Chapter Text
"Good morning, good morning, good morning, Piltover! How about we start this beautiful morning together, huh? It's sixteen degrees on this Tuesday; the skies decided to reward us after some downcast with a whole lotta sunshine. Westbound folks, it's your day today; very minimal traffic and maybe a little time to grab that cup of joe before heading into the office today! Whattaya say about that—"
Viktor shuts off the radio. "Otravný hajzlík."
The windshield fog thins as the heater finally manages to warm the interior of the car, but Viktor still wears his red fingerless gloves as he does ten and two on the steering wheel. There's nothing out of the ordinary on his mind; he's thinking of the usual morning: his research, the pain in his leg, and the specific tune he'd hummed as he was locking his flat—this was necessary to verify that he'd certainly locked his door and that his cat, Peach, would be safe from intruders.
He'd taken his medication this morning, but the cramps in his legs—stubborn as ever—persisted nonetheless. And on such days, despite the aggravating anchorman's enthusiasm for the clear day, Viktor resolved on being cross for the entirety of it.
By now, his turn signal clicks on, a steady metronome, as the car slows and pulls into the university lot. The car halts in his little spot, one that he'd fought tooth and nail to reserve, and Viktor steps out.
How about we start this beautiful morning together, huh?
"Westbound folks, it's your day today; very minimal traffic and maybe a little time to grab that cup of joe before heading into the office today! Whattaya say about that, folks? What do you usually bring in, Mel?" Jayce turns to his second anchor with his customary dashing smile.
"You know, I'm more of a tea person myself," Mel says. "There's nothing like the aromatic smell of chamomile to start my day."
"Chamomile?" Jayce beams; he leans toward her with an elbow on the table. "I had no idea! You're a real knockout for a senior citizen!"
The others in the studio laugh loudly. "What a tease, Jayce Talis." Mel playfully swats his arm and offers the camera a faux look of vexation.
"I'm just pulling your leg. We owe half of our ratings to Mel's charm and appeal, isn't that right, Ekko? Ekko's our cameraman, and for the folks back home, let me tell you that he's nodding vigorously." Jayce finally sits up straight and stacks his notes on cue for the next story.
By noon, Jayce had already covered the new pests afflicting Piltover's strawberry fields, the aquarium's rare fish exhibit, and, of course, extended cheerful birthday wishes to the odd souls who felt compelled to celebrate on live broadcast. Morning news was hardly his favorite assignment. He was there because it boosted viewership among female audiences, a fact he found flattering, but Jayce would much rather have spent his time discussing the political and social issues weighing on the city.
Alas, Channel 7 decided that the people needed not awareness but a handsome face to wish them good morning.
"I swear it was last week we talked about those damn strawberries," Jayce grumbled, pinching the edge of his paper cup. "Wasn't it?"
"No, those were the raspberries," replied Mel. "Don't look so upset, or you'll develop smile lines."
Jayce deepened his frown. "That's the goal, isn't it? Maybe I'll get to be on the evening news instead."
Mel gave him a sympathetic look before leaving for the powder room. With a sigh, Jayce leaned back against the wall and tossed his cup into the bin, watching the bubbles in the water tank blubber up and disappear. They come and go, just like stories.
At lunch, instead of a sandwich, a thick stack of papers hits Jayce's desk. Caitlyn smirks and crosses her arms, leaning against the side of the table in that smug way of hers when she's anticipating a particular reaction. Without question, Jayce flips through the story. He grins.
A long-standing biomedical limitation has finally met its match at our very own Piltover University's biomedical engineering department. Modular partial exoskeletons are so advanced that immediately upon putting one on, a joint in need is supported. Though still in its testing phase, the research team is optimistic that it will see widespread use in every hospital across the city if all goes well.
"Fascinating." Jayce thumbed through the story with heightened intrigue, studying the graphs and logistics, the prototype sketches, and the varied uses.
"You're going to cover it tomorrow morning," said Caitlyn finally. "I'd heard about it from Vi's sister and thought you'd like to talk about one of your interests for once instead of some failing tomato bushes."
"Strawberries," Jayce corrected, still flipping through the story. "This is amazing, Cait. Thank you for doing this. Seriously, I owe you one."
"Oh, hush. You deserve it for once." She pushed herself upright. "But, yeah, I'll take lunch for the rest of the week." With a slap on his shoulder, she scurried off to her desk.
Jayce snorted.
In the lab, Viktor continued to lead the same agitated, pedantic routines that had structured his days. He worked with rapid pace to finalize the knee joint modulars that Heimerdinger insisted must be prepared for demonstration the following morning. Moments blended together as hours; each successful switch freshly awakened in him a sense of accomplishment, which was quickly met with some imperceptible error invented entirely by his internal critiques.
The padding could be better on the pressure hotspots; fatigue might accelerate if the material isn't breathable.
