Chapter Text
Excerpt from: The Eye - Station 1̸̤̪̏0̴̢̮̬́̔4̷̝͖͔͂
06/17/xxxx
… Yes, dear listeners, the grandiose, ballroom-crawling big wigs of the topside have once again struck down a proposal to better the lives of what they consider to be society’s most pitiful. Today, just past noon, the proposal for air purification throughout different stations of the lanes was rejected two-to-five on account of “a lack of funds.” Later that day, they agreed to honor a former enforcer, who retired this previous year, in the form of a giant, hand-crafted and commissioned statue. Seems like a lack of funds is not something they consider, when it comes to gaudy pieces of self-righteousness. But who am I? Just your Herald.
The first thing Jayce does, upon getting the notice that the council wants to meet with him, is run to the bathroom to potentially spill his morning coffee into the bowl. The heels of his boots clack on the hard linoleum, and his coworkers all give him judgemental glares, watching the disastrous tornado rush of scribbled and scrapped ideas fall from his half-opened messenger bag. It doesn't matter, he can't pay any mind to it, because he is going to throw up.
The beginning of his journey as a writer for the Piltover Gazette was… rocky, to say the least. Pulled early from the academy on account of his absolute wizardry when it came to pen and paper, he wasn’t given many freedoms. His position was less of a job and more of a claim, like he was being grabbed away before other publications could snatch him and put him behind bars, awaiting any form of creative liberty.
They didn’t really need to steal him away, however. The Kirammans ran a monopoly over the press — it didn’t matter where he went to write. If they wanted him, they would get him. While he waited for the name Jayce Talis to gain attention, he wrote under a multitude of pseudonyms for smaller papers that paid him bottom-of-the-barrel scraps. This caused him trouble, when his overheads caught wind. His contract was nearly broken over it, his already narrow tightrope reputation pulled thinner. Thankfully, with the help of the very influential Mel Medarda, he’d talked his way out of it.
It’s not like he hasn’t been given pieces for the Gazette since. In fact, he’s worked himself up to quite a few front pages. His biggest success being an article regarding advancements in aircraft that had the city excitedly rumbling for a couple of days after, looking up at the clouds to find catch a glimpse of the newest blimp, or plane.
Was the initial pitch boring? Incredibly so. But Jayce was a linguistic engineer, he could sell dirt to a farmer. After that, he'd received a steady flow of assignments, enough to help him afford an apartment in the dead center of the city. He could practically see the flow of commerce from his balcony.
The self-confidence he spent years building, used as both a shield and step-ladder, wavers when he steps into the council chamber, dark, dramatic, and empty, as if approaching a witness stand. The last time he was in here, he was reporting on the trial of an enforcer who’d smuggled three life savings worth of Shimmer from the undercity to sell in Piltover. A case he'd assisted in cracking, thanks to a life long interest in technology, combined with an anonymous and incredibly vague whistle-blower.
Jayce was probably just as pale then as he is now. The environment calls for anxiety.
Cassandra Kiramman gives him the smallest glint of a smile, acknowledging his presence. She’s been the most gracious of his employers, even if he can’t grasp a full read on her. Mel and Heimerdinger spare him warm grins, happy to see a familiar and trustworthy face. The rest are too absorbed in their own little world's to grant him the attention. The slam of the door, as everyone else flees from the room, finally draws their eyes to him.
“Jayce Talis,” Cassandra begins, her accented voice sharper than glass, “do you know why you're being called here today?”
Jayce’s mouth dries, color rushing from his face. He mentally runs over everything he’s published within the past month. Mostly empirical research, a couple of tech-heavy opinion pieces. Nothing controversial enough to cause a fuss, he thinks.
He opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off by a swipe of Mel’s hand. “Of course he doesn’t,” she says, a laugh coloring her voice. “We’re scaring him. Breathe, Jayce, you’re not in any trouble.”
Jayce releases an exhale he didn’t realize he was holding. “I apologize, Councilor Kiramman. I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Have you perhaps heard about this… broadcast, coming out of the undercity?” Cassandra asks, following a beat of silence. “A cohort of undercover agents who call themselves The Eye-“
“Absolutely pathetic,” Salo cuts in, eyes just as crazed as always. Jayce finds he can’t even stand the sound of his voice, let alone bother to glance at him. “Too lazy to read, so they listen to their news.”
