell?”

“Maybe that’s what rotted his skin. You should move, before it spreads to you,” her friend smirks, looking down at him.

He rolls his eyes, then grabs his bag. In it, is the prototype of a brace. It’s not ideal, he took it to school so he could tamper with it and finally stop her complaints; he was raised with a heart that grew twice as big with age, and he swore to help people.

Scientists seek discoveries, to make the world a better place.

The girl huffs, frowning. Her friends lean closer.

“What’s that?”

“A brace. It would keep your leg stable, possibly help you avoid dislocating your knee again. I made one before, for a friend,” he ignores the amused “you have friends?” comment, “the design is different from the one he needed, but if there’s anything I know how to do, it’s how to build things.”

She eyes him, suspicious.

“What’s the catch, Talis?”

“There isn’t one. I saw something that could be helped with, I had a solution. Do you want me to help you put it on?”

She looks vaguely interested - even if they’re of the lower Houses, everyone in Piltover is curious about inventions. City of Progress, and all.

She nods, hesitant. Jayce slowly fastens the buckles of the brace, making slight adjustments so it fits her better.

“How does it feel?”

“Better,” she admits, testing it out. The metal frame clicks into place, the mechanism in it following her movements. “That’s… thank you.”

Jayce nods.

He opens the window very slowly, careful not to make a sound.

The fresh night air greets him, wind brushing hair from his face. He avoids glancing down, because he’s aware that the ground will call for him, in the same crushing way it always does.

It’s easy to resist it, by now. Jayce did too much to survive, sacrificed too many things to fall into his old habits of lingering on the edge.

He jumps on the rooftop of the nearby house, his legs swinging wildly as he climbs onto the balcony.

The way to the bridge is clear from here; Caitlyn told him, once, before it all went to shit, about her trip with Vi.

(“She was jumping across buildings as if she was born to do it! If you told me she spent seven years locked up, I would’ve laughed at you!”

“Muscle memory never truly disappears?”

“Viktor would kill you for saying something as stupid,” she smiles, her eyes shining.

“You enjoyed that! The chase after Vi,” he accuses, pointing finger at her, a bright grin on his face - it grows bigger when she flushes red, and starts stuttering.)

He kicks some roof tiles; they fall and shatter on the pavement, and a room inside his neighbour’s apartment flickers to light.

He cringes slightly and moves, crawling towards the other end of the roof; from there, he slides across to the next one, grabbing onto the chimney.

His hands are covered in dirt, mud, spirder’s webs, but he’s stubborn. This grime isn’t comparable to what he endured in that ravine.

The shower he took when he went back to Piltover, first in months, felt like a blessing - he stayed there for hours, and even when all of the dirt that was covering him was washed away, the blood on his hands seemed to stay, forever soaked into his skin.

He rubs his thumb against the runestone - it’s the same one from his original timeline, and it’s always a relief to see it not in his wrist, but on a stripe of leather.

He’s halfway through the city, grimacing and huffing - he really, really could use his old body right now.

There’s a pot with yellow flowers, the ones native to Zaun, that they theorised would help with air pollution, if only there was a way to make them grow in more places, and there’s a violent flash in front of Jayce - the commune, people; empty husks; humans-but-not leading him through it.

Most of them were blacksmiths, how did he not notice that before? Had Viktor seen his trade as one so useful that a whole commune deemed it necessary to know?

The yellow tulips are everywhere, and then there’s smoke, screaming, and Viktor’s body falls down, not bleeding; there are sparks flickering in the hole in his chest, and he looks so scared and fragile when he collapses, leaning on the wall, the cog falling from his hand.

Jayce grits his teeth and forces himself to turn, biting his tongue until the pain is enough to keep the tears away. The urge to run to Viktor, hold him and apologise until his throat is rubbed raw doesn’t disappear.

With his brace creaking, and his hammer glitching beneath his fingers, ugly and violent, he turns to leave; he can’t help but look back at Viktor, just once.

Maybe someone will give him a proper funeral. Maybe Jayce will have to be that person, once everything is settled.

He slips and the vision disappears alongside the ground beneath his feet.

There’s an attempt, an echo of how he ripped the skin on his hands open when he was falling into the ravine, trying to get a hold of the stone walls accompanying his fall; he tries to grab onto a balcony, but his fingers only brush past the balustrade.

There’s a sickening crack in his leg as he lands.

He’s groaning, his mouth filled with blood - he must’ve bit his tongue during the fall.

There’s movement, just a few feet ahead. An enforcer points their weapon at him; their eyes grow wide, and their movements less hesitant and wary at the sight of his clothes.

“Kid?” They approach him. Jayce grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. Oh, gods, what if he’s still in the ravine? What if it’s all been a hallucination, and he will wake up to see his fire burnt out and dozens of dead lizards-

A hand shakes him by his shoulders, and he screams, the pain in his leg flaring up at the sudden movement of his body.

“Shit- that looks bad, this is bad-“ the enforcer rambles; they sound young, inexperienced. “I wasn’t trained for this-“

Jayce needs to find Viktor; if his mother sees him now, she will never allow it. But the pain is too much to handle.

He opens his eyes and glances at his leg; his hands are shaking when he brings them to it, and they come back coated in blood.

“Shit- Kid, don’t look. Just don’t look, it’s going to be fine,” the enforcer - it’s the man he saw near Vi just before the war, isn’t it? He has broad shoulders, but his face is not yet ridden with age and guilt - crouches, hovering. “Name’s Loris, can you speak?”

“Talis. Jayce,” he groans; the bone is protruding from his skin, it has torn through his trousers. Loris looks panicked.

“Focus on me, alright? Can you tell me what happened?”

Come to think of it, hasn’t Jayce seen him before the man joined Vi as her friend? Wasn’t he one of the drunks who liked to sit by the fountain-

“I slipped. Lost my balance,” Jayce’s breathing is becoming heavy. His anxiety never used to be this bad.

“What’s happening? Officer Loris,” an older voice joins in. Jayce can make out another silhouette approaching them.

“A kid fell from the rooftop.”

“Those damned Undercity bastards don’t know how to stay away, do they?”

“He’s not from the Undercity. Said his name is Talis. It’s the blacksmiths, isn’t it?”

The older officer crouches, his face is pinched, and he scrutinises Jayce with a singular look.

“Ah,” the mentally unwell kid, Jayce can almost hear him say. He clenches his fists and tries to push himself off the ground. His pain tolerance must be lower, because all he does accomplish is a strangled cry and a barely contained scream. “Let’s get him to the clinic. Grab Noah and tell them to inform his mother.”

Loris nods, quick on his feet.

Jayce cries out loud as he’s picked up. His leg is on fire. At least the pain in his smashed knee was easy to locate and stabilise with a brace. Now, it’s as if his whole limb is against him.

With resignation, he realises that he cannot crawl to Zaun. He’s not from there, and his trips to the Lanes provided evidence of how hard it is for non-natives to navigate through it.

He watches the night sky as he’s being dragged to the clinic; the stars look similar to the souls in the astral plane. Somehow, the thought doesn’t bring him horror, but comfort.

Chapter Text

When Jayce is seven, he is trapped in a snow storm, his body on fire; despite the cold, he wants to tear his clothes off his body to escape how hot his skin feels. The air bites at his cheeks, and he clutches his mother’s coat tightly, feeling as she gets weaker with each step.

When she collapses, he does too, shaking her shoulders and begging, for her to stand up and for someone, anyone, to appear and save them.

Then his world is changed, and a slim hand, one that is covered in runes, drops a blue stone into his hand; the mage who saved them is wearing a robe that seems surprisingly similar to a blanket that has been bleached by the sun.

He leaves, and Jayce takes a moment before he turns to his mum, a bright smile appearing on his face. The field is still covered in snow, but it’s melting rather quickly, revealing flowers and grass hiding underneath.

A butterfly flies in the same direction where the mage disappeared to; Jayce almost stumbles to follow after him, but one quick glance at Ximena has him postpone his plans and join her on the ground once again.

For the entire time when they’re continuing their journey to Piltover he is clutching the runestone tightly; a sacred thing resting just on the palm of his hand. He suspects that it was a teleportation spell; the feeling of weightlessness, the sudden light, something similar to a golden iris, melting into an anomaly and into the planet itself, all settled within the mage’s reach.

It’s years later, when he reads books after books on runes that he realises it wasn’t a teleportation spell; instead, to save them, the mage literally changed seasons; moving the planet, bending time and universe itself to his will.

It’s a bittersweet memory, one that is tainted with what comes after; his mother’s visits in the hospital as soon as they arrive in their hometown, the doctors declaring that an immediate amputation of her fingers is needed.

He never had to fear nor hate hospitals; he knows that they are useful, and that doctors listen and help out. They treat his hypothermia, they don’t scoff at his fear of cold temperatures, and when the exposure therapy worsens his mental state, they are gentle and patient with him.

Two fingers are cut out of his mother’s hand, the procedure going smoothly, and the doctors make sure to take into account that, after the wound heals, Ximena will most likely invest in some prosthetics. They answer all of Jayce’s questions, when he brightly informs them about his plans to make the best fingers for his mum that anyone ever would, and they let him blabber about magic and ask hypothetical questions of using it to heal people.

It’s not scary, and though the amputation is something that will forever stay, it doesn’t affect them in any way; it’s not life changing, at least not in a way that is devastating.

He helps his mother melt her wedding jewellery and mold the metal into prosthetic fingers, his first official project.

And for the longest time, it’s his only experience with disability. He’s capable of empathy towards those who use ability aids, or old people complaining about joint pain, but it’s never personal; he has the comfort of staying ignorant to those struggles.

Then, Viktor enters his life.

It’s subtle, at first - something Jayce doesn’t pay much mind to, something that, surprisingly enough, comes natural. He takes notice that Viktor will only sit down if no one else is standing; Jayce takes into accord to walk a slower pace around him, and focuses the nervous energy that usually makes his steps quicker in his hands instead, fidgeting and gesturing as he speaks, walking side by side with his partner.

And Viktor isn’t one of those people who like asking for help, or even consider showing that something is wrong. It’s in moments like this when Jayce is painfully reminded that vournelabity is seen by Viktor as something equal to weakness, caused by his upbringing and constant struggles to not be seen as an outsider to Piltover.

And Jayce is unaffected, ignorant. Until.

He lets himself be held by Mel, then, with a yawn that he doesn’t try to fight against, pushes himself up. He kisses her cheek and covers her with a blanket, and lets himself linger for a moment, his eyes soft as he watches her rest.

The excitement, the warmth of her touch, the soft kisses she left on his skin - it all clings to his body, a dear memory to his heart.

Jayce dresses himself and ventures outside the apartment, with an intention of getting something to drink - and perhaps assessing if her nails didn’t leave any obvious marks on his skin.

Their lives might be private, but Piltover’s elite likes to talk.

He’s halfway through the building when he bumps into Sky. Their assistant is in shambles, her hair in disarray and there are tear tracks running down her cheeks. She’s missing her glasses and she squints at him, trying to make out any identifiable features that would help her notice who interrupted her wild run.

For a brief, shameful moment, Jayce doesn’t really want to deal with this - he considers that, perhaps, she is running from a date that went wrong; or that Viktor had finally noticed her futile attempts at flirting.

He has a warm bed to get back to, but Sky is crying and his anxiety spikes up; Mel will surely understand, she is aware that his heart is twice too big for his body and mind to handle rationally.

“Sky, what happened?”

“Jayce-“ she drops the formalities. A sob tears through her throat. “I went to the lab, to collect some notes I’ve forgotten to take before going home. I found Viktor-“

Jayce freezes, the smug smile falling from his face in an instant. He frowns, grabs her by her shoulders in an attempt to stabilize her from falling apart crying in front of him before she manages to tell him more.

“What’s wrong? Where is he?”

“He was collapsed- there’s so much blood, on the desk. I though-“ she muffles a sob into her hand, covering her mouth.

Suddenly, for a moment, Jayce is back in the blizzard, his world ending.

“Doctors said that they need to examine him before they allow any visitors,” she adds, almost as if it’s an afterthought.

Jayce lets go of her.

“Go to sleep, Sky. I will handle it,” he chokes in a voice he hopes brings respect and no room to argue. “Thank you.”

She nods, wiping her tears.

Jayce goes to the lab first, his heart stuttering in place at the sign of blood. It’s smeared, indicating that Viktor has collapsed mid-cough. He cleans it, and the smell is overwhelming.

There’s so much of it- how had he not noticed?

He tries to think if there were any indicators. Viktor has always had a bad cough, because of the Grey, as he called it. He refused to elaborate, and Jayce never pushed.

He wipes the splatters of blood, eyeing the Hexcore. It’s pulsating, almost reaching out. He pushes the thought aside and focuses on cleaning.

Viktor was fine just a few hours ago. When they met with Marcus at the Hexgates, he did lean over the balustrade and clutched his crutch a bit harder, but he didn’t seem to be doing this bad-

He goes to the clinic eventually, pushing through the patients and staff, a singular goal on his mind.

“Sir, please stand back,” the nurse stops him, shielding the entrance. Erratic, Jayce has to keep reminding himself about his position to not shove her out of his way.

“I’m here for Viktor,” he pleads. She eyes him, a stern look on her face.

“Viktor-“ she prompts, and Jayce shakes his head.

“Just Viktor. He’s my partner.” Her eyes shine with recognition; his face is on the mug she’s holding, after all. It’s harder nowadays to find a person in Piltover who doesn’t know who he is. Unfortunately, with Viktor standing in the shadows, though most know of his existence, in a vague way that fuels gossip, they only whisper about a mysterious Zaunite who the Academy took pity upon. Jayce hates it, how they see his partner as an assistant who Jayce gratefully let work with him, rather than his equal.

“Mister Talis, he does fall under your name, yes?”

It is true, that, for Viktor to not pay for his hospital visits nor medicine, Jayce did register him in their system under House Talis; Viktor hated that with a burning passion, but he only grumbled and hit him with a cane, so it wasn’t that bad.

As a head of his House, Jayce is, however, responsible. On all accords, Viktor falls under his care.

“Yes,” he sighs, rubbing his temples. The nurse watches him with sympathy.

“Sir, if you could come with me-“ he follows after her, into an enclosed room. In the privacy of it, she allows herself to look a bit more sympathetic. “An assistant of yours has found him in your laboratory.”

“Yes, Sky. She told me- that’s how I know. Is he alright?”

She bites the end of her pen, uncaring for the smudge of ink on her lips.

“As you may be aware, sir, your partner has grown up in the Undercity. Such a thing has long term issues on a person’s health.”

“But he is fine, right? You can just help him?” He pats his pockets. “If it’s about money, then I don’t care how much. I’ll pay any amount needed, so don’t worry about that-“

“Jayce,” she interrupts, looking sad. “I’m sorry, mister Talis, but, if I may-“

He sits down, looking at her. She reads through her notes.

“The illness your partner is experiencing is in an advanced stage.”

“Then we will find a cure for it-“

“There is no cure for dying.” She interrupts. Jayce freezes. “His lungs are on the verge of collapsing. We diagnosed some problems within his body, but it’s past beyond saving. I’m sorry, mister Talis.”

“What’s the prognosis, then?” He asks, his voice almost not audible. She taps her pen in her notes.

“Six months, if he is lucky. But with how his illness is progressing, the estimated time is three.”

“What?- that’s- that’s nothing! That’s nothing! There must be- please, I beg you. I will do anything. I don’t care about the money. What about- Hextech assisted treatment? Surely we could try to develop-“

“Mister Talis, I am really sorry,” she nods to him, apologetic. “There are some things that just are… beyond control.”

And so Jayce sits by Viktor’s bed until he wakes up, his face hidden in his hands. The first time he cannot stay ignorant. This life-changing diagnosis is devastating, and he has to suddenly comes to terms with the realisation that it affects someone who is the closest person to him, the only one to understand his soul; the first one who believed in him.

Then time passes, and he has to live through life changing events, one after another, all affecting him directly.

He bites down the shame that comes with his arcane infection. The sympathetic looks the doctors and nurses share when he makes an appointment two days before the war, just so he can be in shape for fighting, is familiar. A shadow of the approaching doom.

There is no cure for it, his broken leg has caused a normal infection as well, and paired with the arcane rot on his skin, both neglected, untreated for months, he is put on a timer.

And it brings him relief, that it will soon be over. Viktor’s diagnosis was a cold blizzard, a sudden emptiness in his soul. And his own death sentence is a quiet comprehension of the end. An usual Friday. The world ends and yet the sun rises just the same as it always does.

Jayce is a man of passion, one that cannot live with a dreamless sleep. He cannot enjoy a world devoid of what keeps him going.

And just as he was ready to end it all after seemingly losing his dream of magic, now he is met with relief. The knowledge that he will lose Viktor would be too much, for he doesn’t see a world where he can live with him gone - so when he hears the doctors dance around the word “dying”, trying to come up with a gentle way to inform him of his life’s nearing end, he is calm, relieved.

He planned to die with Viktor, and if he somehow survived - to finish what he once tried to do, on the ledge of his apartment, with no one to interrupt him this time around.

And then the arcane around them explodes, time itself shining on their faces, and he is gifted a second chance - a present unfit for a person who never wanted it in the first place, but appreciated nonetheless.

Jayce suspects that, if not for all those experiences, perhaps the news of his permanent injury would’ve scared him. Now it’s just an annoyance that will get in the way of searching for Viktor.

He looks at his mother - at least, even if separated, his dream still exists, once again.

And Jayce has always been stubborn, a moth chasing light; a self-destructive kind of love, an obsession that never ends well.

“Jayce!” He hides, pressing his back against the tree. The brace on his leg creaks, and he swears for not oiling the cogs before his escape attempt.

The boots he’s wearing are comfortable, perfect for running - or, in his case, for sneaking out.

Ximena walks down the street, her forehead creased in worry, asking passers-bys about her unruly son.

“Soon, I will have to worry about my reputation,” Jayce hums, amused. He peeks at his reflection in the window of the house he hid around, pushing hair out of his face.

He hates making his mother worry, but it’s been three years since his first attempt at reaching the Undercity, and four since his arrival in this timeline.

And he still hasn’t found Viktor.

He knows, by now, that he has to be the one to reach out - both to prove to his partner that he could never harbour any hate within his heart, and because Viktor isn’t in the privileged position where he could just sneak out of the Undercity. If Jayce doesn’t take the initiative, the first time they will be able to meet will be when Viktor starts attending the Academy, and won’t have to worry about being arrested by the enforcers under suspicion that he has crossed the bridge to rob someone.

This virtuous extravaganza hasn’t stopped Ximena from grounding him at least once a week, for the past two years - the first time since he began sneaking out.

He manages to get halfway through the city when someone grabs his collar.

He’s lifted up, legs swinging wildly, and his breathing starts to pick up on an alarming rate, just like his heartbeat. A puppet, it’s gold hands creeping towards his bruised neck-

“Again?” Sheriff Grayson lifts her eyebrow, unimpressed. She has a perplexed expression that quickly shifts into exhaustion. “Talis, how many times- do you want your mother to die of a heart attack one day?”

“She is healthy and so am I,” he bristles when her eyes flicker towards his leg and up, to his wrist. “I need to-“

“You need to go home before you get in any more trouble,” she doesn’t let go of the collar of his shirt, but proceeds to ease her grip. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I wasn’t,” he was.

She escorts him through the city, keeping a close eye on his twitching hands. The urge to run is there, everpresent, pressing onto his chest. It’s just a few meters away, the bridge - all he needs to do is to cross it and jump into some pile of garbage to hide.

Grayson rolls her eyes and pushes him forward.