Viktor writes this down.
The one-hand buckle could be simplified further. Auto-adjusting bands to account for changes in positions to maintain healthy circulation. And that clinical grayish color is dreadfully depressing.
"Viktor."
Why shouldn't a bumptious hermit know a thing or two about color and fashion? This type of gray announces disability before a limp could even suggest it.
"Viktor."
And truly, how sensitive is the trigger to any minute shifts in timing? Can it chatter consistently in time near thresholds?
"Viktor!"
His name rings through like a bell. Viktor finally turns away from the prototype, his eyes widening only momentarily before they return to their narrowed state of "perpetual judgement," as Sky has kindly described.
Heimerdinger is standing behind him, hands folded across his belly with an eyebrow raised as he scans Viktor from head to toe.
"Have you prepared your script?" Heimerdinger asks.
"My what?"
"For goodness's sake, Viktor, we've been over this five thousand times?"
"I highly doubt that."
"It's an expression, Viktor. And I am talking about the script you'll need when you explain to the good people of Channel 7 what we are doing here. You've spearheaded this research; you are the head of the engineering department; they'll want to hear from you."
Viktor vaguely recalls this, and with airs of disinterest, he turns back to the prototype. "I think I'll pass. Ms. Young is very capable; she is very amiable and charismatic. It would not matter if she cannot recall the system down to its every parameter; Channel 7 is looking for shock value. Have you found a pretty woman to model the sleeve?"
"The journalist who came in here yesterday was very interested in those details you think they deem trivial. You're 25 and already a department head; that has enough shock value in itself." Heimerdinger, observing Viktor's impassive look, let out a deep sigh. "Look, I know these sorts of things make you nervous—"
"They do not—"
"But this is also a necessary part of helping people, Viktor—spreading awareness, shedding light on those who are so often overlooked by the media, people like you, Viktor." Heimerdinger offers a quiet glance at Viktor's braced leg.
"To snad není možný..." grumbled Viktor. "You have a way with words, Professor. You almost made me feel something."
"Viktor, please."
"Fret not, I will do it. But do blame yourself if I make a terrible impression. It is likely you recall last year's recruiting event for the program. I'd managed to lose three students already enrolled with that charisma you think is television-worthy." Viktor stood up with a suddenness that prompted an icy jolt to seize his right leg. He winced, irritably grabbing his cane, before moving toward the opposite wall, where his notes were plastered in a hysterical way.
"You ought to go home and rest before your appearance. Your pain is flaring up again, I take it?"
"I will be dead before the pain is ever not flaring up. I am fine."
Heimerdinger sighed. "You know I never like to exercise my authority, but I urge you to go home. You must rest." Viktor tossed his pen onto the table with a huff and slowly turned back to the professor. "No, I do not undermine your ability to do your job. Let's say it is for aesthetic reasons. If you are on the television looking dull and tired, how would the public perceive our staff? They will think you are dispassionate."
"If appearance is a grave concern of yours, then you truly ought not have me speak at all."
"Do not be so cruel to yourself, Viktor! You're a handsome young lad. Go on now, go home and rest." Heimerdinger smiled and pattered off humming a jolly tune. "And practice smiling!" he called from down the hall.
Viktor frowned then and continued to frown until he was seated on his bed with Peach curled up in his lap.
He did not practice smiling.
They were on the stone steps of the university the very next morning, surrounded by the expanse of reddish brick and towering pillars that made their equipment, as numerous as it was, seem rather inconsequential. Jayce neglected teeth and hair checks to really devour the scene with his eyes.
Jayce could recall the girls and the occasional guy he'd brought back to his dorm room, the throbbing headaches from a particularly bad hangover, and the newspaper room in which he'd spend his days writing and compiling stories about the injustices that were so important to him. Quickly, his own memories of university came hurrying back to him: those fleeting moments that were so dear to him and his friends even more so.
"Mic check, Jayce," called Ekko, already hoisting the camera up onto his shoulder. "You ready?"
"Shit, sorry." Jayce fumbled for his mic and plugged in his earpiece. "Good?"
Ekko held up a thumbs up. Caitlyn stood off to the side and provided him an encouraging nod.
"Good morning, good morning, good morning, Piltover!" he began, giving that black, soulless block perched on Ekko's shoulder his hallmark smile. "Now this is the kind of science we love to see in the morning: big brains, big impact. Researchers at Piltover University have developed modular partial exoskeletons designed to give immediate support to joints that need it. It's still early days, but the team is feeling optimistic that this tech could one day be used in hospitals citywide. Pretty amazing stuff, right?"
"And for you folks at home still scratching your heads: don't you worry, we're about to go inside and meet the genius behind the idea. Let's go on in!"
