Chapter Text
In Zaun, adults sent messages to children dreading the return to school: “Call your teachers if you’re feeling sick,” they’d say, or “You can hide out in the nurse’s office until I come get you.” But at the start of summer break, why didn’t anyone say anything to the kids who didn’t want to go home? Why weren’t they given options to avoid returning to a place they clearly despised? Instead, Viktor was left wondering, So what now? The streets? The library again? Spending all day in that damp, musty place from morning to dusk wasn’t exactly comfortable. It was boring. The books, with their words slipping through his mind like sand, only made him drowsy. And if he gave in to that drowsiness, the librarian would fix him with a look—half pity, half reproach—her eyes lingering on his frayed shirt, the patches on his knees, and finally settling on the cane that propped him up, as if she’d only just noticed he couldn’t walk unaided.Viktor wondered how many kids hated school. How many hated home. And what about those who didn’t hate either? Or those, like him, who felt a gray void in both places? What happened to them?
How did they live?
— Viktor, elbows off the desk. And pay attention.
The teacher’s voice sliced through the air like a blade. Viktor, chin propped on his hand, had been staring at the leaden sky through the smudged window. He snapped upright, pretending he’d been listening, but...
—He’s completely empty,— someone whispered from the back. —A hollow shell!— another added, and the laughter spread like steam in a kitchen.
School wasn’t truly cruel—not really. No one shoved him or shouted at him, not like the bullies in Zaun’s alleys who measured their strength with fists and taunts. If Viktor stayed quiet, made himself small, and kept his eyes down, the others lost interest quickly and left him alone. It was, he supposed, the price of being invisible. The price of not being an interesting kid, of having nothing that made him an easy target for mockery. He was just… Viktor. A boy with a cane, a frail body, and a mind that wandered too fast.
—Quiet, please!— The teacher rapped her ruler on the desk. —I’m handing out your report cards now. They’re not for comparing with others, so no noise. Line up at the front, in alphabetical order.
When “Talis” was called, the classroom erupted as if a rusted gear had suddenly sparked to life.
—Jayce, show us! How’d you do in Language? Sciences?
voices shouted.
— I’m not showing you!— Jayce shot back, dodging hands grabbing for his report card.
As he passed Viktor, Jayce gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder—a warm gesture that said “don’t worry” or maybe “good luck.” Viktor barely looked up. Jayce Talis, with his easy smile and boundless energy, was everything Viktor couldn’t be... A sun in a world of gray clouds.
— Viktor. Here.
No one glanced his way when he took his report card.
His grades were mediocre, as always, accompanied by the same tired comments: “Easily distracted and forgets assignments.” “Doesn’t speak.” “Doesn’t participate.” Nothing remarkable. Nothing new. Viktor didn’t expect more from himself, so there was no room for disappointment. He was just… a villager. A “Tree B” in a script someone else had written before he was born.
—Alright, see you all next term. Enjoy your summer.
The teacher said, and the classroom exploded into a chaos of backpacks, laughter, and flying papers.The kids rushed out, shoving each other in their excitement for the start of vacation. Viktor waited until the room emptied, then stood carefully, leaning on his cane, and made his way down the stairs to the lockers, one step at a time.
His footsteps echoed in the hallway, mingling with the distant hum of pipes snaking through the building’s crumbling walls. He stored his school shoes in silence until a voice broke through.
—Not taking them with you?
It was Jayce, peeking from behind the lockers with that smile that seemed to defy Zaun’s gloom. He chuckled and added,
—Leave them here, and someone’s gonna steal them. You know how it is.
—Didn’t bring a bag.— Viktor mumbled, shrugging.
Jayce studied him for a moment, as if trying to puzzle him out, then changed the subject.
—What’re you doing for the summer project?
—Haven’t decided.