“It’s the seventh time this month, boy. It’s never been this frequent.”

He huffs.

“Why are you the one escorting me, sheriff? I’d suppose you have more pending issues to take care of than one unruly lower-House teenager.”

“If said teenager wasn’t signed up for an internship under House Kiramman, then maybe I would’ve enjoyed a free afternoon for once,” Jayce scowls.

He focuses on his hands, on the rune carved into his palm - it grounds him enough to drown out the whispers of the Arcane, Cassandra’s dead body under the rubble-

“I didn’t sign up for this,” he whines, like a child. It’s the truth; his mother did send a recommendation letter in his name, after his teachers told her about his academic success. A knowledge worth looking into, they described, treating him like yet another asset for the rich to use.

A bright mind that will have an easier time succeeding if he has the right mentors and sponsors.

The first time around, it was Jayce who seeked them out. This time, he finds himself closer to Viktor’s situation - he wasn’t going to search for a sponsor nor try to be extraordinary, but his natural talent and knack for science made the decision for him.

Viktor only worked under Heimerdinger because the yordle saw something in him; the spark that needs to be cared for. It’s hard to get a sponsor, and it’s harder to satisfy them. As much as other students believed that Heimerdinger took pity on Viktor, it was far from the truth - the Professor wouldn’t waste his time on a person he didn’t believe would achieve something great.

“You know, many students would do anything for the opportunity you were granted. You’re not even enrolled under their name and you’re already acting as if you’ve gotten this scholarship and it’s the worst thing that happened to you,” Grayson tries to reason, something sympathetic shining in her eyes.

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure this face-to-face meeting will go great. I cannot imagine how glad they will be to sponsor an unstable asshole-“

Grayson huffs.

“Don’t waste anyone’s time, kid,” she pushes him towards a very familiar gate.

Ximena is standing there, her hands clasped together. Her whole body sags in relief when she sees Jayce, escorted right into her arms.

“My boy,” she takes his face in her hands, then turns to nod at Grayson: “thank you, sheriff.”

Jayce should start to wonder why his mother hasn’t sent him to be locked up until he’s deemed stable enough yet, but she is a woman of patience and love.

They watch as the sheriff leaves.

“Jayce, why would you run away today of all days?” She asks, patiently. It’s the same question she asks every time he tries to sneak out. The answer, too, remains unchanged.

“I just need to get there-“ he shakes his head. His worn out shoes aren’t suitable for this occasion, but he needs to be ready to run, always.

His leg throbs painfully, a clear sign of overuse of his strength. He doesn’t need a cane, unless his muscles are really strained. Relying on his own ability to judge how long he can stand without any rest is something he is still getting used to.

Ximena puts her hand on his shoulder.

“Viktor will wait for you, I am sure. Now, how about we both are on our best behaviour? Ready to impress some Councillor?”

He grimaces, so she nudges him gently.

“But-“

“Please? And-“

“Do not mention Viktor. Or the infection. Or the hallucinations. I know, mum. We have to focus on my brain,” pitch himself to them like a good quality product. She smiles, a bit sadly.

“I am not ashamed of you,” she tells him. She should be, with how much trouble he causes. Jayce meets her eyes, shyly, uncertain.

She ruffles his hair and stands on her toes to kiss his forehead - he has grown taller than her, again.

(“What is she feeding you?” Caitlyn asks once, and it’s Viktor who responds to her, from where he’s leaning over his notes.

“All of her love, apparently,” he tilts his head and corrects a mistake in the calculations. “Miss Kiramman, would you stop playing with what is a highly explosive crystal?”

“Oh-“ she drops it, and it’s only thanks to Jayce’s quick reflexes that it doesn’t hit the floor and render them a nice bill for the repairs of their lab. “Sorry-“ she mutters, face red.)

The gate opens, and they are greeted by the long driveway leading to the mansion; its white, marble walls are decorated with columns inspired by the early-shuriman architecture. To the side, there’s a gazebo created from a tree bent in the same way Ionians create their houses.

He straightens his back and leans on a cane - his mother forced him to make one for himself, to both show off his ability in bending metal to his will, his skill in design, and to keep him from running (as if he wouldn’t abandon it midway to up his chances).

They are led to a living room, covered with flowers and knickknacks from around Runeterra. There, waiting on the sofa, are Cassandra Kiramman and her husband.

Ximena greets them, bowing her head in respect. Jayce huffs, but follows her lead nonetheless, old habits carved into his soul. He keeps his hands behind him, fidgeting in place.

Expectations; that’s all he can read in Cassandra’s expression.

She folds her hands together and keeps them on her lap, awaiting. Tobias offers him a prolonged stare.

“Mister Talis, it is quite satisfying to be finally able to put a face to your name. Rumours say that you have much potential to offer.”

“Rumours say many things,” he mumbles. Cassandra tilts her head to the side, lifts her eyebrows.

“A pleasant surprise, to know that you are capable of voicing your own opinions.”

“Mrs Kiramman, on behalf of my son-“

She holds her hand up, and Ximena leans back, her worried expression flickering with concern. She glances at Jayce, who sags miserably in his seat.

“There is no need.” She looks at his cane and leg brace, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “Your record offers a surprisingly neat description of your academic abilities; you’re solving equations that students of the Academy, twice your age, have trouble with. Such a potential is rare.” She squints, her expression briefly moulding into one of suspicion. “It also offers an insight into your behavioural problems.”

Ximena takes a sharp breath, her fingers clutching the material of her skirt. Jayce looks up, lips quirked into a wry grin.

“Do they factor against including me on your list?”

She holds his gaze.

“House Kiramman has a certain reputation to uphold. We operate according to standards that have guided us towards our success.”

“Then why bother? You surely must be aware by now that I don’t give a shit about your standards.”

Ximena presses her lips into a tight line; Jayce does feel guilty, but the full scholarship will only cost him time, and he would rather use it in other places than a stuffy apartment that someone will break into.

“You've made many accessibility devices, and have distributed them to those in need for free. I’ve heard people talking about your kindness in that regard,” she looks at her husband, who offers her a gentle smile, “even my family members had the opportunity to have your creation assist their recovery. After a pipe explosion in the lower district of Piltover, you constructed three face prosthetics for the injured workers. Why do all that, if not for recognition and money?”

Jayce bristles.

“With all due respect; scientist seek discoveries to make the world a better place. I could waste my time on some fancy research that would only succeed in stuffing money into pockets of those who don’t even need it. Or, I could not waste my time and help people.”

“And you want to do that? Make the world a better place?”

No, Jayce just wants to have his partner back. He wants to offer him support, build a house with a forge and an indoor lab where they could work on little projects together; he wants to show him that, even if he is changed, he is loved.

“Did you get anything out of the ventilation system, Mrs Kiramman?” He asks, challenging her calm demeanor. “You could’ve taxed those people to pay for it, or held it above their heads, a ransom - have them listen to you for the price of breathing.” He holds his chin up, his vision flickering to that fateful evening, when he was presenting Hextech to his investors, with Viktor hidden behind the curtains. “People of the Undercity deserve to breathe, and people in general deserve to be comfortable living their lives. Exploitation brings nothing but hurt and resentment.”

The look on her face is a calculating one; she is intrigued, judging by how the corners of her lips twitch upwards.

“Very well then.” She stands up and holds her hand in front of him. “I expect for you to be representable by the next time we meet. Even if you do not care for the standards, you will be upheld to them. A mind like yours should not be put to waste, Mister Talis.”

There are many rich students with incredible school records; Jayce wonders what she sees in him; it’s far from how he presented himself in the first timeline. But, the lack of respect doesn’t seem to be swaying her into throwing him out.

It isn’t a surprise to him when Caitlyn sneaks into his room - that’s how they first met, too. She avoided the official introduction, because she wanted to make the first impression of herself special and, well, hers.

Not the heir of the House Kiramman, but Caitlyn, a kid as lonely as Jayce.

She shows up in all of her seven year old glory, offering him a toothy smile when he yelps and drops a box with spare parts for his brace.

“Hello!”

“Hey there, sprout,” Jayce groans and starts picking up his things; Caitlyn joins him, observing each item with an open curiosity.

She sits on his bed, swinging her legs, letting him work on moving his stuff to the new bedroom; as he should’ve expected with his luck, it is the same apartment he once was gifted as a part of his scholarship.

“You can look around, you know? I don’t bite. Just don’t break anything,” he waves his hand dissmisevly; “it’s your parents’ money.”

“What do you do?” She asks, immediately moving to look through his latest prototypes. “Mother says you’re an inventor.”

And a glorified babysitter, Jayce almost laughs; Cassandra, for being as strict as she could’ve been, almost immediately trusted him with her daughter, perhaps forced by the lack of other role models that weren’t seven times Caitlyn’s age. He was supposed to be an example of success; it does seem strange that she seemingly still saw him as someone proper for Caitlyn to be around - lest assured, she is perfectly aware of where her daughter is, but keeps her in the dark about it, and Jayce does too. Sometimes an illusion of freedom helps to escape the golden cage, even if it’s all pretend.

“I am.” He looks at a sandwich he must’ve left on his blueprints in the morning, when he came for the keys to the place. He takes a bite and puts it down on his desk again, immediately forgetting about its existence.

“So what do you do? Explosions?” She grins in delight.

“Nah. Sorry to disappoint, sprout, but those will be scheduled for next week.”

“Aw, bummer,” she giggles and turns to him. “So?”

“I make things that help people. At least I want to.”

“Like your cane? It’s pretty,” she traces the butterflies he carved into the handle, appreciating the design. “I walked with a cane once.”

“Oh? Have you had any injuries? Fell off a horse?”

“No,” she snorts. “I was really small-“

“You are small, still,” he teases. Somehow his soul never forgot how to be an older brother; by the look of the wonder in Caitlyn’s eyes, she was always destined to be a younger sister.

“I met someone who assured me that my opinion on grownups being stupid and sweet treats being the best part of life was correct, and then he let me try walking with his cane. I don’t remember much, I was really small-“ she throws him a dirty look and he holds his hands up in front of his chest, palms facing her, “but I would say he was my first friend.”

“He sounds wonderful. I used to have a friend who walked with a cane too,” he shares, then ruffles her hair. “And now I need it as well. Let’s hope you will never have to walk using one.”

“If it was as pretty as yours, I wouldn’t mind,” she smiles and rests on his bed. “Thank you, for not treating me like I’m some easy way to impress my parents.”

“You are your own person.”

Perhaps it’s not the smartest thing to say to a seven year old, but Caitlyn smiles widely, and she clearly needed this reassurance, even so early in life.

“Of course it’s not a problem. My finals aren’t for the next three weeks, and even then, I’m already prepared for them. My schedule may cover in fear before my ability to plan things out ahead.”

Tobias puts his hand on Cassandra’s shoulder; she leans into his touch, a gentle look on her face.

“He has proved to be reliable. And his presence is good for Caitlyn. You’ve seen how much she blooms when he visits. Love, he got her doing her chemistry homework,” the last part he adds quietly, a gentle tease. It breaks through Cassandra’s facade; her lips quirk upwards and she sighs, placing her hand on his.

“Alright. I trust you to take good care of my daughter,” Jayce nods; Caitlyn, who is standing by his side with a bright grin stretching her lips, does too, several times.

When they leave, passing their goodbyes at the pair, Caitlyn slouches and groans.

“I thought they would never leave.”

“You’re so eager for my babysitting duty?”

She pouts, nudging him.

“You spend time with me all the time. It’s nothing unusual, I don’t know why are they so worried.”

“Well, you’re their only daughter,” he looks at her and starts walking away. She clings to his side, following after him in quick footsteps. “And, usually there’s one of them near. It’s the first time they aren’t taking you to a big event. Parents worry, especially when they know they will be hard to reach.”

“I suppose…”

Jayce stops in the kitchen, picks up an apron and ties it around his waist. He offers one to Caitlyn, who raises her eyebrow.

“We have cooks for that, if you are hungry, Jayce.”

“Okay, remind me to take all of,” he gestures vaguely, “this kind of behaviour out of you. Exposure therapy by experiencing the wonders of lower class living.” Caitlyn watches him closely, standing on her toes.

He sends her a look, and she rolls her eyes, tying the apron around her waist as well.

Jayce still knows where everything is - Cassandra never bothered to change things around her house, and, additionally, never minded Jayce’s tendencies to roam around.

He opens a drawer and takes out vials and bottles filled with spices, all important from different regions; a luxury many of Piltovians enjoyed; seasoning food with good quality spices was something only the upper class was capable of, with tariffs set in place to not rely on imported goods and prices being twice as high as expected, mostly because of the pirate attacks on trade routes. 

“My father used to make those when I was young,” he reminisces, preparing ingredients.

It takes more time than it would’ve in his household, because Kirammans are used to meals that cost as much as a monthly paycheck of an ordinary human, and thus lack some of the ingredients Jayce needs - he teaches Caitlyn how to form tortilla’s, and laughs as she struggles to roll the dough into a proper shape.

She yelps when he puts them on a skillet, the oil sizzling loudly. As soon as they’re done, he starts preparing meat and sauce, and guides Caitlyn through getting correct proportions for them.

“Oh, come on-“ Caitlyn sighs when she accidentally tears a tortilla in half during her futile attempt at filling it with the shredded chicken and cheese.

“Hey, no need to get mad!”

“It just keeps-“ she grunts and gestures at the object causing her hubris.

“It can be frustrating, but you have to start somewhere. Don’t push yourself. No one is great at doing things on their first try. Give it time and patience,” he guides her hands. She copies his movements and sets an assembled enchilada on a side plate, awaiting to be baked.

When they are done she collapses - quite dramatically - on the sofa.

“Why is it so good?”

“Because of the team effort?” He teases; she giggles and steals one from his plate.

“You’re weird.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Caitlyn considers it for a long moment. She swallows a bite and taps her chin.

“No, I suppose… I suppose I am weird too. We can be weird together,” she offers. Jayce nods. “Does all the food you put effort into taste this good?”

“Well, my mother used to say that when you put love into something, that’s when you know it will be better than anything else. Science, food- it’s so good because you made it.”

Caitlyn hums, glancing at him.

“We have to do this more often, when you don’t have classes or business to take care of.”

She hasn’t noticed that he hasn’t taken a singular bite of his enchiladas; his mouth runs dry as soon as the smell of meat hits him, but he manages to swallow the nausea back, and teases Caitlyn by swinging the plate in front of her, chuckling when she ‘steals’ from it again.

“I’d like that, sprout.”

Chapter Text

Jayce’s leg is on fire, the nerve endings and muscles locked in a painful protest against his wild run; he bites his tongue and forces himself to keep going, even as he feels as if he’s being torn alive.

He stumbles into the forge and grabs a hammer, the closest thing to a weapon he can manage. When he picks it up, there’s a ghost touch of Viktor’s hands pressing against his throat. He scratches at it until he breaks skin and there is blood under his fingernails.

Are you scared, Jayce? The phantom asks, leaning over. Jayce weights the hammer in his hand, considers throwing it in the hallucination’s face, but is too scared to face it, as the voice of his partner got distorted with that metallic tinge.

He forces himself to run again, and nearly vomits when the pain in his bad leg flares up; instead of stopping, he tightens the bolts of the brace.

There’s smoke on the bridge, and even from far away he can hear the rioters scream in terror.

The smell of blood hits him almost immediately and he starts dry heaving, stumbling over his legs. Even then, as he vomits on the ground beneath him, he still goes towards the aftermath of an uprising, gagging and gasping at the sight of bodies laying around.

His vision flickers and they are puppets, marble and gold; then, in a moment, they melt into the members of the commune, their terrifying shriek filling up the air.

A sound of sirens pick up, and he shakes himself from the vision, stumbling across ruins. There’s sounds of a scruffle nearby; two men yell at each other.

His grip on the hammer’s handle tightens as he sneaks in, hiding behind a half-collapsed wall.

His heart freezes; there’s Silco, clawing uselessly at another man’s face, his fingernails drawing blood and leaving scratches on his skin; the man’s grip doesn’t waver. He holds Silco down, submerging him in water.

The fight stops, and Silco’s limbs fall limp. There’s a traitorous relief filling Jayce’s body; a naive hope that the worst has been prevented, all because of one random angry man.

Jayce never used to condone violence - he sent the enforcers to take care of the protesters, back then at the bridge, when Undercity was drowning in Shimmer, and many people were left dead after Jinx’s stunts. - but seeing a cold blooded murder still leaves him with shaking hands, even if it’s Silco; even if it’s for the better.

The man holds his hand out, reaching for something; it’s then that Jayce sees two girls, painfully familiar ones, stumble towards him.

Vi holds her sister’s hand tightly, and for a brief moment Jayce is able to forget that it’s not a girl but a monster that will ruin so many lives.

He looks down at his hammer; it could be over quickly. One fast strike to Jinx’s head, and she would never exist. She would never grow into that haunting nightmare.

It would be mercy, he tells himself. Sparing her from her fate.

But the man picks her up and holds her close, and Vi whispers to her to not look, to keep singing.

And, against himself, Jayce lets them all leave.

He waits until they are far enough not to notice him, and he slowly walks towards the three bodies laying around.

There’s a woman, her eyes half-open, locked staring into the abyss. A man, holding her hand, lays unmoving by her side.

Then there’s Silco, face-down in the shallow waters. Jayce, after some consideration, drags him to the shore.

Even someone like him deserves a chance at a proper funeral. The water might take his corpse deep into the Undercity when the tides come; he leaves him on the pavement, knowing how the story will go - he will be picked up alongside other bodies, and led to rest in a mass grave sponsored by the Council. A warning for others and a caution tale for some.

“Viktor?” He tries, cupping his hands around his mouth. His voice echoes but no answer is provided.

He hears a song in the distance. It’s gruesome how it echoes through the streets.

There’s a girl in town-

Then, he catches a glimpse of something seemingly out of place. A girl, very obviously trying to sneak around; perhaps guided by a curiosity that is hard to satisfy.

He approaches her; she jumps, and he does too, when he notices just who he is facing.

Mel Medarda stares at him, her eyes wide open, clutching a toy boat in her hands. There’s no recognition in her eyes - he swallows back the immediate disappointment and doesn’t let himself falter, even if a part of him, for a very brief moment, considered that there would be at least one familiar person that would see him.

“Oh-“ she stutters, then straightens her back and frowns, a condescending look appearing on her face. “You should not be here, it’s dangerous.”

“I could say the same, Miss Medarda,” he bites; her eyes linger on the symbols of his House, embroidered into the collar of his shirt.

“Well, my curiosity has been satisfied,” she clutches the boat like a safe line. “You may escort me back to my quarters.” Her posture screams about how it should be regarded as a great honour - and Jayce knows it is, because she speaks in the same tone of voice she used when she let him be close to her.

“I need to keep going. There’s something I need to make sure of-“ he insist; she lifts her eyebrows, and her lips twist into an amused smile.

“And how do you expect to protect yourself against all the violence that is raging out today?”

He lifts his hammer up, presenting it like a worthy weapon.

“I know how to keep myself safe.”

She rolls her eyes and lifts her hand up; he kisses it, a reflex forced into him by the etiquette and social expectations. She looks satisfied and guides him away from the bridge.

“As I said, you may escort me. It would be… beneficial, for those like you to stay away. You never know who you might meet, roaming on the streets. Many robbers will seek profit in a situation like this. And desperation often leads to tragedy.”

Jayce glances back and sighs. With Mel and her apparent curiosity, he is set for a failure.