Jayce beckons the team towards the large doors of the engineering department. He ensures that for the entirety of their quick journey the viewers' attention might be kept, dispensing his jokes, quips, and charms until they reach the broad metallic doors of the biomedical lab.
"Here we are," Jayce says and knocks twice on the door. "Knock knock!"
"I'm right here." A voice behind startles him; Jayce turns around to find a lithe frame half shrouded by the shadow of the awards cabinet. Jayce nearly drops his mic.
There was no previous expectation of this scientist's appearance, not really. Jayce initially pictured a scruffy old man with eyes magnified by comically thick lenses, but when it was told to them that the head of this particular research department was a young prodigy, twenty-five years old, Jayce assumed he could look like anybody, really. But not this.
He had the sort of face that could dismantle someone's entire philosophy and rearrange it so that it might center around him forever. Jayce had been particularly fond of his angular jaw and his sharp cheekbones, on which there was a small mole and another over his tightly pressed lips. And the ghastly pallor of his skin, though now flushed with what looked like shyness, brought out with exaggeration those golden eyes, which narrowed now more than ever.
"I'm the head of the engineering department, Viktor," he said, tucking a clipboard under his arm and studying Jayce intensely. What an interesting accent, Jayce thinks.
"Talis, keep it moving," came the producer's voice in his ear.
Jayce shook his head and let out a nervous laugh. "Ah! I hadn't seen you there! My apologies, sir. Please, come forward, come forward."
It wasn't until then that Jayce noticed the brace around the slim, long leg and the cane loudly tapping the linoleum as Viktor moved into frame. A characteristic Jayce thought must've been necessary to the research being done; it must be deeply personal. Jayce likes personal.
Viktor stood before him and did not smile once, nor did he seem at all eager to speak about his research.
"Well, you have all of Piltover very intrigued by what you're cooking up in here, Viktor," began Jayce. "Before we take a look at the research itself, why don't you tell us a little about yourself?"
Viktor blinked. His brow furrowed.
"Oh."
He reached into his pocket, fumbling briefly before pulling out his wallet. "You mean—" He opened it, slid an I.D. card free, and held it out with certainty. "Here."
He paused, watching Jayce's face, waiting.
Jayce smiled after his own beat of silence; he gently took the card, and with a laugh, he said, "Standing at one hundred and seventy-three centimeters, with chestnut-brown hair and amber eyes, twenty-five-year-old Viktor has spearheaded some fascinating research. Can we head inside and see what you're all about?"
Viktor gently takes back his I.D. card and pushes open the laboratory doors. Inside his earpiece, Jayce can hear:
"Someone needed PR training."
The lab itself is a distinct type of chaos that is seldom found anywhere outside of academia. The air is in a constant hum with power supplies, cooling fans, and the soft ticking of equipment. Electrical cords snake across the floor, taped down in places, bundled in others. Yellow-and-black caution tape marks areas where machinery has bitten people before. There are a lot of these.
And finally, mounted on a table that seemed to have been cleared for this specific moment, was the prototype Jayce had seen in Caitlyn's report. It was propped onto articulated stands to mimic usage: the knee joins with exposed gearing and carbon-fiber braces with thin sensors threaded throughout. Jayce's eyes are wide, and his mouth hangs open in prolonged disbelief.
"Would you look at all of this?" he mutters. Ekko snaps his fingers. "This is really amazing work that your team is doing; could you tell us about it?"
Viktor nods and shifts his weight as he passes the cane from his right hand to his left. "So, essentially what we are doing is resolving the latency between neuromuscular intent and muscular response by, uh, segmenting load-bearing assistance into modules." Viktor picks up one prototype but doesn't necessarily hold it up to show the camera but as if he is privately observing it for himself. "...functions as a closed-loop feedback system..." Viktor mutters something to himself. "...you introduce oscillatory instability...so this system prioritizes fidelity over sheer power..." He pauses for a while and sets the prototype down. "Bodies are stochastic systems, so this design proves more efficient than those devices that assume static biomechanics."
"Ah," Jayce smiles and turns toward the camera. "This is very interesting work. So, if I understood correctly, this device is a small, wearable assistance system that supports joints by reading the body's signals?"
"Eh, yes, simplified," Viktor nods.
"How fascinating! I could sit here all day and learn more about it!"
"Stick to the general script, Talis!" hissed the producer in his earpiece. Yes, right, of course.
"I can't wait to get these puppies onto the market; they'd be particularly useful after an intense workout." Jayce smiles at the camera but internally shrinks to see Viktor's expression sour at his remark. Tasteless here, but the audience needs a laugh. "Tell me, Viktor, what do you hope your research will achieve?"