“Our opinion on the standing of the broadcaster’s characters is currently irrelevant, Councilor Salo,” Mel says. “Continue, Councilor Kiramman.”
Cassandra clears her throat. “We know little about them, other than they used their radio devices to communicate what’s published within the paper, as well as information that is… not as easily accessed by regular citizens.”
Jayce blinks. “They’re leaking information? From the undercity?”
An uncomfortable silence drifts over the chambers.
“We’re not sure how, my boy,” Heimerdinger speaks for the first time, somber. “I am all for folks staying informed, but the threat is more than unsettling. Rest assured, if we find this hole in the wall, we’ll try our best to patch it up. But for now, the council has voted on a solution."
“We’ve outlawed the spreading of news through broadcast,” Cassandra says. “Now anyone who shares any sort of information with the public through an outlet outside of the paper will face consequences. It was a private decision, and it will hopefully go into effect quietly.”
It’s a bit of an outlandish law, Jayce thinks. Surely there are better topics to focus on. He still feels like something is being left out — he's not a councilor, why would they share this?
“With all due respect,” Jayce says, “I fail to see how I’m needed here.”
Cassandra sighs. “We recognize that the likelihood of this law staying quiet is low. After all, The Eye has become rather infamous throughout the undercity. Once word of this travels, everyone will know. We figured our best bet was our strongest case writer, Councilor Kiramman and I decided on you.”
Jayce feels something flicker in his chest. “You want me to… write about the new law?”
Cassandra inhales. “Not exactly-“
“We want you to find them-“
“Thank you, Councilor Salo,” Mel says, eyes slanted. “Your input is no longer needed.”
Cassandra continues, "You were of great assistance in our previous… scandal, regarding Marcus. We know we can trust you with the journalistic integrity of the Gazette."
Jayce has never been a fan of the way the majority of the council equivocates to whoever they're speaking too, as though anyone other than the seven seated in the Councilor rotunda wouldn't have the minds to comprehend their politics. The only person to directly state their intentions to him, to address issues head on and fight for their solutions, is Mel. In the privacy of his mind, he can admit that having her support is more valuable and reassuring than Cassandra's.
"So," Jayce begins, fingers tightening over the strap of his bag, "You do want me to find them, right?"
"While that would be ideal, any information you can gather would be greatly appreciated. A close study of their movements, perhaps an explanation of their actions and why they may cause concern. It would all contribute to our understanding of them as a threat." Cassandra clears her throat. "We are well aware of the difficulty-"
"I can do it," Jayce says, hand already digging to find his reporter pad. "Tell me what you know so far."
Jayce picks at his meal, staring at the mostly empty paper in front of him, ink bleeding due to the condensation of his drink leaking on the scribbled cursive.
Currently known:
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Stationed in the undercity
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3 broadcasters in total; all from undercity (?)
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Access to private political documents; unknown relation
- JT.
It's not much to go off. Actually, it's practically nothing. Sure, he's worked with less information in the past, but the distance between him and his subject was also less. He saw Marcus on a regular basis, gaining his trust was easy. Jayce just bought him a coffee once, asked about his shift. Soon enough, he was dropping information faster than Jayce could mentally log it.
"Are you going to eat your food, or just longingly stare at the same twenty words?"
Caitlyn agreed to meet him for dinner. Journalistic integrity is crucial, but the urge to share overpowers it every time. Caitlyn is his bouncing board for ideas, unbeknownst to her mother.
"Sorry," Jayce mutters, "I'm not used to being at a loss."
Caitlyn scoffs. "Subtle brag. Nice."
"I'm serious, Cait. I usually have somewhere to start that's more than just… a largely populated location. The Eye knew about the new statue commission before it was announced, and they also leaked the rejection of the air purification proposal. But, these were both releasing in the papers the same day. The chances of them getting their hands on the Gazette before they were delivered and sold is not zero, why are we jumping to the conclusion that they even have sources?" His hands flail as he speaks. Caitlyn looks unimpressed.