Our love is a bubbling fountain-

He knows that relying on a hope that Viktor survived such an event once and should be fine this time around as well is simply naive, especially when Silco’s death proves that there’s no constant anymore, but he has no other choice - unless he wants to risk letting Mel know about his situation.

So he forces his lips into a tight smile and tries to look grateful at the opportunity of guiding her back to her house.

Jayce wakes up in the middle of the night, wheezing.

His whole left side is bruised, and his throat feels torn raw; there are claw marks on his neck, a pitiful attempt at fighting off a phantom who was never of any danger to him.

He is glad to have his own apartment - it’s hard most of the time, both because he misses his mother and because he is still not fully used to being disabled yet (his habit of remembering the time to get his injections is only thanks to Viktor, as Jayce had once had a habit of reminding his partner about his needs, mostly because he tended to neglect his health and reject any concern that came with that) - now even moreso, because his night terrors would surely kept her awake for days on end.

His hand slides down his face and he groans, forcing his body into a sitting position. The pillow, despite being soft, seems painful against his trained back.

He massages his temples, the headache building up into a painful migrene. He made his choices by pushing his limits, and how he is finding out what exactly the consequences of such decisions are.

Maybe if he died when the anomaly hit them and the runestone exploded, it would’ve been easier. He wasn’t planning on living this way for long, and now he is stuck in this situation again, both because of the arcane seeping in and his recklessness.

Jayce pinches the skin on his thigh, an ugly feeling of satisfaction blooming in his chest when a twinge of pain runs through. He would consider getting painkillers - it would’ve been healthier for him, most likely - but he is a stubborn man, one that doesn’t like admitting he needs help.

Yet another reminder of why Viktor and he worked out so well. Two loners, geniuses that no one else could understand or be equal to.

He wipes at his forehead with the back of his hand, the sweat coating his face - and stops.

Slowly, he brings his fingers towards the skin, the fingertips brushing against a metal imprint.

He throws himself off the bed, loses his balance and desperately crawls towards his bathroom when the pain in his leg proves to be too much to handle his weight.

There, in front of a mirror, he tries to decipher the flood of feelings he is experiencing. His reflection bears familiar opaque fingerprints on his forehead.

He brushes his fingers against them, a memory of a dooming but gentle touch. It’s a crown, one that is glistering in the moonlight and is engraved into his skin; a twisted irony, a play of fate. Just how he used to mark Viktor with his House’s symbol and colours, now he is marked by his partner.

There’s someone he belongs with now, and he has proof of it. A mark of ownership, just like the little Ts on Viktor’s brace were - a sign telling bystanders that they belong together, that they cannot be separated as they will forever stride towards each other.

He closes his eyes, imagining the gentle touch of a familiar hand; the markings reflect the light the same way his mother’s wedding jewellery does, and his heart starts pounding from that thought.

The concealer that Caitlyn fended him doesn’t look too bad - with her professional help he doesn’t struggle much with applying it properly.

“How do you even know how to do this? I never took you for someone interested in how you look to this extent,” he prompts. She shushes him, working her magic.

Caitlyn didn’t ask about the imprints, nor flinched at his plea to help him find a way to cover them - last thing he needs is to have Viktor look at him with guilt and fear when they finally meet, or for any of Piltover’s citizens to become suspicious of him and declare him magical. He knows he doesn’t handle being under pressure during a trial well, the last time he had to defend himself it ended terribly, even if the payoff turned out great (for seven years at least).

“I am a Kiramman. I must know how to look presentable,” she mocks her mother’s voice. Jayce chuckles and earns a slap to his neck.

“About those imprints-“

“You don’t have to tell me,” she huffs. “Most grown ups don’t tell children much, thinking it’s better for us to stay ignorant.”

“Good thing I’m not a grown up yet, then,” he teases; her glare softens.

“You don’t owe me an explanation. I trust you.”

“I trust you too,” a voice at the back of his head, one that sounds surprisingly familiar to Viktor’s, yells about how she is eight and he really needs to find friends his age.

Jayce doesn’t want to, all his peers dislike him and the last time he tried to talk to someone his age it ended up in a fistfight.

And Caitlyn - well, she’s his sister. Siblings trust each other; maybe not with everything, the eldest has to bear some of the burden of their shoulders alone, but there are things he could share.

“I have a partner, I’ve met him in another life,” he confesses; she stops, looks at him with curiosity. “We got separated and I ended up here. Those are from him.”

“Is he here too?” She asks after a moment of silence. Jayce jolts in place; he expected many other questions, not such an innocent one.

“I don’t know. I hope so. But even if it’s not the version of him that I know, I will love him either way. We always find each other.”

“Like soulmates,” she says, a soft smile on her face. She returns to her work, grabbing setting powder. “Almost as if there’s a string leading you towards each other.”

“More like a mage and an anomaly.”

She looks at him, a blank expression on her face. He shrugs and earns yet another whack for disturbing her work.

“If you are talking about other versions of people… did you meet another me?”

Jayce looks at her and smiles. She avoids his eyes.

“Well, of course. How could I not meet my younger sister?”

Her lips shape into a perfect little ‘o’, and she looks glad. Jayce knows this loneliness she’s facing; there’s a reason why she was drawn to him and Vi so much, why she fell for Ambessa’s words, finally hearing the approval she needed. She either strides towards outcasts who will understand her, or towards those who will grant her the respect she feels she never got.

“Oh. Oh,” she smiles. “And did that version of me have a soulmate?”

“I think it’s a bit more of a Viktor and I’s thing…” he trails off at the sight of the disappointment on her face. “But-! But we weren’t soulmates by destiny at first. We always chose each other! An intentional kind of love. And I saw you have that as well. Hell, you and Vi clicked so well despite your differences- maybe you two were the soulmates of that universe all along. She made you better, in a way. It’s not often that you meet a person who does that.”

“Vi, huh?” Caitlyn smiles. “I can’t wait to meet her, then.”

“Oh, believe me. You will love her. Your mother will absolutely not.” She snorts.

“Alright, done.” She steps back, setting the cosmetics on the desk. She frowns at the sight of an abandoned sandwich laying on the forgotten blueprints.

“I will clean it up-“

“I didn’t say anything.”

Jayce laughs. He glances at his reflection, a contemplative look crossing his face. He brushes his fingers against his forehead - it’s unnoticeable, fortunately. A part of him feels ashamed at hiding something so important. Another, more possessive one, feels glad - the intimacy of the gesture is only his to know, now.

“Hey, can you explain the steps of how to cover them up to me again?” He smiles apologetically.

Caitlyn groans.

Chapter Text

With a heavy backpack in hand, Jayce steps into the shurimian market, a confident smile on his lips. Surrounded by the general loudness of people gossiping or haggling is not unusual for him - he got used to this kind of chaos during all of the events he had to attend as the representative of Hextech - but with his hallucinations it still leaves him more anxious than usual. 

The vendor he seeks is leaning over the counter of his stall, playing with a golden coin. Jayce took his time studying their currency so he wouldn’t be scammed (again).

He tosses him a bundle filled with coins, the exact amount he knows his measuring tools are worth - the same measuring tools he somehow forgot about and left in his apartment.

He realised they were missing as they were docking in the harbour, weeks away.

“What do you seek, traveler?”

“Some scientific equipment.”

The vendor bites on one of the coins Jayce brought and smirks.

“I am afraid that this won’t cut it, good friend.”

“I am afraid that I know the worth of those items and the prices that you charge the locals with. I may be a tourist, but I don’t intend on giving you all of my savings,” Viktor would be so proud of him - he used to smack Jayce with his cane when he refused to haggle or overpaid. Always complaining about his naivety.

“Smart boy,” the man gives him a toothy smile. He brings out a bundle of measuring tools and a compass. “What does a Piltovian do so far from home?”

“Science, I hope.” He frowns; the compass doesn’t point north, not exactly; but it’s not broken either. Last time Jayce got his hands on it, it pointed to massive energy sources; ones that disturbed the magnetic power and overridden devices that relied on them.

That’s how he found the Hexcrystals, back then.

“Be careful,” the vendor is counting the money; he lifts his head to look at Jayce, a shadow crossing his face. “Rumours say that the darkin are slowly returning. It is said that one of their kind roams through the desert.”

“And how do you know that?” Jayce packs the items into his backpack and looks at the compass again; the needle is spinning wildly.

“One of my damned researchers,” Jayce pretends that he is not aware it’s a nicer way of calling a grave robber, “has found a weapon. The damn fool was smart enough not to touch it but not enough to avoid the dune hounds, apparently!” The man huffs. “He got eaten alive, the poor bastard. My men found his remains weeks later. The blade he promised me was gone, but at least the money remained. I guess the undead see no worth in our mortal desires and pleasures.”

“Why in Void would you want to get a darkin weapon?” Jayce frowns. The man is more honest with him; he withheld all that when Jayce visited Shurima in the first timeline. Perhaps he took him for someone too naive and over confident, someone who wouldn’t listen to his warning or respect him as an equal - Jayce doesn’t blame him, many researchers from Piltover had a certain attitude that came with money and status.

“Why does anyone want anything? Money. The thing is valuable if you know how to sell it. Some archaeologist of historian would’ve paid a crazy amount of money for something that rare. Eh, shame it’s gone.”

“And you’re not worried about the fact that it may be possessing a pack of wild dune hounds?”

The vendor shrugs.

“Everyone knows that going out in the desert comes with a risk. Oh, Hoyt I would’ve killed to see the face that poor darkin must’ve made. From Ascended it got reduced to a feral dog. That must’ve been a sight to see.”

Ah, so it’s people like this who doom the world. Overconfident idiots. Has Jayce been this blind to his mistakes as well? Perceiving them ignorantly, as the risk they would affect him was low enough to be ignored?

He reminds himself that murder won’t solve his problems and nods to the vendor.

“Thank you for the warning.”

“Have fun on your expedition, kid. And if you encounter that darkin, can you try asking it to give the weapon back? Who knows, maybe it’s as dumb as a dog and will agree.”

Jayce sends him a wry smile in response and leaves.

He should get a guide; he knows that Ezreal should be around, possibly wreaking havoc in the nearby village and stealing important artefacts from abandoned temples; but he already knows the way to where he’s going, and it should be an easy enough way.

Merchants try to sell him useless things, and Jayce only caves in after encountering a stall offering various spices. His mother is going to love them, and his little shopping spree won’t put a dent in Kiramman’s funds either way.

The journey to the cave systems in the eastern part of Shurima is exhausting. The heat stings at his skin worse than the cold, somehow.

“One more step and I’ll start missing that blizzard,” he mutters, digging his cane into the sand. With a bad leg his breaks are more frequent, and a part of him swells with annoyance. Last time he could’ve walked for miles without breaks, and now he has to stop every half an hour.

There’s nothing that could shield him from the sun, apart from the shawl he has wrapped around his head and face, so just his eyes are visible.

He has enough water to last him a week, and with his knowledge of the region, as he memorised maps of the surrounding area, it’s borderline impossible for him to get lost.

The nights in the desert are cold, but Jayce has survived a barren wasteland filled with puppets and corroded bodies; he can no longer fear the dark as he used to.

The flames contort into a mirage of Mel, then Viktor; then the Herald, his face split in the middle.

Jayce reaches out, trying to cup it in his hands- and withdrawals them with a pained hiss.

The fire stays unflinching to his suffering, uncaring, a force of nature, bringing both danger and safety.

Jayce opens a bag with his supplies and injects his leg and wrist, then starts digging in an attempt to find something edible.

He eyes the pistol he took - it’s not lethal, filled with darts containing a powerful sleeping drug, manufactured in the Undercity. Some of the wealthier families managed to get their hands on weapons as such to have a fail safe of sorts - if an intruder came, it was always easier to justify the usage of something non lethal rather than work around a dead body.

It wasn’t even about the consequences; time was what mattered most. And spending it on trail was a waste, one that cannot be taken back.

Next to the pistol, there’s a dagger. This one is designed perfectly with his hand in mind; it weights perfectly the amount that makes it easy and comfortable for him to wield.

He lays on his side, clutching it in his hand.

He finds the cave system he was looking for two days later; his skin is sweaty and burnt, despite his attempts at covering most of it.

There’s a dangerous, low hum coming from beneath his feet. The ground shakes slightly; something gigantic is crawling on the walls, just outside his reach.

Jayce sets his equipment down and gets two sacks filled with gunpowder. The dagger is attached to his hip, ready to be grabbed if needed.

He slowly starts dumping the gunpowder on the ground, spreading it across the walls and pushing into the cracks in them.

He’s an engineer, it takes him a few seconds to asses the structural integrity of the cave entrance and come up with the best way of collapsing it.

He leaves a trail of gunpowder leading outside; all he needs to do is create one spark and it’s all done.

There’s footsteps, a crawling kind, approaching. He stumbles backwards as a small brackern appears. It’s the size of a horse, and it hisses a warning, positioning itself with its stinger ready and pointed in Jayce’s direction.

He really, really doesn’t want to deal with its mother. The adults of the species can be the size of a building; his leg wouldn’t allow him to escape that.

He fires a shot from the tranquilizer gun and staggers outside. The creature follows, the claws reaching in his direction; Jayce gets out the flint and steel he used to light up campfires and sends spars on the gunpowder.

For a moment, the world is quiet - and then it explodes, the sand lifting up in a wave; Jayce is thrown back, his head pounding and his limbs all bruised and scratched, but the shrapnels somehow missed his body and left him without any serious injury.

The brackern is lying under the rubble; the cave entrance has collapsed, and Jayce sighs in relief.

The creature isn’t dead yet; it watches as Jayce approaches, something hateful shining in its eyes. It speaks through vibrational tones, causing him to flinch;

“I am no mindless beast,” it hisses, raising its stinger. There’s no attempt to defend itself, just a presentation of power it wields. “I rise from the earth.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you,” Jayce kneels, grunting in pain. When he first got his hands on the Hexcrystals, he was spared from how gruesome it really is - Ezreal handled the job, playfully calling himself an adrenaline junkie and prohibiting Jayce from coming near the caves, as he: “liked to handle things by himself”.

He failed to mention that the creatures they killed for Hexcrystals were sapient.

“The new herald was born. You know of his era,” its voice seems to be coming from every particle of sand. The desert hums, allowing it to speak. “Humans are violent. You seek destruction, believing your ambitions make you gods. Gods do not bleed.” It hisses in pain, grunts. Jayce is shaking.

“You know about Viktor?” He asks. The creature watches him closely.

“We would’ve converted this world in his name.”

Hextech came from them. The crystals were harvested from the brackerns, and they were descendants of the Void creatures; nevertheless, Jayce finds himself gaping in disbelief.

He will probably have to tell Viktor that he became an Aspect, apparently.

He hopes his friend will still like him, despite his godhood. Would Jayce have to leave him offerings? Pray?

Oh, he would like to see Viktor’s face if - well, he was a cult leader at one point, so-

Jayce fidgets in place, distracted. He only remembers about the massive dying sapient creature that he just accidentally doomed to death when it groans in pain.

“Can I help? I mean, uh, will you kill me if I try, or-“

“I am sensing grief. Are you running from your truths?” It goes limp; “return me to the earth and take what you’ve come here to rob me of.”

Jayce frowns.

“I came here to seal the caves. I won’t invent Hextech.”

“So you are. Escaping fate is no easy feat,” the creature grunts; Jayce steps closer, the dagger heavy in his hand.

He stabs it between the armoured plates protecting its skin; it doesn’t struggle. With a final pained groan it stops moving at all.

Jayce runs his hand across his face and sighs. The worst part is only approaching.

“Jayce!” He jumps and almost drops the crystal. Caitlyn is grinning, holding a big bag filled with all kinds of trinkets - a welcoming gift she must’ve put together to celebrate his return. “You’re back!”

“I am,” he puts the crystal back in the case; he destroyed all but one, the sentimentality got the better out of him. Or, in this case, the worst.

He is giving up on his life’s work. He deserves to feel complicated about it. And if keeping one of those gods-forsaken crystals will ease his guilt and anxiety, so be it.

He tries to not think about the sapient, capable of a human-level comprehension creature he killed, not about the apparent fact that it had known about the arcane, at least in some way, not about the little, no big deal, issue that with Hextech being so popular many, many of brackerns had to be killed and he never paid any mind to the amount of destruction his ambition was causing.

What a wonderful time to be alive.

He is never leaving Piltover again. If he feels the call of an adventure he is just going to put it on hold.

“What’s that?”

“That is-“ he grabs Caitlyn’s forearm and drags her away, “a highly explosive crystal.”

She looks nervous.

“Then why is it here? You shouldn’t bring dangerous things- what if they expel you?”

“It’s a souvenir,” one that he gauged from the body of a dead sentient being. He is coping so well with this little fun fact, he really is.

His hands are sweaty.

“An explosive? Maybe you are crazy,”

“Crazy? No, no- I am not-“ he sighs and sits on the edge of his mattress. “I know how much potential it holds, but I also am aware of how much pain and disasters it brings. It’s hard for me to let go completely, yet. When I find Viktor- I am sure I will find another calling.”

“So you worked with those before?” She points at the crystal. Jayce shrugs.

“We perfected Hextech. Oh, sprout, we did so much- we achieved greatness. All of our inventions, the new technology- it was all so advanced, so amazing-“

“Was it good?”

Jayce stops rambling; his dream, the memories of popularity, of Hexgates, of introducing new energy sources, of floating in air with Viktor; they all turn into nightmares from after his encounter with the anomaly. The puppets, the corruption of the city.

“No. I think… I think we failed, at some point, but we were so focused on moving forward that he didn't notice until it was too late. It brought great harm. I- we lost so much because of it.”

“Oh,” Caitlyn bites her lip, nervous. “And are you going to create it? Maybe it can be better?”

“No. I will find another way. Viktor always wanted to help people. I didn’t have any dreams outside Hextech so… I guess I latched onto his, now.” He taps his fingers on the frame of his bed. “I'm thinking about opening a workshop. I’m decent at fixing things. And someone has to take over the family business.”

“My mum likes your ideas for the prosthetics,” Caitlyn tells him in a conspiratorial whisper. “She thinks it’s wonderful that there are people who care so deeply.”

“With her position and money one might’ve suspected that she would expect some grand gestures and experiments that change the world.”

“But your inventions do that, do they not? You don’t always get to change the world in an instant. You can’t always help everyone. Sometimes you have to focus on helping just one person.” Caitlyn nudges him with her elbow. “When I grow up, I want to be like you.”

“Reckless, rude and impossible to work with, with slight arrogance issues?”

She snorts.

“No. Kind.”

Jayce hasn’t felt kind in many years. He felt tired, annoyed. Sometimes, when he looked at Viktor and his progressing illness, he felt like a disappointment.

There was no kindness in how he raided that factory with Vi. There was no kindness involved when he decided not to introduce the Hexgems to the public and kept Viktor in the shadows; he wasn’t kind when he confronted Viktor at the bridge and scolded him for trusting Zaunites.

“I’m not that kind,” he avoids her eyes. She shakes her head and leans on his shoulder.

“No one is. Cruelty is always easier to choose. It comes natural, it’s our nature. It doesn’t have to be. Kindness demands time and patience; it can be exhausting and not always pay off. But it matters, that you still try.” She sighs. “Because you could choose to be cruel. And yet, you stride towards being good, even if it doesn’t come easy, even if you make many mistakes. There are no monsters, Jayce. Just complicated humans who don’t know how to follow the right path.”

“Because it’s easier not to try?”

“And that’s why it counts that you do,” she nods.

“Thanks, sprout,” Caitlyn wasn’t kind either, the last time they met. He heard about her escapades to the Undercity, flooding it with toxic gas. But he also knows her as the girl who talked to him when nobody else would, who was blushing so hard even her ears were red as she told him about Vi running on the rooftops with such ease.