"I think the public often overlooks the day-to-day struggles of those with disabilities. It's been the inconvenient convenience for many to brush these sorts of problems off as unimportant because they don't affect the great majority. But it does, doesn't it? We are simply not climbing your stairs with you, swimming in your pools, playing at your parks, or exercising at your gym. There are plenty of us, and it's about time there is some kind of progress being made to grant life to those who want to live it outside with you, not at home with eyes glued to Channel 7's handsome anchor. " Viktor's lip curled into a sneer by the time he came to his final sentence.
Jayce was flattered, though he understood the underlying bitterness; Viktor did just then deem him handsome.
"You make a very compelling case for your research, and I think it's very good work you folks are doing here at Piltover University. And you're right." Jayce turns to the camera fully. "I think there are a lot of people who could benefit from this kind of thing; nothing should stand in the way of anyone achieving life in the way they intend. So, let's take a moment and really think about those loved ones who have to wait for research like this to be done so that they can exist on the same playing field as us."
Viktor glances briefly at Jayce and hums in approval. Jayce turns to Viktor and holds out his hand.
"A real honor meeting you, Viktor. Amazing work you're doing here, really." Jayce's smile is no longer for the camera; it is very entirely sincere, and it is the natural response to seeing Viktor's long fingers grace his palm to shake his hand. His long lashes flutter as he looks everywhere but at Jayce, which earns him a very dignified place of endearing in Jayce's head.
"Likewise. Thank you for your time," he said.
Jayce really likes that accent.
"Terribly, I think," was Viktor's reply to Heimerdinger's inquiry about how he thought the segment had gone.
"Why do you say so? It was charming in its own right; you got your message across, and Ms. Young did a demonstration."
"No, I think I messed up somewhere," Viktor mumbled, chewing the tip of his pen. "I think now I ought to have explained more... yes, that's it."
"No, no, you did absolutely fine. I am very proud of you, my boy!"
Viktor's shoulders sagged, residual tension escaping now in breaths after Channel 7 left hours ago. "Was he being rude? Jayce?"
"Oh, no. Yes, I must admit, that comment he'd made about using your prototype as an aid for laziness was a bit... odd, but I dare say it's all to humor the viewers. Morning news cannot handle such heavy topics, Viktor."
"Then why are we to be in the morning news? There's nothing lighthearted about what I'm doing; there's nothing lighthearted about the problems we are trying to solve. I had not intended to become a feel-good story someone listens to over breakfast."
Heimerdinger smiled affectionately and let out a long sigh. "Well, viewership is viewership. We ought to be glad they covered us at all. And even if the situation was made light of, it is digestible to the masses. Who knows? You may receive more funding next year. Go home, Viktor. You deserve some rest."
Viktor takes his cane, slings his bag over his shoulder, and hobbles out of the office, grumbling about that wicked Talis and the wicked media.
The tune for today: Jazz Suite No. 2: VI Waltz by Shostakovich, so he hummed it as he unlocked his door to his flat.
The flat he owned was small and tucked away in that reduced-cost residential area in Piltover popular among students, newly enlisted guards, and retired elders. Viktor had been offered faculty housing upon his appointment as department head, but he could not be separated from this flat. Not now.
And here it remained faithfully, the studio so perfectly cluttered with his frantic scrawlings and overdue library books. Viktor placed his keys in a cleaned-out soup can and turned on the lights.
"Peach!" Viktor called. "Kdepak je moje kočička?"
From around the corner his little ragdoll cat came, strutting in her proud way towards him to venture between his legs to say her hellos. Viktor chuckled and slowly lowered himself to pick her up. There is no strain in the world, no sharp nerve pain, and no brutal cramp ever enough to prevent him from kissing his dearest friend.
Viktor placed hurried kisses on her head before setting her down on the table. "You are lively today? Well, you will be even more so once you hear the sort of blasphemy I had to put up with."
He slowly got ready for bed, skipping dinner yet again, and relayed to Peach—who followed him dutifully—his every indignation about the matter.
"They sent the Channel 7 anchor to my lab, not to spread awareness, but to make science attractive. Yes, that was it. They made sure to send him, the one with the healthy tanned skin, those flashy pearly smiles, and broad shoulders. Talis, yes, Jayce Talis." Viktor rolled his eyes at his own reflection as he was brushing his teeth. "And he towered over me. The audacity for such a man to tower over his host; it makes me feel so...aware of everything. They do this to intellectuals, Peach. They try to make them feel like little teenagers who are playing with state-funded toys." Viktor spit out his toothpaste and rinsed his mouth. Peach was still on the counter listening.
By the time he was in a loose cotton sweater and his briefs in bed, he'd still been hissing and muttering about the interview. "Commodification of intellect...to establish bodily hierarchies...all of it was some ploy surely." Viktor grabbed his journal and resolved to write about it. From his pen, castigations of every colorful variation filled eighteen pages before Viktor's tired muscles began to cramp.
He shut off his lamp, whispered, "I detest them all," and closed his eyes.