"That's just one example," Caitlyn says. "They do have a history of leaking weeks, even months in advance, correct?"
Jayce nods. "But if they're open secrets, do they even constitute as leaked? Just because something's not in the papers, doesn't mean it isn't common knowledge in the city."
"So, you've approached a moral conundrum. Have you considered that perhaps this isn't a case you can immediately bust open and be praised for?" Caitlyn takes a sip of her glass, raising her brows. "You've been given a lot of freedom here, including time."
She's right, and Jayce knows it. A part of him desperately wants there to be an answer discoverable through his three bullet points. He wants to bring forth his findings to the council and prove himself once again. But that's not feasible right now, no matter how much he stares at his own handwriting. "How much longer until The Eye discovers the new law?"
"What does it matter? They're bound to eventually," Caitlyn sighs. "You need a plan, Jayce."
"I need a budget."
"Good luck getting that from my mother," she giggles into her pasta. "Get a radio, get a separate notebook, and lock yourself away for a week like you always do. You'll get it cracked in no time."
Gods, Jayce hopes she's right.
The first time Jayce visited the undercity, he was swarmed by a group of enforcers. Not by choice, of course, he'd wanted to seem casual. It was hard to go unnoticed when you were surrounded with armed soldiers. There was no violence, besides the angry glares from those they passed, the bravest of the crowds spitting at the ground by their feet, or yelling at the back of their heads. Jayce kept his mouth shut about it, wanting to prevent any further damage.
After the initial trip, which involved catching Marcus in the middle of a shimmer trade with a chembaron, money in his hands, Silco at his side, he'd visited on his own to find pieces for a personal project. There was a lot of good scrap metal to be thrifted and traded for, but he always left with a third of the gold he'd brought and much less to work with than he anticipated. The city in itself, though the streets were dirtier than Piltover's, wasn't as scary as he was taught to believe. There was nothing waiting to attack him when he crossed the bridge, he wasn't stuck with a needle full of shimmer, nor did he step on one and infect himself. Though he did keep a hand over his bag at all times, just in case.
He thinks he knows what to expect this time.
The moment he steps off the elevator and into the bustling market at the heart of the city, he feels eyes on him. He supposes he should have seen this coming, adorning the Talis emblem on his sleeves, walking on a broken cobblestone path with shined shoes. He keeps his head up, nodding when it feels appropriate, receiving strange looks in response. The culture here is not one he's familiar with, all he can do is be polite as possible. He rejects offers of food from vendors with a No thank you, avoids being cornered to the best of his ability by keeping a steady pace.
Jayce knows there is a glaring issue surrounding the Council's handling of the undercity. For a moment, he finds himself understanding the plight of The Eye. It feels ridiculous to be discussing trade route effectivity when the result of a failed trade route tunnel ultimately led to the disparity of the undercity's people. Jayce bites the inside of his cheek at the thought, passing the brothel with his head down, and moves quickly to the only shop he knows the location of.
The wooden door to said shop is ridden with dry rot, he's a bit afraid if he knocks on it he'll punch a hole right through it. He opens it instead, the creak of the hinges acting as a doorbell. He's met with the sound of conversation and cackling laughter from two deep voices. His heart rate jumps a bit, stepping into the shop with his chin up.
"Oi, who's this, Benzo?" One of the men, burly and so wide Jayce considers shrinking into himself, says. His accent is thick, almost as thick as the scent of tobacco in the air around him.
The other one, Benzo, huffs a laugh. "Another Piltie in my shop today. You an enforcer too? Undercover, ain't you?"
Jayce shakes his head. "No, I'm not. I'm… just looking for something. I think you might sell it."
Benzo's eyes narrow. "With what payment?"
Jayce falters for a moment, hand reaching for his pocket. He opted for a smaller satchel this time, he figured he could carry what he purchased. "Gold."
Benzo whistles. "Hell, you can grab anything you want with enough o'that, Piltie."