He knew her as the girl who had wild dreams, who wasn’t all about order, but about understanding others, even if it was against her sheltered nature.

Jayce can’t promise that she won’t grow up to be cold; he can’t be sure about that with himself either.

But they can both try.

“Well then, do you have any ideas for new designs?” She asks, and he gratefully latches onto the excuse to change the subject and starts a tirade about his new line of prosthetic hands; he shows her the blueprints.

It’s Viktor who always handles the functionality of those things, but until they are reunited, Jayce will have to work on the basics by himself.

Caitlyn doodles butterflies across the outline of the hand. Jayce hands her a carving knife and shows how to work on metal, carving designs into it.

It takes less than two years for his workshop to become successful. Jayce is a perfectionist, and all his works are a testimony of that sentiment; he fixes toys in his free time, and then works on various designs and inventions that are supposed to make life easier for those who need it.

It’s Cassandra Kiramman who suggests building and installing a lift in the Academy, closing one of the wings and preparing it for the renovations.

The workers she hired looked at Jayce in a condescending way, when he tried to correct their calculations or argue about the placement of the main lifting mechanism. To them, he’s a freshman at the Academy, one that is fairly successful - even if he did score low on the entrance exams, making sure to avoid the “trap-question” to not waste his time on troubles with the school board and Heimerdinger - but still quite young.

“A spoiled brat,” he heard them say; paired with the gossip about his mental state and the rumours about how much he loved magic - because even though he hasn’t worn those silly robes and a hat in years, the memory of him running around and trying to do spell prevails in his peers’ heads - he suspects it shouldn’t be surprising that he isn’t treated seriously.

He studies the blueprints, circling the mistakes made with measuring the space needed for the new venting system and the main shaft for the lift. He has different kinds of reinforced ropes and chains on his desk; samples that he has to choose between, deciding which would be the best for his project.

The best lift created by Piltover is placed in Stillwater; it’s over a century old and never needed repairs, and Jayce might be suspecting there was magic involved in the creation of certain parts of it, because when they let him inspect the lifting mechanism - the access granted to him by the Kirammans, so he would have a better understanding of what he’s trying to create - the rope, never changed once since the lift was installed, didn’t have any abrasions. It was in perfect condition, as if it was freshly new.

He hears footsteps outside his workshop; it’s a small building right next to the forge, created mostly with clients in mind, since doing business in a place that was impossibly hot and had access to an open fire disturbed them all enough for Jayce to make a separate little shed for work-related stuff.

There’s some finished projects laying on the shelves, waiting to be picked up. He makes a note in his journal, reminding himself to ask Caitlyn if she could deliver the cane he made for their neighbour on her way to classes.

Someone knocks on the door; the sound is subtle, delicate.

Caitlyn invites herself in without his permission, usually waiting for him to notice her when he’s engrossed in his designs; both Cassandra and Tobias only visit him when necessary, or when reports on the progress of his sponsored projects is needed; Ximena knocks three times, with the hand that has prosthetic fingers, leaving a characteristic sound.

Jayce also memorised knocks of his clients; this one isn’t familiar. It’s confident but soft. Regal comes to mind.

He yawns and stretches, and only then stumbles to open the door, grimacing when his leg flares up in pain from sitting for too long.

When the door is open, he almost shuts it close from how surprised he is.

Mel Medarda is standing in the doorway, her left hand lifted up in the air, as she was readying herself to knock again.

“Good evening, Mr Talis,” she greets, nodding her head. “I believe we’ve met before?”

His heart stutters - she is as beautiful as he remembers, with gold decorating her skin. She hasn’t been a councillor for long, but she’s already well known, respected and beloved by people. 

And she remembers how he brought her home all those years ago, when she busted him trying to sneak into the Undercity mid-uprising.

“Councillor Medarda,” he bows his head and plasters his best award-winning smile onto his face, “it’s an honour to see you.”

Jayce steps aside, letting her in, and closes the door shut with a quiet click.

She looks around, her eyes lingering on the blueprints scattered across his desk and a bottle of concealer and setting powder laying next to his mug.

He forgot to drink his coffee, again. He will heat it up in the forge. If he leaves it near the open fire it should regain the proper temperature in no time.

“What brings you here?” He asks, trying to sound nonchalant. There are mischievous sparks in her eyes.

“I’ve heard good things about your work,” she hums, her gaze shifting to the canes and braces he left on display. “I am interested in commissioning a project, if you wouldn’t mind. I suppose you are rather busy, Mr Talis, with both your studies and the work you provide under House Kiramman.”

“How could I refuse?” He chokes, and almost feels Viktor’s judgemental gaze.

She smiles, satisfied.

And then she presses a blueprint of her own in his hand.

“It is of upper importance to me that you finish this as soon as you can.”

He swallows, hard, and looks at the project; will it be some toy for Councillor Hoskel so she can sweet talk him into taking her side? Or maybe it’s something more elaborate, a gift for other Councillors? Is it someone’s birthday soon? Salo wanted a shock collar for one of his pets recently, has he not?

To his utter surprise, it’s something so simple it’s trivial; a crutch, one designed with House Medarda’s new colours in mind.

“Oh, it should be done by tomorrow,” he chokes, stumbling over words. Was there someone in the Council that needed this?

It might be a gift for someone else; Mel knows many influential people she has to impress. An investor, perchance?

“I could help you put it together, if you prepare the parts,” she hums, and he stares at her, perplexed. She chuckles: “it’s a gift for a dear friend of mine. I am under the impression that those matter most when they have genuine work and care put into them.”

She starts playing with her bracelet; it has a bird pendant; it looks old.

“Well then, councillor, I will be waiting for you tomorrow.”

She holds her hand in front of him, waiting for him to take it.

“Please,” she smiles kindly, “call me Mel.”

The Winter ball that he was invited to as Caitlyn’s plus one - after she begged her mother and threatened to humiliate her family name if she had to spend this time alone - is postponed.

That leaves Jayce with time for himself, and he uses it to get lost in the Academy’s library.

He sits on a big grey pouf, his bad leg stretched out and resting on a smaller one, a book on advanced engineering resting on his lap. By now he’s so familiar with it that he can quote certain pages from memory, but a good book is still a good book, and he is not looking forward to studying for the finals, so he will procrastinate by entertaining himself in the best way possible.

There’s a group of students nearby, gossiping and sparing him glances every now and then. One of them, seemingly losing a bet, approaches him, while her friends snicker and laugh behind her back.

Jayce doesn’t spare a glance in her direction, pretending he doesn’t see her hovering above him.

“Hey, magic boy,” she greets with a sly smile. “For someone so smart you really should’ve known that using a name of an actual person when you’re sneaking around might bring trouble to the person.”

“Pardon?” He leaves a bookmark in the book and rests it aside, his gaze snapping to the woman. She shrugs, a playful, condescending smile on her lips.

“Oh, you don’t know?” She giggles. “There’s an actual Giopara attending the Academy. We saw Professor Heimerdinger bring him to his office yesterday. And it’s most likely your fault.”

Jayce stares at her in disbelief.

He never thought it was worthy of his attention to study names of those who attend the Academy. And, yes, through the years of sneaking out, trying to get to the Undercity and immediately getting caught by either sheriff Grayson, who he was now on first-name basis with, or by the enforcers, he did sometimes use the name Giopara - same one he used when he bought less than legal materials during his work on Hextech - but it never occurred to him that someone might get in trouble for the problems he was causing.

“Tarnishing both your name and the one you don’t have rights to,” she shakes her head. “What a shame. If he’s banished from the Academy’s grounds, he surely will find out who is to blame.”

Jayce gathers his things and lifts himself up; he pushes her aside and goes to the main door.

His mother will be so disappointed if he got someone in trouble for his own reckless behaviour.

He needs to learn to take responsibility, and if it risks House Talis’ name, he will take the blame for all of it.

He runs into Professor Heimerdinger when he’s exiting his office, twirling his moustache in his fingers, humming a happy tune.

He spots him immediately; both because of Jayce’s towering height and because he almost punts him; he staggers to a sudden stop a meter away, and curses loudly when his leg protests in pain.

“Ah, Jayce Talis, if I remember correctly? Young boy, what brings you to me in such a rush? Is everything alright with our little side project?”

“Professor! No- the lift is alright, I suspect it might be ready within a month. It’s better to give it time, test it properly before we rush into anything,” he earns a smile for his words, the yordle seemingly content with his decision. “I heard something that concerned me.”

“Oh, is that so? Are there any problems at work, young lad?”

“No-! Professor, someone told me you had one of the students here, in your office. House Giopara…?”

“Ah! Yes, what a brilliant bright boy he is!”

“So, there’s no problem?” Jayce hides his hands behind his back, trying to make them stop shaking. Heimerdinger laughs.

“Why would there be? Oh, you might’ve heard- ah, young people, you love to gossip so much,” he shakes his head, amused. “He answered the question we put on your exams to fish out cheating! You know, Kiramman’s speak highly of you, Jayce. I am sure this young man would be an amazing partner for you.”

“I’m not interested in any partnerships, sir. I work best alone.”

“So you do,” the yordle hums, then looks up at him. “Now, is that all you were concerned with?”

“Ah-“ Jayce rubs at the back of his neck, suddenly very self conscious. He hopes he covered the fingerprints well enough that the person who is the most suspicious about magic doesn’t notice them. “I, perhaps- and I know it’s wrong of me! - I used the name Giopara when I wanted to get out of trouble. I never intended to bring him any harm.”

“Oh, there is nothing in his records. He has a private teacher, or so he said,” his voice trails off. “Besides, my dear pupil, your efforts at hiding your real House were always futile.”

Jayce feels both relieved and ashamed that his escapades are so popular - enough to be a cause of trouble to him only.

“My mother said that there are changes happening in the Council. There’s an ambassador from the Undercity now, and he was given a permanent seat,” Caitlyn’s voice drives Jayce out of his designing spree. He drops his screwdriver and gives her his full attention; she looks proud of herself, for managing to scout out such information.

“I’ve heard some rumours, but I figured they were talking nonsense.”

“No- they aren’t public with it yet.”

“Then how do you know?” Jayce raises his eyebrow; Caitlyn blushes and looks away.

“I hid under my mother's bed?” She frowns and points at him, “I’m the future sheriff! Or something else, I’m still deciding! I have the right to know about what I should expect as the future head of House Kiramman!”

Jayce snorts and waves her off.

“My worst habits are rubbing off on you.”

“And yet we both are here despite it,” she hums, clicking the heels of her shoes together. “Do you know what I also heard?”

“Gossiping is bad,” Jayce scolds, leaning closer, “what?”

“They have a meeting with an inventor from the Undercity. I’ve heard he replaces the heads of naughty children with metal ones.”

“That’s absolutely bizarre,” he laughs and ruffles her hair, earning an annoyed nod. “We could sneak out and see for ourselves,” he adds after a while.

Caitlyn pouts, then it turns into a guilt grimace.

“I hit my instructor today, with a training dart, because I wouldn’t stop being stupid and risky with my rifle. She’s good, but my mother is upset. She prohibited me from stepping my foot outside the front door for the rest of the week. She’s certain it will help me establish my focus on what’s important and that I will finally have time to work on my studies.”

Jayce huffs, looking outside. His lips twitch into a mischievous smile.

“Well, I guess that we cannot leave through the front door, then,” he grabs the windowsill and looks down. “But what about a different way out?”

Caitlyn grins with mischief that matches his own.

“I cannot go against her orders, but she never told me anything about a window-“ she yelps as Jayce hoists her up and helps her land safely in the bushes below.

She waits for him, stepping aside as he falls on the ground with a pained grunt.

“Are you ready for an adventure?” He asks her when she takes a step closer, tying her hair up in a ponytail.

“Let’s see what the real world looks like,” she nods, confident. Jayce pulls himself up with a grin stretching his lips.

They cross the bridge, somehow undetected - thanks to Caitlyn, who has memorised all the patrol routes of the enforcers working in Piltover. She guides him through the alleys and they manage to sneak into the lower part of the city.

Someone bumps into them soon after, not far from the bridge. Jayce frowns as a girl with blue hair stares up at him, before scrambling to run upon being detected.

Caitlyn laughs.

“I didn’t know you looked that scary.”

He snorts, rubbing his wrist and pausing instantly.

He looks at it, and is greeted by bare skin. His bracelet is gone.

Caitlyn notices his sudden mood change and glances towards the staircase where the girl had disappeared.

“She stole from you!” She exclaims, pulling Jayce forward by his forearm. He shakes himself out of the surprise of it and starts running, despite the pain ripping through his leg. “That thieving rat!”

“Hey!” He yells, thinking about what he could offer for her to give it up. It’s the only shiny thing he had on him, but to anyone not obsessed with magic it will be worthless.

He will offer her money and a warm meal, he decides; after he gets his bracelet back. While it doesn’t hold any monetary value, it’s his. It’s a reminder of a life long passed.

The runemark on his hand aches.

Chapter Text

The river splitting the Undercity in half has always been a graveyard. It isn’t a common knowledge that Zaunites bury their people in the dirty waters, akin to the cemetery in Bilgewater; the rich citizens of Piltover would rather pretend that they either are buried in mass graves, or have their own resting place. The ignorance of their burying rituals brings peace to mind - how could one live with the knowledge that people they exploit don’t even get the privilege of bidding their dead a proper goodbye?

Jayce knows that Viktor buried the remnants of his parents in the river, just like many other Zaunites did - it slipped past his lips, the shameful admittance of how Piltover can’t possibly comprehend how much of a privilege a funeral really is, when he got black-out drunk one night, that Jayce later learnt was his birthday.

The river Caitlyn and him are running across doesn’t seem as dirty as he remembers from his past life; he walked alongside it to buy that less-than-legal equipment from “Benzo’s” or any other place.

It’s surprisingly clean, enough so that he can see fishes swimming under the surface, alongside some weird machines shaped to imitate them, glowing slightly. A filtering system, he guesses, before wondering why he never saw one during his previous visits; an idea shines in his head, a shy theory, that there were none. It must be a work of this new timeline.

Caitlyn is faster than him; she doesn’t have a leg that slows her down, nor a brace that digs into her skin, bruising it and rubbing it raw.

She corners the girl in some alleyway, posing in a threatening way; her fingers itch to her side, only to come up with nothing, as they didn’t consider bringing any weapons.

“You shouldn’t steal,” she scolds; the girl shows her the middle finger and backs away, gasping when her back collides with a wall. Caitlyn rubs her pointer finger and thumb on the bridge of her nose. “Just give back what you’ve stolen.”

“Hey-“ Jayce is breathing heavily. He rests his hand on Caitlyn’s shoulder and looks at the girl, hunching over in hopes of making himself look as non-threatening as he can manage. “Look, this bracelet is really important to me. How about I pay you to give it back?”

“Jayce-!” Caitlyn stares at him in disbelief. “She stole from you! It’s rightfully yours!”

“World isn’t black and white, sprout,” he squeezes her shoulder. “Maybe I could buy you a warm meal? You and your family?”

The girl stares at him in distrust. It’s only after a while that her familiarity registers itself in Jayce’s head.

Jinx, the one who he let live, is staring at him with her big blue eyes wide open, squeezing his bracelet in her hand, holding onto it with no apparent intent of giving it back.

“You-“ the word escapes past his lips before he can consider it. Caitlyn looks at him, confused.

Jinx must notice the tension that enters his posture; she analyses the way his expression changes, and bolts.

Jayce stumbles, too slow to catch her as she runs by him, pushing him to the side.

Caitlyn helps him regain his balance and quickly tugs at his sleeve; together, they start running again.

It only occurs to Jayce that she might be leading them somewhere she’s comfortable with facing them in when he hears the song playing from a jukebox in a building she runs into.

Our love is a bubbling fountain-

“JINX!” Jayce yells, forcing himself to run. “Give that back-!” His voice stutters to a sudden halt. He stumbles, stretching his arm out to keep his balance.

Caitlyn runs into it and stops, then takes a step back, hiding behind his body.

They’re in a laboratory or a workshop - that much is clear, from the prototypes laying around the shelves. The whole room is dim, the only source of light being a lamp standing at the desk, with something similar to a metal spine laying on it, abandoned in a hurry, and a giant aquarium with a massive waverider that’s suspended in it with tubes coming in and out of its body.

Jayce focuses on Jinx - and thus, he comes to face the man she hid behind.

He is pointing a massive staff with a bright core in their direction, and, to Jayce’s utter horror, a very familiar, in design, contraption that’s resting on his shoulder.

The Hexclaw is pointed at them, the claws stretched out, making the core of it visible - something that will become a death ray, if it’s used on them.

Jayce feels that the world is ending, and he’s unsure why he’s the only one. The ground is firm beneath his feet, his lungs burn from the run, but still allow him to draw in quick breaths, and yet he feels himself fall apart into tiny pieces.

A stranger who has Viktor’s invention attached to his body, who Jinx hides behind is right in front of him-

He looks at the girl, a spark of rage igniting within his chest when she pulls her tongue out and shows him her middle finger before quickly tugging at the fabric of the stranger’s clothes, hiding her face in it as soon as he looks down.

The man lifts up the Hexclaw higher and corrects his stance.

“I will pave the way, as I am the first of many! Embrace progress, metal is perfection!” He laughs maniacally and it’s only because of Caitlyn, who is clutching Jayce’s arm in her hands, that he doesn’t collapse onto his knees sobbing.

He’s too late.

The thought occurs to him in an instant; an unpleasant surprise.

He was so lost in trying to focus on this new life he was given that he never stopped to consider that the arcane seeping through might’ve been a sign. He failed; the Viktor he held in the astral plane ceased to exist, and only the emotionless Herald remained.

His face is devoid of any emotion, as metal as it can be; at the very least, in the previous body he still had the remains of Viktor around his mask that Jayce could cling onto.

Now, it’s devoid of any familiarity.

He takes a step back, his chest feeling hollow.

He failed.

“You both will soon be upgraded!” Viktor, his Viktor, his brilliant partner who he might never be able to tell just how much of his soul does belong to, points at them with the staff.

“Yes- Herald! I brought them to you, so you can improve them!” Jinx shouts. “Replace their fears with the dreams of emotionless unity!”

Jayce should’ve bashed her skull in on that damned bridge. She doesn’t even spare them a glance, as if she doesn’t care that she has signed their death sentence.

Jayce can’t feel his hands. He isn’t sure if he is breathing anymore; maybe he should welcome it. Living without Viktor seems pointless; at the very least they could be together again.

But Caitlyn tugs at his arm again, and there are tears in her eyes; and Jayce has always been a brother first, and ceasing his own pain, wallowing in the feelings of how big this failure is, will always come second to making sure she’s safe; she still has a hope, a future she should get back to.

“Beware, the true power of the Hexcore!” Viktor shouts and laughs maniacally. Caitlyn forces Jayce to run; she doesn’t stop him from looking back, even as he stumbles.

They stop only after crossing the bridge; she’s still conscious enough and aware of her environment, avoiding enforcers with ease. She drags Jayce with her, and finally, safe, they both collapse in her garden.

Jayce falls to his knees, the pain in his leg flares up. Caitlyn’s hand hovers above his shoulder.

He throws up and starts sobbing.

His dry heaving and gagging turns into loud and painful sobbing; Caitlyn sets her hand on his broad shoulder, face pale and eyes watery.

“I suppose the rumours were true,” she jokes, and Jayce sobs even harder, nausea hitting him yet again.