Viktor replied, his voice flat.The word “free” was a trap. A “free” summer project was anything but. He couldn’t just do nothing, but he had no ideas grand enough to impress the Piltover teachers who’d be judging their work. If they’d asked him to draw, mold clay, or write an essay—even a bad one—he’d have a starting point. But “free” was like trying to catch the steam rising from Zaun’s chimneys. And though they called it “free,” everyone knew the projects had to shine, especially for the people who looked at Zaun’s kids like they were defective. Jayce, though, didn’t seem to feel the weight of those expectations. He leaned against the lockers, a spark in his eyes.
—I’m doing magic stones.— he said. —What do you think? Stones from Piltover and stones from Zaun. The ones from Piltover shine brighter, you know? The soil up there’s cleaner, not choked with soot like here. My mom thinks it’s a dumb idea, but I think I can make something cool out of it. Wanna come with me to look for them?
—No, thanks.— Viktor said, almost automatically. Jayce frowned but didn’t push.
—You’re so boring sometimes. Even my mom rolled her eyes when I told her about the stones. Says it’s not a project “worthy of the Talis name.” Like everything’s gotta be some big invention to impress Piltover.
Viktor said nothing, but he thought, At least you have the chance to impress someone. At least you can climb. You can go up. Jayce was free—always had been. His family, the Talises, were one of the few in Zaun who’d crossed the line into Piltover, with their metalworks company crafting parts for the City of Progress’s inventions. Meanwhile, Viktor’s father worked in one of their factories, welding gears for a wage that barely kept food on the table. "—You should be grateful.— his mother would say when his father complained. —Others don’t even have that.—" The arguments at home were like the hum of the machines: constant, exhausting, inevitable, until they made his ears bleed.
Before Viktor could respond, a classmate ran by, his backpack jangling, and stopped when he saw Jayce.
—Don’t be late for choir practice, mister Storm!
—You either!
Jayce laughed, then turned to Viktor. —They’re always calling me ‘Mr. Storm.’ Say my last name, Talis, means ‘forest,’ and forests bring storms. Like I could make it rain during the summer festival or something. If I could, I’d do it on race day, just to watch everyone slip in the mud before the finish line.
Viktor didn’t answer. He knew what Talis meant in Zaun. It was a name that carried power, wealth, but also something ominous. The elders would scowl at it on nameplates, as if the name itself invited trouble. Jayce, though, seemed immune to their superstitions. He’d scratch his head and laugh, as if the whole world were a puzzle he could solve.
—Wish last names gave you powers.— Jayce said, almost to himself.
—I wouldn’t want that.— Viktor replied, his voice barely above a whisper. —I don’t have a last name. I’d be invisible forever.
He didn’t know if his ancestors were born in Zaun or had fled from somewhere worse. But having no last name was like having no shadow—a mark that you didn’t fully belong, not to Zaun or anywhere else. His parents never spoke of it, and Viktor had learned not to ask.Jayce looked at him, like he wanted to say something, but switched topics again.
—Want me to walk you to the corner?
—Don’t you have choir practice?
Viktor asked.
—It’s not far. Besides, tomorrow my mom’s relatives are coming, and the house is gonna be a total mess. All they’ll talk about is Piltover, inventions, how ‘wonderful’ the City of Progress is. — He rolled his eyes. — I’d rather walk for a bit.
Viktor nodded, and they left the school, Viktor’s cane tapping a slow rhythm against the cracked pavement. Zaun’s streets pulsed with the clatter of carts, the hiss of pipes, and the shouts of street vendors. The air smelled of metal and coal, the sky shrouded in a haze that never lifted. At the fork in the road, Jayce waved goodbye.
—See ya, Viktor! Don’t forget to think about your project!
—Bye.
Viktor muttered.He watched Jayce run off, his steps brimming with a confidence that seemed to defy gravity. It was as if Jayce knew, without a doubt, that something good waited for him at the end of the path. As if his bright, carefree light drew luck like a magnet pulls metal.Viktor, though, knew his life would be different. There was no light in him—just a mosaic of grays, like Zaun’s sky, like the dust collecting on the gears of the machines, slowly grinding to a halt.