Jayce nods, bolting for the shelves and his freedom from scrutiny. It's the same as the last time, only with more scraps now. Most items were once a part of bigger products — clock hands, specific gear and cogs. There's weaponry hanging from the walls. Jayce takes his time examining it all, wondering how long it takes, how many trades you have to make before you can build a collection large enough to open a shop for. Perhaps it was passed down, like the forge was passed to his father.
Finally, at the end of the counter, he reaches what he was looking for. There are nicks along the sides, like it was well loved and dropped and placed all throughout the undercity. A painted, streaky doodle of a bright pink eye. There are two knobs, different colors and clearly sourced from other scraps, one for station surfing and another for volume.
A radio. He fiddles with the dials, extends the antenna for a signal. Nothing, not even static. He should have expected this. You shop scraps in hopes of making something out of them, this is not a new concept to him. It's just another hurdle. Jayce looks around the room, taking note of the supplies.
The two men have their own radio, lightly crooning from behind the counter. It's stuttering in and out, but functional, a similar symbol drawn on the side. The men pay it no mind, probably used to the crackling static. Jayce stares a bit too long, as though he could map out parts from the exterior. It's nearly just as beat up as the one for sale.
"Can I help you?"
Jayce's eyes snap up to Benzo. He scratches his neck, sheepish. He points towards the machine. "Do you mind if I take a look at that?"
"S'not for sale."
Jayce huffs a nervous chuckle. "No, I'm not trying… I want to scope what parts I need for this one." He lifts the busted radio.
Benzo scoffs, looking to the man beside him. "What do you say, Van?"
Van hums. "I'd say it comes with a cost."
"To just look at?" Jayce asks, incredulous.
"You can afford it. Can't you, Gold boy?"
Jayce narrows his eyes, exhaling hard. He pulls out a couple pieces of gold from his satchel, placing them on the table. Benzo grabs them, and for a moment Jayce thinks he's being played. That they'll pull him out by his collar, and the burly Van guy will drop kick him back to the bridge.
Benzo shrugs, as if to say a deals a deal. He hands Jayce the machine, and the broadcast they've tuned it too is unintelligible.
"This is your . . . and I'm happy to say . . . make the bastards BOOM!"
He peels back the front panel with little trouble, revealing a scrappy, handmade circuit board. There's the speaker, obviously, as well as a fair share of wiring. The parts look familiar, like the speakers he once helped Heimerdinger build for the new commencement stage during his time at the academy. A couple of transformers, two amps, a transistor.
He compares to the busted radio in his hand. Seemingly, all he needs are the amps, which he can probably snag from a storage closet at the academy after hours.
He fits the pieces of Benzo's radio back carefully, bending the antenna slightly. The connection comes back clearer. He can make out almost every word now.
"You'll need a new antenna for this soon, if you want to understand whatever's broadcasting," he says. His tone leaves no room for debate. Both men looked thoroughly taken aback. "But I'll take this."
"How much gold do you have again, kid?"
In the end, he leaves with his purchase, a couple cogs and loose wires, and a single coin. He hands it to a man on the street, right before hopping on the elevator to the promenade.
"Well… this is certainly a set-up."
It's not that Jayce never has visitors in his apartment. He's thrown his fair share of get-together's ever since the Kirammans began leasing it to him. The difference is that usually he's given a couple days to prepare, clean, and cook. He's never had someone over in the midst of an autopsy on a piece of machinery before — pieces of his radio broken apart and scattered across his counter like an operating table.
Mel, now out of council attire and in more casual wear, stands alongside him. She said he's looked a bit overwhelmed, she wanted to check on him. He can't imagine he looks any better now. In fact, it's probably worsened in the past few days.
She's got a little smile, like she's endeared by his appearance. "Hard at work, I see."
"It's a work in progress," Jayce says. "Way more pieces needed tinkering than I originally predicted. I found most of them throughout the academy-"
"Ah, hijacking the academy's technology for a personal project?"
"Are you Councilor Medarda right now? Or my friend Mel?" he asks.
She rolls her eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. You say you lawfully purchased all of the supplies for this personal project using your own, personal coin here in Piltover?"
Jayce blinks. "Correct. I've got it up and running, but I'm struggling to find any sort of connection. I assume the broadcast towers are located in the undercity, meaning that they broadcast exclusively to those within a certain radius. Finding a signal here is near impossible without a strong receiver. I could… potentially track them with one."