“It’s him, Caitlyn. That was him-“ he bites on his sleeve, the putrid smell and taste of vomit assaulting his nostrils and tongue.

Caitlyn looks confused; her eyebrows are pinched together, eyes wide, and mouth half-open. Her fingers twitch and suddenly she tenses.

“That was Viktor? Your Viktor?” She asks, voice shaking. “But-“ she fishes his sketchbook out of his pocket and points to his drawings. “ This is Viktor! How-“

Jayce curls into himself. He feels as if he is standing on the ledge, with no one to talk him out of throwing himself off of it.

He waits, for a long, painful moment, wishing for that familiar snidely said: “am I interrupting?”; for it all to either be over or a bad dream.

Because if only the Herald remained, if Viktor was truly gone, then Jayce was a dead man walking this whole time.

His lungs are rotting; he claws at his chest, the damp cold air of the ravine surrounding him, entering his airways even as he tries to stop breathing.

His hands burn, his leg is hanging limp, the unfinished brace laying beside it. His fingers ache from hours spent scribbling on the wall, sketching the anomaly until his fingernails are torn and the skin on his hands is rubbed raw from the stone walls.

Has it all been a dream? A fever induced nightmare?

Jayce curls into himself; the raw meat of the newts is stuck between his teeth, and he’s nauseous and in pain. Of course he was never saved. The mage, the Herald, the commune and the war against Ambessa - it all was a hallucination.

He’s dying, and he’s going to do so alone, just how he always feared Viktor would. He will rot in a forgotten, doomed reality, his body never to be found.

He can’t breathe, he can’t hear. His heart is pounding and yet it should not, as he is dying.

He sobs and laughs, because of course he imagined Viktor, his brilliant partner, as his savior; the mage who was the only reason he was alive. Of course his delusions still carried the love he held in his heart.

“I cannot dance, Jayce,” Viktor says, both of his hands resting on the handle of his cane.

Jayce frowns and looks around, trying to reorient himself, before smiling broadly, showing all his teeth.

“What, are you not up to a little celebration?” He teases, his heart skipping a beat when he earns an annoyed huff and a fond smile in return.

Viktor rolls his eyes and gestures to his leg.

“Are you going to hold me the entire time?” He challenges, and, luckily or not, he doesn’t know Jayce well enough yet not to do so.

“Why not?” He asks, and offers his hand; Viktor hesitates before taking it and swaying with Jayce in place.

The holding cell is small, claustrophobic even. There’s barely room for moving around. The giant metal door is closed, and they enjoy a moment of peace before the inescapable storm; this one, Jayce can’t wait to experience.

Not twenty four hours before he was standing on the ledge, being taunted by snarky stranger, who somehow managed to talk him out of suicide. Just an hour before, he was floating in the air, creating actual magic.

And then he was promptly tossed into a holding cell for breaking into the Academy and conducting an illegal experiment based on illegal science.

And he gained a partner - he is giddy about it, perhaps more than anyone else to share work with a stranger would be. He has never met anyone with a mind bright enough to rival his own; Jayce was sure that he was committed to a life of solitude, as he couldn’t imagine working with someone else.

And now he cannot imagine working without someone; that person being Viktor.

He doesn’t know his last name - he should ask him about it, if he doesn’t forget.

“I hope they don’t decide to hold us in here until the trial is over,” Viktor mutters and Jayce halts to a stop; he looks at the man, still holding his waist and guiding him in their waltz. There’s a snort. “My body might not agree with such an arrangement.”

Suddenly, Jayce feels a bit ashamed; he hasn’t considered just how much Viktor was willing to risk. And he hasn’t considered how a person like him would handle being tossed around by enforcers, without care or thought in mind.

“If you need to lay down, I’m fine with sleeping on the floor,” he offers; Viktor’s face does a funny thing - several different expressions pass through it, settling on a one of disappointment.

“I do not wish for your pity, Talis,” his words are curt, short. There’s a tinge of coldness in his voice. Jayce tries not to think too much about it.

“Of course,” he leaves it at that, then tries again: “I hope you don’t get in too much trouble for this. I wouldn’t want for you to lose your position as the dean’s assistant-“

“As I said, I did not wish to be one; I believe we are made for something greater, Jayce,” he shivers, a pleasant feeling warming up his chest at how his name is spoken. “Do not apologise to me for my own choices. I am capable of making my own decisions.”

Jayce wants to argue that he might’ve felt obligated to, because if he hadn’t said that he wanted to pursue Hextech as well, he would’ve watched him jump.

But Viktor doesn’t strike him as a person who does things out of social niceties.

“Besides,” Viktor waves his hand, “I am sure that Miss Medarda will gladly aid us. She wouldn’t have risked the favor she holds within the council for a cause she doesn’t believe in.”

“She’s amazing, isn’t she?” Jayce asks; Viktor’s lips twitch in response, but he quickly smooths whatever his immediate reaction might’ve been.

“She is… a powerful woman. With all the benefits that her stance holds, such as recognition and power.”

“And she let us go. She believed in us too-“

“She likely saw something that might’ve been a smart investment. A risky one, but most profitable things are.”

Jayce frowns. She didn’t strike him for someone who only wished to use them - but he shouldn’t argue with a man who spends more time around councillors than anyone at the Academy.

“Thank you,” he says, and Viktor’s attention snaps to him fully; he preens under it, proud of having someone who can follow his thoughts with ease. “I promise you won’t regret believing in me, partner.”

The corners of Viktor’s lips twitch upwards; he looks at him, those intense golden eyes staring right into his soul.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Jayce,” he scoffs, but the action is lined with amusement. “It might be as bad of an offence as signing every page of your notes.”

Jayce wakes up covered in sweat, with a putrid taste in his mouth. His whole body reeks; he throws himself off his bed and stumbles to the bathroom before half-collapsing onto the toilet, his right arm stretched around him in a mockery of a side-hug.

He empties his stomach; it’s the worst feeling, being alive.

The shower he takes was supposed to be quick but ended as a hour long session of standing under the running hot water and staring into the abyss.

If to be loved is to be changed, then Jayce is rotting inside.

He walks back to his bathroom and collapses onto his bed, hiding his face in the pillow. A knock interrupts him before he can start spiralling.

“Jayce?” Ximena’s voice is soft, careful. Jayce doesn’t have the strength to answer. He hears her enter his room, then set her hand on his back; the touch is gentle, but it’s almost too much.

He lays there, unresponsive. He should feel guilt about how the balcony calls to him, begs for him to jump - he doesn’t.

“Caitlyn was terrified- you haven’t had attacks this bad since you turned eighteen,” she tries to understand; Jayce turns, facing the wall. His forehead aches, calling for the touch of the person who crowned him with those pearly fingerprints.

That person is gone, Jayce thinks bitterly, and his eyes well up with tears. He presses his face into the pillow and forces down the sob that’s building up in his throat.

“Please, son. I only wish for the best for you,” she’s gentle, kind. Not understanding, because she could never connect to him fully, even before he felt so broken.

Their relationship has always been strained and yet filled with unconditional love. She would label him a madman, uncaring that he would rather be dead, and she would bring him stew when he spent long winter evenings in the lab.

She would tell him about her love in a thousand different gestures, never speaking a word out loud - it was present in the cookies he baked and asked for him to share with Viktor, as it was present in her annotating his favourite paper that he had gotten to publish on Hextech, despite not understanding much of it in the first place.

“It cannot be helped,” he rasps.

He will have to face Viktor, sooner than later. Even if it’s hopeless, even if they are beyond saving - he cannot exist apart from him, no matter which version of his partner he has to face.

Ximena doesn’t force him to talk. She kisses him on the right temple and whispers something about leaving him dinner; Jayce hums in response, a sad, dejected sound.

A sound of a dying soul.

He is visited by Caitlyn, a day or so later - time has no meaning when he has no use of it.

She bounces nervously in the doorway, awaiting invitation. Jayce attempts to pull himself together enough to face her without falling apart yet again.

“Are you alright?” She asks, though her expression is telling of the assumption she’s making about his state.

“No, not really,” he admits, hollow and small. She moves closer and sits on the edge of his bed, glancing in his direction.

“I’m sorry your bracelet was stolen.”

He has forgotten about it. It’s nothing, in the grand scheme of things; yet another anchor to a past he should’ve forgotten about but couldn’t bring himself to let go of.

“I’m sorry I risked your life like this. I shouldn’t have brought you with me.”

“What?” She sounds offended; her cheeks are slightly red and she’s frowning. “No! You’re the only person who doesn’t treat me like I’m lesser to you! It’s good that I accompanied you!”

“I don’t know, sprout-“

“How do you want to get him back?” She doesn’t let him finish. Jayce glares at her.

“What are you talking about?”

“Viktor, of course. I’ve read about this in a book, once. Rehabilitation, resocialization. Something like that.”

“You think this is something I could fix?”

“I do, but you don’t sound like it.”

He sighs and rubs at the marks on his forehead.

“Caitlyn, you don’t know- that must’ve been him, in there. The Hexcore- that’s what I fused him with, because I couldn’t let him die. It’s because of me-“

“You’re a scientist, an inventor, are you not?” She interrupts. Jayce blinks.

“I am.”

“And those- you seek discoveries to help people. That’s what you do. That’s why you work in your workshop, why you design canes and wheelchairs. You want to make the world a place worth living in.” She looks at him sadly. “People like you don’t just give up on those who need help. If that is your Viktor, then he needs you.”

Jayce sniffs and closes his eyes.

“I’m just so tired, Caitlyn,” he sighs. “If I cannot save him, I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

She looks spooked, and he tries to reassure her:

“Sorry, I’m just tired. I’m being stupid.”

Though Caitlyn looks as if she wants to agree, she stays silent. They sit together, facing a reality that’s a bit too much to handle.

Only when she stands up and walks to the door, ready to leave, does she turn with a quizzed expression.

“My mother wishes you a quick recovery and said that she has a project you might find interesting,” she shrugs. “Maybe it will do you some good, to focus on something else for a moment.”

Well, at the very least they can agree on ignoring the issue until they have no other option but to face it.

Chapter Text

The road to the Kiramman mansion is longer than Jayce remembers - perhaps caused by how slow he is walking, dejected and hollow.

His mother is by his side, squeezing his hand and making sure he doesn’t turn and go back in the direction of his apartment, to hide in his bed for the rest of eternity.

“Look,” she guides him gently towards a bakery. Cupcakes sit on display, decorated with frosting to look like cats, furyhorns, poros and hushtails. Ximena buys some and forces the paper bag into his hand, smiling sweetly. “I’m sure Caitlyn will be appreciative of a sweet treat,” she says.

Jayce knows it’s an attempt to make him eat something as well; he kept vomiting all of his meals since that fateful meeting, and his cheeks are sunken and eyes are hollow.

His hands shake but he manages to force a smile.

“Thank you, mum. I’m sure she will love these,” Ximena squeezes his hand once more.

In front of the gate, they stop; she fusses over him and he lets her.

“Oh, my dear,” she holds her hand to his cheek, “if you don’t feel up to it, no one will blame you if you resign.”

They will, is the problem. He already slipped up about how badly this whole thing is affecting him to Caitlyn, who tries desperately to give him hope and something to look forward to. Cassandra isn’t a woman who will accept excuses. She sponsors him, and thus he is reliant on being in her good graces; disappointing a councillor is the quickest way to put an end to anyone’s career - and even if Jayce no longer cares about all those titles and recognition, he cannot do this to his mother.

“I’m fine, mum.” He lets her linger, perhaps disappointed at his insistence.

He hasn’t wondered about the mysterious project too much - most likely, she needs him to do some engineering work around the Academy, or perhaps in the Councilroom. The retractable ceiling could use some help.

Cassandra greets him; it’s unusual, as usually he is welcomed by a maid or Caitlyn. She scrutinises him for a second before her expression twists between exhaustion and resignation.

His appearance is disheveled, he is aware - he had half the mind to keep the signs of the arcane on his skin under cloth and make up, but hasn’t bothered to look refreshed and presentable.

“Mrs Kiramman,” he greets, and she clearly is calculating if it wouldn’t be more beneficial to send him home.

“Jayce,” her voice is cold and dry, a clear indicator of her disappointment. “Come on in.”

“I’ve been told there’s a project you need me for?”

She glances back at him, looking amused.

“Perchance. I take it, granted by your continuous attempts to reach Zaun,” he frowns, curious at the usage of that name, “that you’ve far more open-minded towards it and its people?”

He looks at her but doesn’t answer; she continues.

“As you might’ve heard by now, the Council has granted a seat to a Zaunite ambassador,” she folds her hands together, “soon to be an official councillor. There was a deal made between our parties. One that, in the near future, might grant Zaun independence.”

“That’s… good,” Jayce says, stunned. Cassandra pauses and looks at him; he attempts to not sway under her gaze. “With all due respect, but it’s been long since Zaun was truly a part of Piltover. We cannot understand its needs in a way its citizens do. Perhaps this move will welcome peace and stop violence from escalating.”

She tilts her head upwards.

“A convincing argument, Mr Talis. Almost the same as one that was offered by the representatives of Zaun,” they are in front of the door connecting the livingroom and the hallway. “A scientist from Zaun has offered to… aid Piltover with his research. I felt obligated to offer your services, as your work might be seen as… complementary.”

“You want me to work with an unknown scientist in hopes that we manage to make our partnership fruitful?”

“The Council’s decision on the matter of Zaun is dependent on it being beneficial to the Houses. You must understand, Jayce, that politics is not something you gamble blindly with.”

He sighs and brushes his hair from his face; several strands still fall onto his forehead.

“It is a risky endeavour, is it not?” Because Jayce doesn’t work well with anyone who isn’t Viktor.

Cassandra seems aware of how much pressure she’s letting onto his shoulders;

“I found his work quite endearing,” she muses; the admittance must cost her much, but it eases some of his worries. “He, too, is focused on helping others. That’s why I chose you. Piltover has many bright minds to offer. We require one that doesn’t think of fame, power and money. One that won’t be immediately turned away.” A delicate matter, finding someone who isn’t prejudiced against Zaunites in a society that embraces class and status.

But Jayce has left the Golden Boy title in the past, alongside his many mistakes and regrets.

He owes this, to people like Viktor and Ekko. A brighter future, one they should’ve had but was stolen from them through circumstances they could never control.

The door opens and Jayce’s knees are weaker than he suspected, because he has to grip and hold onto the doorframe in order not to lose his balance.

Viktor and Silco are sitting on the sofa, both holding decorative porcelain cups in their hands.

“Councillor Kiramman,” Silco greets, nodding to her. “I trust this must be the man you’ve told me about?”

Viktor slowly puts the cup down on the tea table and folds his arms across his chest. The orange glow of his eyes somehow seems analytical; Jayce hates this mask-face, he misses his partner’s beauty marks, even more now, that with time he forgot their exact placement.

“This,” Cassandra gestures to him, standing tall while he’s shrinking into himself, “is Jayce of House Talis. He is a brilliant inventor and is well known for his work on accommodations for those who need it.”

“Your leg brace, you’ve made it?” Silco asks, leaning forward. Jayce bristles.

“I thought you were dead,” all eyes snap to him in an instant; Cassandra coughs, her eyebrows knitted together as she stares at him in a way that comes off as a warning. Viktor doesn’t move an inch, stoic and calm - Jayce cannot help but wonder how much of him remains.

Silco smirks.

“Not everyday you meet a Piltie who is so bold,” he muses, taking a sip of his tea.

Cassandra starts looking apologetic and regretful, as if it’s only now that she’s realising that recommending someone mentally unstable was not a good idea.

“I apologise,” he forces himself to say, lowering his gaze, “I was at the bridge, the night of the uprising. I dragged you out of the water but I couldn’t see you breathe,” that startles Silco and, despite fear and anger, Jayce feels satisfied.

“You were where?” Cassandra hisses through clenched teeth; Jayce shrugs.

“What a nice coincidence,” Silco says, then drops four cubes of sugar into Viktor’s tea. After a moment of consideration, he drops another five.

“Are you the one who-“ Viktor stops himself. Jayce coughs.

“So, what is that you work on?” He asks, mentally congratulating himself for not bursting out sobbing. The crack in his voice is barely noticeable.

“Argumentation,” Viktor lifts up his hand; it’s robotic, made of metal. The shape is clunky and Jayce can’t help but come closer to take a look. His fingers brush on the cool surface of it; he sees the cables and gears that hold the thing together. Viktor’s voice is still mechanical, but almost sounds softer, as if the action has taken him aback. “My partners and I improved the filtering system for air, and created one for the water. We seek to improve the world. Pursue good.”

“So- you don’t replace human heads with metal?”

Silco glances up at Jayce, scrutinising him. He looks vaguely amused; if not for the shadows looming in his eyes, the smirk on his lips might’ve seemed playful.

“Haven’t had the chance to try,” comes a dry response.

“That… sounds amazing.”

“It doesn’t mean much coming from a guy who looks like the type to sign his notes every page.”

Jayce pauses. He stares at Viktor for a long while, still holding his hand in his. The quip might’ve been just a one-time comment meant to insult him, but it seemed too specific.

Cassandra interrupts them.

“Councillor Silco,” she turns to the man, raising her eyebrow. “I’ve made my offer.”

The man glances at Viktor; Jayce quickly retreats his hand, and holds it to his chest.

“It seems like you’ve got a new partner,” Silco says, a predatory smile on his face. He stands up. “Now, we have duties awaiting us. Thank you for your… kind hospitality, Councillor Kiramman.”

Jayce watches them leave, helplessly.

Cassandra turns to him and stops herself from a scolding monologue when she sees the devastated look on his face.

“Jayce?” She asks, and, oh, he almost forgot she is a mother as well. He shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, councillor. I’m out of sorts, recently. I just need a good rest.” The promise hangs empty in the air.

The hollowness in his chest is filled with a spark of irony. It seems that, no matter the circumstances, Viktor and he are bound to be partners.

Viktor should’ve just died when he had the chance to.

He groans into his pillow, feeling less like a powerful mage-maybe-Aspect and more like Runeterra’s worst partner.

He stares at the bracelet he’s clutching in his hand in disdain, the runestone and a strip of leather mocking him in his misery.

Powder is in the kitchen, being fussed over by his mother - she’s definitely apologetic, and keeps whispering about how she broke him.

The only upside of this situation is that Sky and Mel aren’t here to pester him about why he’s so upset. He wouldn’t mind seeing his friends, but it’s solitude that allows him to wallow in despair that his life has become.

“You can’t just lay in bed all day, wiseacre.”

“Watch me,” a slipper flies in his direction. He opens his mouth and gets shushed.

“Child abuse will be what I will do to you if you don’t pull yourself together,” Viktorie sits on the edge of his bed and ruffles his hair. “Talk to me-“

It’s so easy to forget how he’s an adult now, and how in the previous timeline, by this time he had no one to comfort him like this; it’s even easier to fall right into his mother’s arms.

“It’s complicated.”

“Enough not to attend a meeting Silco came up with?”

Viktor frowns and looks at her. She smiles, aware of his curiosity.

He has always been a driven man. Even upset, he prefers to keep himself busy rather than address his issues or, Janna forbid, dwell on them.

“Seems like the world of politics is not done with you yet. Councillors want to pair you up with a scientist of their own, from Piltover.”

“Surely a first step in uniting the cities in peace,” he wonders aloud. It’s a clever move; “they wouldn’t trust my research on my own. They’d be risking sabotage.”

“So you’ll get a new partner.”

“I assume both Mel and Sky might not be enthralled by this information,” he muses, earning a chuckle. “Will I-“

“You still need to attend the Academy.” There’s no room for argument and Viktor knows better by now.

“I should go, take Powder home. There’s still work at the lab that I need to finish.”

She lets him go, leaving him to wonder about the proposal. Of course he would need someone from Piltover to help introduce his work to the city; Viktor is a stranger to it, by this point. A new perspective, one capable of understanding how to tweak his designs to accommodate for Piltover's needs will be crucial for success.

The day of the meeting arrives rather soon; his time is consumed by his various projects and the surgeries he needs to perform, so he at least has half the mind to wash off blood from his clothes before Silco knocks on the door of his lab and leans on the doorframe with a sly smile.

“Ready to impress some Piltie, kid?”

Viktor puts on his mask and makes sure there’s nothing indicating breaking the ethos or illegal science on his body.

“I am rather impressed,” Silco muses, “despite your balant aversion to politics, which in itself is quite refreshing, you are capable of understanding the compromises that must be made in order to achieve our goals.”

“That’s nothing unusual,” Viktor tightens his grip on the handle of his cane, “besides, Miss Medarda made sure to indulge me in her ways. Once you spend too much around a politician you start talking like one.”

Silco hums in confirmation.

They arrive in front of a very familiar - from another lifetime - mansion. Viktor tilts his head to the side, trying to swallow down the feeling of unease that starts consuming his body and mind.

“We have an audience with councillor Kiramman?” He asks, thankful for the voice changer that manages to disguise the sudden raise of anxiety in his voice.

Silco looks slightly bored - he is a man of action, against all odds. All those pleasantries are rather exhausting, paired with boring, pointless Council meetings. Viktor can only assume that Silco is waiting for the proper time to introduce Vander to the Council - he is stalling in that matter, to keep focus off of him until his children are a bit more grown.

Attention from the Council is as profitable as it is damaging. 

Cassandra Kiramman greets them and guides them to a richly-decorated room. She waves at a maid to bring them tea.

After they are settled, she disappears for a while, explaining that she must greet the scientist she arranged this meeting for.

Silco sips his tea, holding the cup properly, mocking the mannerisms of the Topsiders. Viktor holds his cup in disdain - the tea must be bitter if Silco took a liking to it.

He’s overly aware of the situation - because the most prized investment of Cassandra Kiramman was Jayce, and if that suspicion is correct, then they might get in trouble.

She opens the doors and walks in; as Viktor feared, Jayce is following her, leaning on the doorframe in a nonchalant manner.

He isn’t wearing his House’s colour; rather, he sports a deep green button up shirt with red accents. The brace on his leg has a distinctly familiar design. Viktor smiles fondly at the sight of symbols of House Talis included in it; the familiarity of it calms his anxiety. Of course, some habits die hard.

Councillor Kiramman,” Silco greets, nodding to her. “I trust this must be the man you’ve told me about?”

Viktor’s hands start shaking so badly he has to put the cup down on the table. He folds them across his chest in a futile attempt to cover up how nervous he is.

“This,” Cassandra gestures to the being causing his hubris, standing tall while Viktor is shrinking into himself and trying to disappear into the astral plane, “is Jayce of House Talis. He is a brilliant inventor and is well known for his work on accommodations for those who need it.”

“Your leg brace, you’ve made it?” Silco asks, leaning forward. He has an analytical look in his eye, clearly judging if Jayce is the proper material for a partner for someone like Viktor; there aren’t many that can keep up with his quick pace, after all.

Jayce decides to ignore him and what he says next stunns them all.

“I thought you were dead,” Viktor almost chokes on his spit and makes a great attempt at trying to stay still.

Silco is amused, but taken aback by the comment; his eyes widen slightly before he schools his expression into a calm and careful consideration. The wariness of his movement strikes Viktor as unusual; he’s much more confident on daily basis, and yet Jayce’s words seemingly struck a cord within him.

“Not everyday you meet a Piltie who is so bold,” he muses, taking a sip of his tea. His hand shakes - if a group of enforcers was to walk in, they would be defenceless. Even with Viktor’s inventions, he would never agree to bring harm to the likes of Jayce or Cassandra. If something was to happen, they would have to rely on Mel to get them out of Stillwater.

But nothing of sorts comes; Cassandra starts looking apologetic and regretful, and Jayce coughs into his fist before talking again, averting his eyes from the pair.

“I apologise,” he mumbles, “I was at the bridge, the night of the uprising. I dragged you out of the water but I couldn’t see you breathe,” that startles Silco - he chokes on his tea and Viktor forces himself to stay still despite the instinctual urge to hit his back so he could stop coughing.

“You were where?” Cassandra hisses through clenched teeth; Jayce shrugs.

“What a nice coincidence,” Silco says, then drops four cubes of sugar into Viktor’s tea. He turns and studies Viktor’s posture - after working together for a while, he’s used to reading him like an open book; then again, Silco was always good at reading people, understanding what they wanted. It’s part the reason why he was so successful in winning the hegemony over the Lanes in the previous timeline - he sees the disappointment and drops another five sugar cubes into Viktor’s tea.

“Are you the one who-“ Viktor stops himself. Jayce hasn’t noticed the cane resting behind them, on the sofa. But if he were on the bridge that night, then it must’ve been him who helped Mel get back home; and it must’ve been him who made his crutch.

For a genius, Viktor starts feeling overwhelmingly stupid.

This would mean that Jayce succeeded in what Viktor was trying to achieve that night - finding Silco - and that he must’ve had a reason to be on the bridge. No normal Piltie would’ve attempted to sneak to the middle of a failing uprising without something to justify such a reckless decision.

And a horrible, naive and hopeful part of Viktor is suddenly aware that he might’ve been the reason. Perhaps Jayce took such a risk to find him.

“So, what is that you work on?” Jayce.

“Argumentation,” Viktor lifts up his hand; the one that he lost to a kettle, promising himself to strangle Mel and Sky before they have a chance to tell how he lost it. 

Jayce comes closer, in a familiar disregard to Viktor’s personal space.

His fingers brush on the cool surface of the metal; 

“My partners and I improved the filtering system for air, and created one for the water. We seek to improve the world. Pursue good.” Viktor says, hoping it’s enough to erase the tension caused by his not-that-convincing acting from the other day.

“So- you don’t replace human heads with metal?”

Silco almost bursts out laughing and Viktor glares at him. It’s all the fault of his kids, after all.

“Haven’t had the chance to try,” he forces himself to say.

“That… sounds amazing.”

“It doesn’t mean much coming from a guy who looks like the type to sign his notes every page.” He quips, hoping that Jayce will pick up on the meaning behind it. The tease seems ancient by now, but it’s ever-so present in his memory.

Cassandra interrupts them.

“Councillor Silco,” she turns to the man, raising her eyebrow. “I’ve made my offer.”

Silco glances at Viktor; Jayce quickly retreats his hand, and holds it to his chest.

“It seems like you’ve got a new partner,” Silco says, absolutely amused by the situation. He stands up. “Now, we have duties awaiting us. Thank you for your… kind hospitality, Councillor Kiramman.” It is clear that he caught onto how uneasy Viktor is.

They start leaving - when Cassandra isn’t looking, focused on Silco, Viktor takes the cup with his tea and sneaks out with it in his hands - call it a parting gift, one marking the beginning of a new partnership.

They are past the bridge when Silco finally speaks.

“You know that boy.”

It’s calm and calculated; Viktor doesn’t see any reason to argue.

“He’s the only person I’ve found capable of looking beyond the surface,” as Silco told him: he will meet people as bad or worse than him. And Jayce burned like a supernova, and it’s rather poetic that a blacksmith by trade was the one who melted Viktor’s metal heart.

They were bound to destroy one another and yet still reach towards each other; a sun that will burn everything in its way, and a planet; a festering disease that cannot be cured.

He lingers, glancing at the Piltover’s side of the bridge - it’s bright and full of life; Zaun is too, in its own way, but Viktor would be a liar if in this moment he hasn’t been missing the life he could’ve led. Stumbling to Jayce’s apartment, notebook in his hand, crutch in the other, and a mind full of ideas, not yet corrupted by a vision of doomed timelines and hopeless choices.

With one last look, he turns and directs his footsteps towards home.

It’s two days later that Viktor finds himself regretting most of the choices he made.

The uniform seems too tight; the material rubs on his skin in an unpleasant manner. He tried to ease the tension by untying his tie, and only succeeds in achieving a look of a messy party-goer type of students.

Some freshmen he knows by sight from one of his classes glances at him and start whispering among each other, clearly wondering what had he done to be called to Heimerdinger’s office twice during the same month.

The door opens and the yordle invites him inside; his poro is sleeping in the corner.

Viktor, once again, takes a seat in the armchair that is too close to the ground to be good for his knees and forces a pleasant smile onto his lips.

“Professor,” he greets, his fingers tightening around the handle of his crutch. “I was under the impression that I have cleared my name of any unfortunate accusations?”

“Yes, yes, my boy-“ Heimerdinger walks to his desk and sorts papers laying on it. “You have a terribly bright mind.”

Somewhere inside Viktor’s mind, a spark of recognition appears.

“You are a very talented individual, my boy. But,” he tuts, folding the papers and putting them in a folder; “there are no Gioparas currently residing in Piltover.”

“Ah,” Viktor’s lips are pressed into a tight line. Heimerdinger, for his part, does look apologetic. “No, there are not.”

“You weren’t enlisted, my dear boy,” Professor quickly says; Viktor knows there’s no sense in arguing against it. He relived this conversation during many, many sleepless nights before his situation got settled. His mentor had his sources and had done a thorough research to catch his lie.

“No, I was not,” he knows what will come next - it’s a formality, of course; but the Academy has to set an example. He spent a week in a holding cell last time he was caught, until Heimerdinger took pity on him - not an actual pity, since he would not waste his efforts on someone he didn’t perceive as deserving of a chance - and took him in as his assistant.

“Are you even from Piltover?” Before he can answer, he’s interrupted. Professor frowns deeply and twists the end of his moustache between his fingers. “No, there is no record of you. How did you manage to sneak in?”

“That would’ve been my doing,” a calm and confident voice interrupts.

Mel Medarda walks into the office in all her glory, smiling at Viktor.

“Ah, Miss Medarda, it is nice of you to visit. Are you taking a break from your duties?”

“You cannot blame me, professor. In the city of progress, politics tend to become… stale, after a moment. It is rather refreshing to be among minds not yet shaped by greed and power.”

Heimerdinger hums.

“And how are you involved with Viktor here?”

“He’s my pupil,” when he directs a very harsh stare in her direction, she grins. “Under my sponsorship.”

“I was not aware that you offered a scholarship to anyone.”

“I tend to avoid such things, so as to not show bias. But Viktor is a dear friend of mine, one that I trust endlessly. I am sincerely regretful if my choice to not be public with this decision caused harm to him, or the Academy.”

“Ah, of course. That is really considerate of you, Miss.”

“So, is there a problem?”

“No, of course not!” Heimerdinger gestures for Viktor to stand up. “My dear boy, why haven’t you said so- oh, you young people and your secrets. Always scheming and running around…”

Viktor stands by Mel’s side and nudges her side with his elbow, smirking when she hisses and scowls.

“Good day, sir,” he bids his farewell and escapes.

Mel is quick to leave as well, barely containing her laughter. She giggles into her hand and leans on him slightly.

“Oh, I was so afraid I would be too late.”

“I would’ve preferred a holding cell to this,” comes a dry response.

She squeezes his shoulder and Viktor smiles, rolls his eyes and finally says:

“Thank you, Mel.”

“Oh, so you do know how to do that! And there I was, wondering if ten years of our beautiful, prosperous friendship had not taught you anything.”

“You taught me too much.”

“Not enough to not be caught,” she teases, “like a child. I was under the impression that you were capable of sneaking around.”

Viktor huffs. He looks around to see how many students had the chance to see one of the most beloved Councillors stand around and joke with him.

He catches a glimpse of a familiar figure.

“I must leave you to your fans,” he jokes, bowing his head. Mel glances around and her eyebrow twitches slightly; the smile on her face tightens into a chagrin grin. Viktor knows too well to worry.

Jayce sees him and in an instant, through a rather impulsive decision - the only kind he was capable of as of recently - follows after.

He spares a glance in Mel’s direction - she shines, a star well deserving of attention given to her.

Seeing how freely she talked to Viktor, he might’ve mistaken them for friends if he didn’t know any better.

He ignores the bell indicating that class will soon start, and does his best to avoid students running in various directions, accompanied with whispers of Mel’s visit to the Academy and hushed conversations about the newly revealed plans between Piltover and Zaun.

Viktor is sitting on the edge of his hideout. It’s a familiar scene, and though Jayce’s heart takes a wild leap in his chest at the sight of his partner being so close to falling, he cannot hell but call once again, for the old time’s sake:

“Am I interrupting?” Viktor is quicker. His voice is pleasant, human. The metallic tinge Jayce heard last time is absent, replaced with a thick accent, clinging to the words like honey.

“You have a face,” he mumbles, and Viktor’s eyes widen. He curls into himself and Jayce takes a step closer, ready to assist him during one of his coughing fits- but Viktor is laughing, his lips parted, the upper lip curled upwards, revealing his teeth.

He looks at Jayce and his eyes are gold, then pink - they switch between the colours, and all Jayce can think about is how there must be a sunset trapped within them.

“As far as I am aware, most humans do,” he muses, amusement lacing his words.

“I thought-“ Jayce’s mind comes blank. He can’t be sure; maybe there are two versions of Viktor. The one belonging to this timeline, and the one he knows - the Herald.

“I believe this is yours,” something is forced into his hands - his bracelet.

He turns to Viktor very slowly. He takes time to memorise everything - the freckles on the bridge of his nose, the dark circles underneath his eyes; the smile lines and his beauty marks.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” He asks, his voice shaking.

Viktor hesitates; his hand is outstretched in Jayce’s directions but he lingers, unsure of closing the distance between them.

“Jayce-“ he’s swept into his arms.

“I’ve found you,” Jayce whispers into his hair, holding him tightly. For a moment, he can swear he can hear the wind sing. “You’re here.”

“Jayce,” Viktor clings to him, and neither of them are sure of who starts sobbing first, unraveling in their partner’s arms; but for a moment, one thing becomes a constant, and is embroidered into the Universe itself as something even death could not part - they are together.

Chapter Text

Interlocked in an embrace, two dying stars shine again; Viktor carries the weight of the universe on his shoulders; his whole world, half-collapsed in his arms, sobbing and whispering his name until his voice gives out.

Jayce meets his eyes and shivers; they’re intense, different from what he so vividly remembers - the gold isn’t a constant anymore; it swirls and changes, and he has always found sunsets pretty, so it’s only fair they’re forever reflected in his partner’s eyes.

“We should talk,” Viktor speaks first, his voice shaking, a half-choked sob trapped somewhere within it. Jayce shakes his head and sighs.

“Later,” he pleads, a guilty man, selfish and cruel. “I just- I need this,” he whispers; stranded in the middle of a desert, finding water again; his will to keep going. “Just for a moment.”

Viktor indulges in this guilty pleasure of theirs; easily slipping into something familiar, a routine long forgotten and yet never done before.

They both changed, perhaps not yet for the better, but changed for good; still, they fit in each other’s arms just the same.

Jayce’s breath is shaky when Viktor cradles his head in his hands, his long fingers entangled in his dark hair; only when his fingertips travel towards the marks on his forehead does he move, pulling apart.

His partner’s eyes shine, and he looks perplexed and apologetic, with a tinge of scientific curiosity if his.

Ridden with guilt, Jayce wipes at his forehead, revealing the fingerprints carved into his skin, a constant reminder of his belonging.

“I’m not scared,” he chokes when Viktor’s expression turns sour, rooting into the same self-hatred he always held within his heart.

“I hurt you,” he mumbles, mournful. Jayce shakes his head and, with a trembling hand, grabs Viktor’s and guides it back to his forehead.

“I’m a blacksmith. I’ve always found comfort in the warmth that could easily hurt me.” He closes his eyes when Viktor’s fingertips press on the pearly imprints, forcing down the shiver that threatens to run down his spine.

Despite the warmth of his hand, the material of the gloves he’s wearing far from the cold metallic fingers he remembers branding him on top of the Hexgates, Jayce still has to surpass the urge to flinch violently.

He isn’t as good at hiding his fear behind a cocky attitude as he remembers, because Viktor withdraws his hand and averts his eyes. They turn blue, then gray.

“I don’t hate you,” Jayce tries again. He rehearsed this speech many times, pressing his own fingers to the fingerprints left on his forehead, pretending he can feel Viktor’s delicate hand. “I’m sorry.”

Viktor wonders how jealous the stars must be that Jayce’s light outshines them all.

“What for?”

“Because I wish that we haven’t changed, and that I wasn’t damaged in a way that hurts you.”

Because those pearly fingerprints that Jayce took for something intimate are also acting as a reminder of Viktor’s biggest regret and biggest failure. They speak of his guilt, forever visible for the world to see - that he once would’ve doomed even Jayce to accomplish his goals.

“You’re not damaged, Jayce,” he scolds, and takes his hand into his. He looks at the rune, fond and melancholic. “I have always wished we could accomplish so much together.”

“You didn’t need me for it,” Jayce hates how bitter his voice sounds; Viktor is surprised by it, his eyes widening and fingers pressing into the runemark on his hand a bit harder.

“But what life would it be, devoid of you?”

Jayce takes his hand again, this time removing the glove first. The runemark twin to his own is on its palm, taunting him.

Like a red string, they’re forever guided to each other, because only then can they live fully.

He presses Viktor’s hand to his cheek, then back to his forehead.

Viktor hesitates, his eyes glimpsing upwards, to the fingerprints.

“Jayce-“

“I need this. And you do too. You’re my partner.”

He doesn’t say that Viktor is not a monster; Jayce isn’t the one who deserves to make the judgement of that, especially since a monster is not that bad of a thing to be.

The touch is cold, and he immediately thinks that Viktor must’ve neglected the blood-circulation exercises, or hasn’t been able to afford the medicine that helps his body regulate temperature properly.

Then, albeit briefly, he thinks of the puppet; of the conversion, of the mindless army controlled by a hivemind every soul was intended to be assimilated into.

And finally, he thinks of Viktor, and the nine years they could’ve spent together.

“You always made fun of me for signing my belongings,” his breath hitches, and he looks up at Viktor with his big, hazel eyes, “and yet, you’re just as egotistical, marking me as your own so everyone can see who I belong to.”

Viktor’s hand is shaking and he presses it into the fingerprints, careful and gentle.

Jayce shivers, tears shining in his eyes. There is no calamity, no force dragging his mind into the arcane. It’s a catharsis long needed, one he awaited since the moment he appeared in that school yard.

“Is that what you are now? Mine?” Viktor teases softly.

“I’ll be whoever you want me to,” Jayce answers; there’s a choked sound, and he sees that Viktor is sobbing, a grief-stricken heartbreak written all over his features.

“You cannot be my Jayce then, he never belonged-“

“I don’t give a shit, Viktor,” he barks, snuffling out the flame of the argument before it consumes them like a fire. “I’m not an investment, or Piltover’s golden boy. I am Jayce of House Talis, and I looked for you in every timeline, even before I knew your name. I belong where I want to, and it’s by your side.”

Viktor moves forward and presses their foreheads together.

“Why do you always persist, you stubborn man.”

“You would’ve found me too boring if I didn’t.”

He chuckles wetly.

“I wished to find you, a year after I first appeared here. I had to- I wished that I could accomplish something first, to atone for my sins, before I reached out.”

“You were doing what you thought was right,” Jayce defends.

“We both know that is a rather lazy excuse. This isn’t an argument that can be won with those.”

They look at each other, silent. Jayce takes a deep breath, his hands shaking; it’s only thanks to Viktor’s gentle touch that he doesn’t dig his fingers into the infected skin.

“Nine years. Nine years we could’ve spent together-“ his voice is choked, and he closes his eyes and rubs at his face. It’s grief-stricken, he knows it from how upset Viktor looks, as if it’s hard to comprehend that Jayce would like to spend the rest of his life by his side, and those nine years really are a cruel joke the universe had in store for them.

“We’re here now. Dwelling on what could’ve been won’t change anything,” Viktor tells him. “Though, if we are talking about our endeavours,” he gestures vaguely to his leg. “If I may-?”

“I fell off a rooftop when I snuck out, trying to get to the Undercity. Gods, if I knew- The bone ruptured through the skin and caused serious nerve damage.”

Viktor hums, a complicated look in his eyes.

“I applaud you for the design of the brace. It’s very nice.”

“Well, I did have seven years of practice, and a very demanding client.”

“Oh, is that what I am now? Your client?” Viktor teases, his words like salvae to Jayce’s wounds, easing the pain.

“You are… everything.”

Viktor stills, caught off guard.

“You don’t have to-“ Jayce’s voice trails on, the way it always did in Mel’s presence, when he complimented her without expecting anything back. Viktor’s hands are rough, calloused, not as gentle and delicate as hers, but they cup Jayce’s cheek perfectly.

“I am glad,” he says, slow, calm, “that you are here.”

“I am too,” Jayce whispers back. Then, he coughs into his fist. “And what about you? The hand is surely new.”

Viktor takes the other glove off and scoffs, glaring at the metal connected to his body. He avoids looking at Jayce, before sighing.

“I’ve been in a horrible fight with a vicious beast. It was the only way.”

Jayce shines with concern, and Viktor promises himself to never let him talk to Mel or Sky for longer than two minutes.

“There’s so much I wish to show you,” Viktor quickly changes the subject. “Now that we can work together again.”

“As partners,” Jayce agrees, his eyes never leaving Viktor’s. He reaches out and touches the robotic hand, studying it. It’s rough, clunky at best - it’s always been him who was the designer of the outer shell of their robotics. He sees the potential in there.

And then he realises he is holding Viktor’s hand, and even made of metal, it fits right into his.

“The arcane has been seeping through,” he whispers, moving to show the colourful splatters on his skin. Something akin to guilt shadows Viktor’s face.

“Does it hurt?”

“You know, there was a time when I asked you that, and you beat me with your cane for asking stupid questions,” Jayce teases; he’s met with an unamused huff. “Sometimes. What about you? Is the Hexcore-?”

“It is gone, but not entirely, it seems,” he hums, a distant look in his eyes as their colour changes slightly. They are pink and then gold again, once he looks at Jayce. “I am a mage now, it seems.”

“Sounds like something you’d hate.”

“You have no idea,” he chuckles. “Sounds like something you’d love.”

“Of course. It’s you.” As if it always were that simple.

They look at the horizon, and Jayce sees the foliage covering the building; it climbs up the wall, around the hideout, surrounding it with green.

Butterflies rest in the blooming flowers, and it’s mid-winter so there shouldn’t be any, and Jayce is left to wonder is Viktor influenced this area by just being there.

“Do you remember, the last time we’ve been here together?” Viktor asks, his fingers curling around Jayce’s.

“I remember you, standing too close to the ledge.”

“I used to worry like that about you. I thought it would be better if I was gone, after what happened to Sky.”

“It was an accident,” Jayce argues, then sighs, his whole body tensing with deep shame. “At least you didn’t go there to mope after killing a kid.”

Viktor turns sharply to stare at him, and, with a bittersweet smile, self-depricitation evident in his voice, comments:

“It seems that we truly are perfect for each other, even causing a death of someone innocent on the same day.”

“Sky wasn’t your fault. You were trying to save yourself.”

“You’d never do that,” Viktor snidely adds, his eyes dull and grey. Jayce bristles.

“I would’ve done worse,” he did, fusing Viktor’s corpse with the Hexcore in a devastatingly desperate attempt at bringing him back, because there was no dreaming if he was faced with the solitude of the night.

Orpheus would’ve turned back, called to Eurídice and cry over losing her; Jayce was no tragic hero, he would’ve thrown himself off into the depths of the Void after Viktor, or would’ve torn him from death’s grasp, defying the impossibility of it.

“I should go now.”

Jayce pauses and looks up, his heart stuttering. He doesn’t grovel nor beg, but he does stare wordlessly, his heartbeat pulsating in his ears.

“What- I just go you back-“

Viktor looks at him, finally, frowning slightly. The calculating expression on his face shifts into something that carries guilt.

“We’ll be late for classes, Jayce,” he reminds gently, and that causes him to pause.

The world seemed to stop existing when they finally reached each other - but, quite unfairly, it kept going, yet another proof of its cruelty.

“Right-“ he stands up as well, still holding Viktor’s hand. “I don’t think I care about them right now.”

His partner tilts his head to the side.

“So, what do you wish to do now?”

“You told me that you wanted to show me what you accomplished,” Jayce tries, a sly smile gracing his lips; he guesses, from how eager Viktor seems to be to avoid his classes, that he’s been looking for a decent enough excuse to leave either way.

“I’m beginning to think you’ve become reckless with how many people you trust with this laboratory, and have compromised some of your projects.”

Doctor Reveck stares at Jayce, displeased. He’s holding a vial of new synthetic antibiotic he busied himself with developing - something that would aid the immune system in fighting against most common diseases - and is overly unimpressed.

He returns to his work without acknowledging them any further. When met with Jayce’s questioning stare, Viktor shrugs.

“My mentor, doctor Reveck,” he says, nodding to the scientist. Jayce looks at him, then at Viktor, then back at the evident ethos breaking happening in front of them, as doctor Reveck pulls out a spleen out of what Viktor likes to call his organ drawer.

Though Jayce’s expression screams THAT’S WHERE YOU LEARNT LAB SAFETY FROM? he smiles politely, definitely losing the mental image of a nice scientist who taught Viktor all he knew.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Is that inconvenience going to be added to your collection, and walk in on ungodly hours, chirping about whatever nonesense it is currently occupied with?” His tone is flat and dry. Jayce’s smile slowly disappears.

Viktor coughs.

“Jayce is my partner, and his work is brilliant,” he defends Jayce’s ego.

Reveck hums, disinterested.

“Allow me to show you my work,” Viktor tells Jayce, leading him around the lab.

He shows him the proesthetics, watching with fondness as Jayce begins to explain necessary changes to optimalize the designs, sketching out his ideas and showing them to Viktor with excitement and a wild spark in his eye.

The air filters, the ones used in water, the Hexclaw - at which Jayce does smile with badly hidden nostalgia - are all met with amazement.

“We calibrated the runemarks to respond to each other,” he explains, showing him the artificial lungs. “They adapt to the patient. Thanks to my talent to channel the arcane I am capable of bringing an energy force that acts as a battery of sorts, without pushing the magical plane to its limits with my demands.”

“That’s- that’s wonderful.”

“It’s like we theorised - using magic to help people, to cure illnesses, to find a key to successful augumentations, preserving fauna and flora-“

“Curing you?”

Viktor pauses, his eyes drifting to Jayce’s lips; his own are stretched slightly into a soft smile, something melancholic filling up his heart.

“You said the same after we started experimenting with the Hexcore,” he reminisces; the reminder isn’t bitter, but soft, needed. It tugs at Jayce’s heart. “We should focus on sharing our accomplishments with others, not on our own egotistical ambitions,” he jokes. “We can help the world with this.”

“What is the world worth if you’re not in it?” Jayce stands close; they brush against each other.

“Always so egotistical,” Viktor teases, his hands drifting to Jayce’s face. He lets him lean into the one with the runemark, before pinching his cheeks.

His partner yowls in surprise.

“What was that for?”

“Focus,” Viktor smirks. “One would’ve said that you’ve grown soft.”

“As if it’s a bad thing to be,” Jayce scoffs and rolls his eyes. “I don’t care about what people think of me.”

“I can tell,” comes a dry response, met with an indificant “Oi!”, though it is immediately followed by Viktor’s amused: “I really do like the beard, though.”

Jayce thinks it makes him look ragged, out of place in the perfect picture of Piltover. But he enjoys having this part belong to himself; no urge to check himself in the mirrors, searching for anything out of place in his reflection.

“It does look nice, right?”

“So vain,” Viktor walks further, moving to the area with heavy machinery - the big filters they use for the vent system. Jayce rolls his eyes and follows him, scratching the back of his neck.

“You’ve done amazing things,” ones that make him feel as if he hadn’t accomplished enough as of yet, still wandering blindly around what he should focus on next. There’s no big project for him to follow - besides the partnership orchestrated between Viktor and him for the prize of uniting the cities and granting Zaun freedom.

“But I do need your expertise. We dream best together,” Viktor turns to him, “you’re my partner. I would be nothing without you.”

“I wouldn’t be without you, at all,” Jayce whispers and his eyes flicker to Viktor’s; so much have changed, so many things are left unspoken, and yet the bond between them is still here, and despite almost a decade of separation it’s like no time has passed when they weren’t together.

They fall back into the routine of being partners, like it’s their nature.

They start discussing their ideas - a plan takes shape inside Jayce’s head, he sketches out his projects, a prosthetic hand for Viktor that will be elegant and slim and perfect, several other additions and improvements to his equipment and current designs.

They bicker, go back and forth arguing, and fall into a comfortable working pace, interrupted only by Reveck’s slow footsteps as he leaves the lab.

It’s nearing evening when they finish - somehow, in a way that shouldn’t be possible, it’s Viktor who announces that they should finish for today. They wrap up their ideas and Jayce especially takes his time with some basic math equations, because the thought of the day ending fills him with dread.

They walk outside and he looks in the direction of the bridge, not longingly but instead hyper aware of its existence and meaning; a border that traps him far from Viktor.

He waits for goodbye, bitter and dull, all the wonder and joy leaving him slowly.

“It is late,” Viktor hums, looking at the people running around, going home after finishing their shifts.

Jayce doesn’t turn to look at him, because the temptation to beg him to not leave is too great.

“You should stay for the night,” Viktor finally says, slow and deliberate. Jayce turns to stare at him at that, bewildered by how forward the invitation is.

His partner doesn’t quiver; he stays strong, confident, with a smug look on his face, as if he’s aware that he rendered Jayce speechless.

The manners he was taught start pressing on his skull; a habit to refuse, to say that he doesn’t want to impose - but he knows Viktor, and he knows better.

There were nights, back then, in their old timeline, when they finished work late, and were too sleep deprived to risk staying at the lab without causing an accident - Heimerdinger forbade them from being in a close proximity of their equipment if they haven’t slept in three days.

Jayce had lived not across the city, but not exactly midtown either; Viktor’s apartment, however, was close - a courtesy of his mentor, who, during Viktor’s time as his assistant, needed him close.

So they usually stumbled into Viktor’s apartment when they were so exhausted they started tasting colours. And then, most often than not, they collapsed on the floor, and snored away until morning came - and with it, an eager knock of Heimerdinger’s little fist.

“Do you have a bed in here?” He asks instead of arguing. Viktor scoffs.

“Of course,” he says, because it is quite an obvious thing, to be able to allow himself some quick rest before returning to the more time-and-energy consuming projects. “But I was thinking about taking you home.”

“Lead the way,” Jayce tells him right away, eager to follow.

Viktor knocks on the doors and waits; Jayce jumps in place when the doors open, revealing a tall woman with gold eyes.

“Mum, this is Jayce,” Viktor shrinks into himself, and Jayce has to do a double take, because this man is not one who lacks confidence, and yet he is mumbling like a child.

Then the title he called the woman registers, and he starts sweating, trying to make a great first impression, while thinking of ways to drown Viktor for not warning him about such a thing; he would’ve brought flowers, at the very least. Perhaps some meals, or chocolate.

“It’s an honour to meet you, madam,” he nods to her, plastering the “Man of Progress” smile onto his face.

She looks up at him, then at her son.

“Oh, he’s yours,” she says, gleeful and fond. “Are you a mage as well?”

She says it so simply, laying it out as if it’s not a huge deal - as if Piltover and Undercity weren’t taught to fear such power.

Jayce feels ashamed, because he was under the impression that most Zaunites were cautious and wary, that kindness was something uncommon; and yet Viktor’s mother greets him like he’s her child.

Viktor, in the meantime, joins in on the mental plans of drowning himself. He knows better than to scold his mother, the wet rag in her hand is a fearsome weapon, after all,

“No, but I was touched by the arcane before,” he’s honest, settling on what he thinks is best; it must be a mistake, because the woman turns sharply to Viktor, her voice cold, though there’s a hint of amusement hiding in her features.

“So nice and honest. Open from the start.”

“I keep something from you one time-“

“Do not argue with me, wiseacre,” she looks up at Jayce and smiles, stepping to the side. “Come on in, any friend of Viktor’s is welcome in our house.”

“Partner,” Jayce corrects, instinctually. She preens, studying him with her sharp eyes.

There’s a beauty mark underneath her right eye, and another on the left side of her forehead.

And her eyes are just as piercingly gold as Viktor's once were.

She hums, not saying a word, though she watches him closely as he walks in.

There’s a man sitting on the couch, a layer of bandages tied around his torso. He looks up and waves, friendly but there’s a hint of wariness in his eyes.

He has a bowl of fruit on his lap that looks a bit too expensive for Jayce to buy.

“Jayce will be staying the night,” Viktor looks at him for confirmation and he nods, not exactly unsure but suddenly aware that his partner has an actual family and Jayce maybe should’ve insisted that he doesn’t want to impose, just to be nice.

“Knowing your tendencies, he will stay forever.” The man - Viktor’s father, as Jayce assumes - laughs, and earns a hit from his wife.

“They’re partners,” she says with a smile, and Viktor glares at her.

“Let’s leave them,” he leads Jayce to a small room at the end of the hallway; there’s a bed in there, one with a nice fitting and a silk duvet. 

There are many prototypes and blueprints laying around, and the room is so full of Viktor’s influence that Jayce strangely feels like he both belongs and is an outsider.

He sits on the bed, then lays down on his back and looks at the ceiling; when he feels the weight on the mattress shift as Viktor sits down next to him, an amused giggle spills past his lips.

It slowly turns into a full body laugh, and then, to his utter horror, into a choked sob, one that gets stuck in his throat before many more throw it out.

It’s loud, ugly and shameful.

“Jayce?” Viktor lays down, facing him; Jayce turns his head, laughing and crying, a moon reflecting the light of the sun.

His vision flickers, and there’s the Machine Herald reaching out to touch his forehead, but he keeps on staring, because it will forever be Viktor’s gentle touch under that otherworldly appearance.

“You’re here,” he says, as if it explains everything. Maybe it does.

The Herald’s mask; the face split in the middle; tilts and washes away into the face of Human Viktor, with gold lines and swirls on his skin.

The instinct to flinch, to move back when Viktor touched his face is ever so present, but Jayce spent too much time on imagining a scenario worse than this to lose control.

“I’ve never met your parents,” he says once he calms down; Viktor looks at him.

“My father died of what would eventually start killing me too, when I was young. My mother died sometime during our partnership, if I recall correctly.”

“Shit- I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Viktor blinks, searching for something in his eyes. “If anything, I should be thanking you. I’ve got to meet them again. What about you?”

“It’s only my mother and I,” he rasps, voice hoarse after crying. “She will love you so much.”

“I’m sure, I’m quite the company.”

Jayce moves closer; he can feel Viktor’s breath on his skin. He looks into his eyes; the brilliant gold fills them up, not an echo of his partner but his actual soul reflected in his irises.

Jayce hesitates, the memory of Mel’s warmth, however distant, still present on his skin; a burn on his soul, capable of harm as much as it’s capable of warmth.

And then he thinks of how he never forgot how to be in Viktor’s presence.

And they both came back changed, different, a little strange - and they still fit together.

“Only you,” he whispers; Viktor’s eyes widen, pink seeping through, streaks of it swimming around in the gold. “In every timeline.”

He interlocks their hands, the runemarks brushing against each other.

No soul is really bound to another, and yet it feels like some are destined to be closer, drawn by fate or by choice.

“I don’t think that there’s a version of me incapable of loving you.”

He leans in and closes the distance.

Chapter Text

No matter how many times he blinks, the ceiling above him doesn’t disappear. Neither does Jayce’s warm body, his presence filling the entire room, just like it used to, back then.

He holds his hand up in front of his face, examining it once again.

The edges of the rune carved into it had soften as years passed, and nowadays it looks faint; a souvenir of a past left behind long ago.

He brushes the rune on Jayce’s hand, twin to his, with his fingers. Two souls that found each other, across every timeline, every reality.

There’s a butterfly on the windowsill - it’s no longer an unusual sight for Zaun, as the air pollution is almost nonexistent thanks to all the hard work they put in managing it.

Its wings flutter, and it flies away, circling outside Viktor’s home before it’s gone, the iridescent wings disappearing somewhere far away.

He lays his head down on Jayce’s shoulder, his cold skin colliding against the warmth comparable to the forge. He traces the outline of the jagged lines of arcane infection that are crawling up Jayce’s skin, the colorful splatters complementing his body, in a surreal, concerning way.

“Do you ever sleep?” Jayce’s hoarse voice interrupts his thoughts. Viktor smiles wryly, wrapping himself in the silk sheets Mel had forced upon him for his birthday.

“One of us has to be productive.”

Jayce huffs and turns, hiding his face in Viktor’s chest; the latter wonders if he can hear his heart skip. If he can sense the distant hum of the Hexcore, still present, entangled into his soul.

“I missed you,” Jayce whispers, and Viktor immediately sees that day, when his partner looked up at him and admitted that there wasn’t a single thing he wanted, besides being by his side.

“I was afraid you’d grown to despise me,” he allows himself a moment of self-deprivation, so rare nowadays. Jayce holds his hand tightly, then looks up at him, earnest and hopeful.

“How could I ever?”

As if there was no monster in this story, no mad scientist who pushed the ethos until there were only scraps of it left.

As if he didn’t take and take, never perfect enough, always mirroring Mel in a twisted way, a shadow to her light.

“You chose me,” he says slowly, and it’s the first time in nine years that he’s able to admit it. Jayce shrugs, his long hair falling on his face like a curtain.

“Of course,” he says, like it’s obvious.

The truth is, without Jayce, Viktor had no one to look back at, to turn and wonder about. His commune was dead, whatever bond he might’ve created with Vander and his kids gone and rotten, destroyed by his decision to evolve him. Maybe in another world, Jinx had stayed at the commune with her sisters, and Viktor guided her inventions towards something greater than destruction.

Now, with Powder, he can see more of that potential he noticed back then.

Jayce, however, always had people he could miss. His mother was most likely waiting for him in her apartment, surrounded by reminders of his bright personality and obsession with magic - obsession that turned destructive.

Mel, no matter how pragmatic she was, surely missed him. As much as it annoyed Viktor, her love for Jayce had broken through the boundary of an investment, and she clearly had grown to be fond of him, in a way a next matriarch to Medarda’s line shouldn’t.

Caitlyn had to be heartbroken, after losing one family member after another.

And yet Jayce’s presence is unwavering, and he lays at Viktor’s side, an echo of what he once told him.

“My place is right here, with you,” Jayce adds, and Viktor hums. Suddenly all his achievements for Zaun fade in comparison of what they once accomplished together.

He glances at Jayce and, to his utter surprise, sees the exact same look - as if his partner is ashamed of not being great enough.

They always were slaves to their own ambitions.

„I cannot wait to change the world with you, again.” Viktor tells him, a futile attempt to escape their own fears. Jayce laughs, and Viktor never thought he could yearn to hear a sound so rich and sweet for the rest of his life.

“Hopefully we’ll do better this time.”

Jayce’s eyes wander around the room, stopping briefly at the crutch standing in the corner. His eyebrows are knotted together in a frown, a calculating look crosses his face; one that Viktor distinctly remembers from their lab, when they tried to decipher runes or solve a calculation they had made up ten minutes prior.

“That’s my cane,” he says finally, and Viktor raises his eyebrows in response, eyeing him up and down.

“I am afraid that I am rather familiar with the crutch I’ve been using for months now.”

Jayce looks at him, then glances back at the crutch, and makes a face as if it had offended him.

“No. It doesn’t make sense.”

Suddenly, Viktor starts feeling giddy, as he becomes aware of what exactly doesn’t fit to finish the puzzle piece that Jayce is attempting to solve in his mind.

“My best friend has forced this upon me,” he can almost hear Mel’s faint and offended ‘it’s a gift, please learn how to thank for those, you disaster of a man’.

“But-“ Jayce blinks, and rubs at his eyes, as if trying to clear his view from something that shouldn’t be there. Viktor’s crutch, however, remains despite his attempts. “I’ve made this.”

“It is one of your finest works, if I do say so myself,” Viktor compliments him, and revels in how utterly confused and lost Jayce looks. It’s far more enjoyable than addressing all of their past mistakes and just how much they missed each other.

“Mel Medarda ordered this,” Jayce’s voice is hollow, his mind far away. “We assembled it together.”

“And you did well.”

There’s a moment of silence, then:

“I thought I was your best friend?”

Viktor laughs, and coughs into his fist, then starts laughing again, louder, harder. He leans in and kisses the corner of Jayce’s lips, saviouring the moment; how disheveled he looks, how much he doesn’t belong neither to Piltover nor the Council, but instead is in charge of his own fate. How, in a way, this separation caused them both to be free in a way they weren’t before.

“You’re my partner, Jayce.”

Jayce shivers and his big hazel eyes stare into Viktor’s. Then he scowls.

“You’re distracting me. What do you mean- how does Mel and best friend land as synonyms in your vocabulary?”

“I’ve grown to appreciate her presence. She can be quite enjoyable when she doesn’t put on a facade of a heartless politician who only cares about gaining power. And she’s rather endearing, at times.”

Jayce looks like he is seconds from fainting.

“That’s it, you’ve lost your mind,” he decides and Viktor rolls his eyes, fond and annoyed.

“Luckily for us you’ve kept yours, apparently.”

“Low blow.”

“I could go lower,” Jayce’s breath stutters at the comment and he stares at him, wide eyed and uncertain.

Viktor huffs and sits up, preparing to start the day.

He puts in his clothes, his brace; watches Jayce repeat the movement on his own, tightening the belt and securing the clasps.

“Are you alright with skipping classes?” Viktor’s voice is tinged with playful curiosity. Jayce grins.

“You say that as if we need them. As if we can learn anything from them.”

“Then, are you feeling up for a challenge, Jayce?”

“You’re speaking my language.”

Perhaps Viktor should’ve expected for the lab to not be deserted; Mel has a talent in perception, and she surely noticed how Viktor abandoned his classes, and how doctor Reveck seemed more annoyed than usual.

She’s deep in a conversation with Sky when they arrive, bickering and tustling each other’s hair - Viktor comments how Jayce looks good with hair that’s unruly, and Jayce barks back how Viktor looks good always.

Her head tilts, the magic within her feeling Viktor’s own in close proximity, moreso after bringing Blitzcrank back to life. Sky turns slowly, following her gaze.

“Hello?” She sounds uncertain, and Viktor nods as a greeting. Jayce’s hand clasps around his shoulder and he smiles brightly, though the corners of his lips twitch in the same way Viktor distinctly remembers his did; there’s guilt that is a heavy burden to carry, lingering in their bones. Mistakes from another life, or an echo of them, still capable of guiding their choices.

“I’m Viktor’s partner,” he starts, then sheepishly adds: “my name is Jayce.”

“Oh, you’ve brought another one? So that’s why doctor Reveck is so annoyed today?” Sky laughs, then extends her hand to Jayce. “Sky Young, it’s an honour to meet you. Welcome to our team.”

“I suppose I don’t have to be introduced,” Mel stares at him, analytical and cold. Viktor sees through the facade - her calculating gaze, how it lingers on how close they stand to each other, how Jayce hovers around Viktor, buzzing with nervous energy.

“I suppose not,” to Viktor’s surprise, Jayce sounds weirdly cold. Mel sends him a playful smile.

“Your work is really good, Viktor is fond of the crutch you made. It was truly amazing that we’ve got to meet, all those years ago.”

Sky tilts her head, corrects her glasses, pushing them up. Viktor shrugs.

“You were searching for Viktor?” Jayce asks, voice wavering. Mel smiles sadly.

“As were you, if I stand corrected. What a shame it is, that fate was so cruel, to keep you apart.”

Viktor shakes his head and elbows Jayce’s side.

“Stop being emotional in my lab. We’ve got work to do.”

“We should address that-“

“Not in my lab,” Viktor grabs his mask from his desk and taps his fingers on it. He notices Jayce’s unwavering gaze, and offers him a coy smile.

“It looks… the line placement-“ his partner tries his best to not look uneasy. The vague memory of Viktor’s face split in half is forever present in both his memory and his various sketchbooks.

“It is a fine design, is it not? An attempt at getting him to care about lab safety,” Mel chimes in, leaning over Jayce’s shoulder. His breath hitches and Viktor looks up at him, raising his eyebrows.

“It’s… nice.”

Sky snorts, covering her mouth.

“That’s the one thing people say when they don’t like something,” she laughs and shakes her head. “Don’t worry, you become accustomed to how uneasy it is, at times. It’s probably the main reason he still has a face in place.”

Viktor’s eyes narrow dangerously. Mel laughs.

“It’s the truth. He lost his hand trying to heat up a kettle with a death ray. It’s only fair of us to assume he would’ve been all made of metal if we left his life in his own hands.”

Runeterra doesn’t have a way to measure just how quickly Jayce turns his head towards Viktor.

“You lost your hand how?!”

“I can’t believe you lied to me.”

“I won’t apologise for it, as I stated seventeen times already.”

Jayce huffs, but his eyes sparkle with mischief and amusement that betray just how exactly he’s feeling.

He places his hand on Viktor’s waist, bringing him closer. They’ve been exiled from their - their, Jayce’s heart celebrates - lab for Viktor’s death threats towards Mel. She was enjoying herself, though there was some leftover quilt lingering in her gaze, perhaps caused by the surreal realisation that she could’ve been the catalyst needed for them both to meet sooner.

Piltover doesn’t seem quiet, but it is far calmer than Zaun. Once, Jayce would’ve wished for this evening, knowing it was a hope resting out of his reach. During his stay in the chasm, between trying to stabilise his leg and swallowing down any vomit caused by eating raw newts, he hallucinated visions of calm afternoons and early evenings.

Sometimes he would see himself resting in the lab, the blanket he’s given Viktor wrapped around his shoulders in a caring manner. Other times he was with Mel, ordering something expensive as if it could impress her - the borderline childish naivety he once had, the urge to please her and outshine any other people she might’ve come to know and be fond of.

Most times, he dreamt of solving Hextech together with Viktor, of inviting him to Ximena’s and laughing as he tried his best to refuse dinner.

Idyllic, soft and theirs - a future he always wanted, or at least once he was stripped of all the layers of ambition and arrogant wishing for greatness.

He laughs softly, enjoying the moment as it lasts. The fear is always there, a paranoia that’s gently seeping through even most mundane moments. He’s aware that there’s a chance he might one day wake up back there, at the bottom of the fissures. That his climb out of the ravine was just another hallucination. That everything that happened was just a figment of imagination of a dying mind.

And then, knowing his soul better than they know the air they breathe, Viktor hums a soft tune, and his hand finds Jayce’s with ease, guiding him out of this ruin.

They go to visit Ximena, because it feels natural for them to share this achievement as well - the biggest one; finding each other.

Viktor doesn’t look nervous; if he is, it’s only present in how he taps his fingers on the handle of his crutch, rhythmical and methodical in doing so.

The doors open and Ximena stands in them, wearing a plain long skirt and a shirt with puffy sleeves, both gifts created by Jayce’s hand.

Her eyes widen, and she must recognise Viktor’s face from the countless drawings Jayce so lovingly created.

She gasps, then slowly places her hands on her chest, disbelief taunting her features. The look on her face is complex, her eyes are shining and her lips are parted.

“Mum, this is Viktor. I found him.”

Viktor smiles and offers her his hand; she takes it, her own shaking. Her grip is hesitant, as if she’s wondering - just like Jayce - if Viktor will suddenly disappear, ceasing to exist without any further explanation; a trick of a broken mind.

But he stays there, present and firm in how real he is. She takes a step back, letting them in without a word.

Viktor’s crutch hits the rug, and he smiles fondly, remembering the mess it covers - blackened floorboards from one of Jayce’s childhood experiments. Some things remain constant, it seems.

Jayce looks at him, unwavering, and offers to take his jacket - so far from the nice and clean uniforms they wear for the Academy; Viktor looks like a Zaunite, more than Jayce had ever seen him.

He slowly, with a disdainful grimace, takes his shoes off, his crutch settled aside; he ignores Jayce’s insistence that he doesn’t need to do so, muttering something about lack of respect for other people’s job.

“I won’t drag mud into your mother’s apartment. I respect her too much.”

“You never had a problem dragging mud into my apartment,” Jayce scoffs, earning a coy smile in return.

“Exactly.”

Ximena watches them, her hands still shaking and her expression now sporting this guilt-ridden look, as if she’s grieving something unforgivable.

They sit down, and she stays quiet, so unlike herself; it’s Jayce who has to offer to make tea, rolling his eyes when Viktor pointedly reminds him to bring sugar back with him.

“I will let you drink your abomination, V. I remember how you take it.” It’s a brush of affection, something so trivial and yet it makes his pulse skyrocket. Viktor still remembers how Jayce likes his coffee, of how he prefers the cheapest champagne over the expensive ones, but won’t ever admit it, his pride holding him back.

Ximena is studying him, and Viktor lets her; her gaze lingers on the runes carved into his skin, then his robotic arm.

Jayce returns with the tea, settling in on the table; Viktor takes a sip and smiles, content. It’s exactly twelve spoons of sugar mixed with honey. More of a syrup than tea, and he knows that Jayce is judging his tastes.

“You didn’t-“ Ximena hesitates, her eyes still focused on Viktor’s robotics, “make him, did you?” She sounds horrified, and Viktor lets himself enjoy how Jayce grows pale and starts choking on his drink.

“What- Viktor is a person! How could I- what?”

The look in her eyes is complicated, and Viktor recognises it; it’s the one mad people face, when someone pities them but doesn’t know how to explain why without hurting their feelings. He coughs.

“It would appear that there has been a misunderstanding. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Talis. I’m Jayce’s partner, Viktor. We’ve known each other for a long time. I am,” he smiles, pointing his stare at Jayce, “fond of your work.”

“Oh- oh no,” she puts her face in her hands, shaking her head slightly. “I am so sorry-“

Jayce frowns.

“Mum, nothing bad is happening. I told you about Viktor! I swear, now you won’t have to ever worry about me ever again. Together, we will change the world.”

“Eh, the world is a bit excessive. Helping a couple people will be good enough, for now,” Viktor chimes in.

“The letter- it was from you, wasn’t it?” She looks right at him; Jayce makes a questioning noise and Viktor looks at her, surprised. “You left it in our forge?” She tries to explain.

“Oh-“ the whole reason why he believed that Jayce needed time and wanted to be apart. The whole reason why his partner’s silent presence plagued him in the back of his mind, as he tried to be good enough to be welcomed by him again. That letter. “Yes, I do recall leaving a letter there. I received no answer.”

“I burned it.”

Jayce turns to her so suddenly, his whole composure breaking. He looks as if he doesn’t recognise her, his lips parted.

“What?”

“I believed the kids that were unkind to you started mocking you. I haven’t known-“ she takes his hand, her eyebrows knitted together and forehead creased in worry. Jayce’s throat bobbles as he swallows, his voice thick:

“We could’ve been together all this time,” and they had many chances, but this- this is a confirmation, that Viktor did care and actually succeeded in reaching out, only to be left with no answer.

“It doesn’t matter,” Viktor cuts in, voice calm and loud. “You couldn’t have known. And we found each other either way. Do not cry about the past, for you can not change it.”

Oh, how loved by the sun must the moon feel, if it shines as bright as Jayce Talis.

He takes his mother’s hand into his, then, with his other one, takes Viktor’s. Their fingers are entangled together, and the twin runes shine briefly.

“I think you need to exchange some new embarrassing stories,” he offers, and Viktor rolls his eyes, smiling fondly. It’s an invitation to a routine he grew out of. He takes it.

“My mother will be glad to join in, one day.” He decides to take the blow; Jayce cannot be the only embarrassed one, and his reputation is already in shambles with the hand fiasco.

“I will gladly get to know you, Viktor.” Her eyes are soft and gentle, just as he remembers. “Please, call me Ximena.”

Chapter Text

“I’ve always hated seeing you so close to the ledge,” Viktor observes Jayce as he takes a deep breath and looks off into the distance. His hands are shaking, both holding tightly onto the railing. The balcony is big; it’s located in Mel’s apartments, after all, and it oversees the whole city. They can both see the lights on the ocean from where they’re standing.

“Funny. I could say the same thing,” Jayce turns to face him; without the concealer, the pearly imprints on his forehead almost shine against his dark skin. Viktor’s cheeks and shoulders are covered in freckles.

They both have been spending a lot more time in the sun recently.

Viktor sits down, his back against the railing. He keeps his bad leg straight, while the other is brought to his chest. He leans on his knee, his spine aching in protest.

“Do you ever think about it?”

“What’s with that question? Shouldn’t we be celebrating? It’s a good day to be alive,” Jayce tries to bicker, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s no stranger to that call of the void.

Neither is Viktor; after all, that’s how he knew where to find him.

They are silent, for just a moment. The ambient sound of the night is interrupted by celebratory calls from down below. Someone starts singing, and the whole of Zaun seems to join in, a cacophony of all beating hearts, mechanical and made of tissue, filled with magic and life.

“I still think about it, sometimes. It would only be fair,” Viktor admits. It startles Jayce out of his thoughts. “I tried to atone for my sins, and so now Jenna can take my soul and guide it through the winds to howl with them.”

“Never took you for someone religious.”

“Never was. I assume that, perhaps, some things change after becoming the Aspect of the Arcane, with a Hivemind to guide.”

“Or you’re just growing old.”

“But not boring,” Viktor adds; Jayce grins.

“Never boring,” he agrees, then, softly: “I don’t think you could be if you tried.”

Viktor hums. This independence is a fragile thing, for now. New and uncertain, with Silco and Vander to guide the people of Zaun towards a better future.

He saw Sevika attending their meetings; it’s only fair to assume that Silco wants someone he trusts to be his assistant, and, if needed, a replacement.

“To think that all we needed to do was to die,” Jayce laughs; Viktor joins in, but there’s no humour in it. This guilt will follow him forever, a trail of blood hidden by his shadow.

He considers Silco’s words, how the path to redemption is easier to walk with someone.

Jayce has his own regrets; he can see them linger in his eyes; how he smiles sadly at Mel, his hands reaching towards her skin until the last moment, when he seemingly forces himself to remember that they were never close in this world. 

How he stutters and stops himself from even mentioning Hextech, though their work together clearly reminds them both of the success of it.

Viktor sees that regret and self-doubt when Jayce traces the gold lines on his skin, the runes carved into his fingers. He looks sad, ashamed.

In any case, they were never supposed to have normal lives; their ambitions have always been too great to settle on something bland, repetitive.

But they need some rest.

They walk inside, and he immediately sits down on the ridiculously expensive rug Mel bought from some merchant.

Jayce drops next to Viktor, yelping when his leg jolts in protest against the sudden movement.

He fishes something out of his pocket, hesitating; Viktor raises his eyebrow, suspicious of what could be the reason behind his shaking hands now.

“I was wondering,” he bites his lip, then takes a deep breath. His eyes are closed, and when he opens them, they reflect the light in Viktor’s. “We should grow old, this time. Together. If you want it.”

For an elegant, precious golden boy who can sway the masses with a few charismatic gestures and words, Jayce seems uncertain; so far away from the image embroidered into Viktor’s mind.

There’s a little box in his hands; Viktor takes it, hesitating before opening it.

A single blue crystal sits inside, surrounded by cushions and runes that are supposed to absorb any energy created upon accidental impact.

When Viktor takes it, it comes to life, blue light filling the cracks. They both shield their faces, an instinct learnt a lifetime ago.

Jayce’s, guided by the same instinct that lingers in his bones with the understanding of Hextech, quickly and simply puts his hand around Viktor’s waist.

Then, in a moment so familiar Viktor starts feeling twenty eight years younger than he technically is, they both are slowly lifted off the ground; a galaxy swirlers around them, runes and magic unraveling in front of their eyes.

Jayce is still holding him, and where Viktor looks in awe at the Hexcrystal, spiralling in air, suspended in one place, Jayce looks the same way at him; a profound understanding, as there is no other person who could say they souls touched each other.

Viktor bites back a quip about how Jayce sweeps him off his feet; instead, he leans in with a coy smile gracing his lips.

“We could live somewhere far, where flowers grow.”

“I could build us a cabin by a stream,” Jayce smiles, searching for something in Viktor’s eyes; or maybe simply remembering the moment.

And Hextech will never be created, but this little moment of nostalgia, this one moment when they allow themselves to come to terms with their past, is enough to make them both look away from the ledges for some time.

“That’s why you can never be left alone. My whole bedroom is demolished. What on Runeterra were you doing?”

“Science?” Viktor tries and dodges one of his armour plates that flies his way. Mel has gotten a better understanding of her powers, and a hold on her magic. Unfortunately.

And, also unfortunately, Jayce is not as quick and is left groaning as Viktor’s mask smacks him in the head.

“That’s domestic abuse,” he accuses, and Mel only lifts her eyebrow, light slowly disappearing from her body.

“One could assume that so is wrecking my house.”

“One room,” Viktor clarifies, grinning. Granted, in their joy of floating they might’ve forgotten that all of the furniture and items in the room flew up alongside them.

Mel shakes her head, but she looks glad. The stress she’s been under has paid off; Heimerdinger congratulated her on the hard work of bringing the Council together and making sure they understand that Zaun’s freedom is not something they can go against.

There are still things to be done, deals to be taken care of. But without the threat of war looming over them, they can all rest.

She huffs and walks across the room, to the wardrobe, muttering how she needs to keep her things chained to the ground if she doesn’t want them to be moved by the brute force that is Viktor, Jayce and science.

She holds something up, and Viktor’s eyes widen; a toy boat, and a toy bird. All created by his hand.

She sits between them, letting Jayce see Viktor’s first inventions closer.

“You kept it,” the Zaunite says in wonder. She grins, so un-lady like.

“You kept me.” Mel laughs. “You are, still, weird.”

“Spoke the pot to a kettle.” Viktor rolls his eyes. He looks at Jayce, at how careful he is with those old toys. Remnants of the past, and a sign of the future they can now both discover.

A cabin by a stream. It sounds nice.