"Magic," Mel says.
"Nope. Physics." Jayce extends a lopsided grin.
"Makes sense," she says, stepping in for a closer look. "But if they wanted to remain anonymous, wouldn't towers be a giveaway?"
He recalls the little he remembers from his trips underground. Throughout the symmetrical lines of Piltover, the even building tops and clean lines of brick, it would be impossible to hide. But the undercity, with it's inorganic shapes and smog cloaked skyline, was another story.
Jayce exhales. "Not if they're built directly into or alongside pre-existing architecture. If this is someone with connections, I wouldn't put it past them."
Mel sighs. "Could the distribution be connected to their broadcasting location?"
Jayce mulls over that question. After all, he'd only visited one shop. The chances of Benzo's playing a part in the broadcast were not zero, but slim nonetheless. He considers the sheer amount of radios he'd spotted; sitting on vendor stands, on the shoulders of passersby, on stairwells. By themselves completely, in some instances, like they were community owned and used. All adorning a bright, doodled pink symbol. An eye.
"No," he says. "They're too widespread, now. But from what I've gathered, they're all handmade. Created in mass with abandoned scraps and wires."
Jayce can't help but admire the pure mechanics being put into every radio, especially when disassembling it. He wants to pick the brain of whoever thought up such a device, ask how exactly they knew what pieces together would create an electromagnetic field.
Piltover is not entirely a stranger to the concept of radios. Upon their creation in the undercity, enforcers confiscated whatever they could get their hands on, immediately surrendering them to the council. Jayce remembers how the reports on Undercity Spy Machines and Information Trackers caused a panicked frenzy among Piltover. He recalls his parents requesting he stay away from them, as if he would ever encounter one at a young age.
Even then, he failed to understand why a machine that plays music and occasionally talks was a problem. After all, Piltover had a plethora of speakers and gramophones that did the same with similar interior designs.
Radios weren't banned, per se. They were just harder to come by, attached to the idea of laziness and distrust. A part of him still fails to see them as anything other than an engineering marvel. He might be pre-disposed to question the motives of The Eye, but he can recognize a sharp mind when he sees one.
"Bright," Mel says. "I know I'm not currently Councilor Medarda, but is there anything we can provide to make this easier? Don't wear yourself out. You look like you're about to fall asleep standing up, Jayce."
Jayce chews on the inside of his cheek. "Outside of a stronger lead?"
Mel raises an unimpressed eyebrow.
"Fine, fine," Jayce amends. He reconsiders the offer, thinking of the heavy duty transmitters located within enforcers bases and councilor buildings under the guise of quick and effective foreign communication. "What are the chances I can get my hands on academy tech in a way that's… legal?"
Mel laughs, sits, and begins drafting a memo to Elora on a blank sheet of Jayce's writer’s pad.
Notes. 6/23.
I've secured an older, retired transmitter from Mel. It's a huge metal box that I probably looked ridiculous and suspicious lugging up three flights of stairs. It's clanked against every step. I had to hot-wire with leftover scraps to get it working again. I'm starting to feel like I'm more of an engineer than a journalist.
It's relatively easy to operate. I'll probably be up all night fiddling with knobs and wires. Now, we wait for a signal. Update soon.
Currently known:
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Broadcasting exclusively to undercity (as far as they know)
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[A doodle of the commonly vandalized eye symbol]
-JT.
Jayce finally bounds the bump in the road, when he discovers the station is encrypted. He's not surprised by this — in fact, he's slightly frustrated he didn't reach this conclusion hours ago. They have no wish to be found in Piltover, especially by the council, who no doubt have made plenty attempts of their own to penetrate the broadcast.
The audio signals he reaches are beyond scrambled, but something he's encountered before, as Heimerdinger's formal technological golden boy and fixer of broken gadgets. First, it's engineering. Then, it's math.
And he's never met an equation that he hasn't solved.
Excerpt from: The Eye - Station 103/4 (??)
Transcribed by: Jayce Talis
06/24/xxxx
. . . Good morning, all! I hope you're safe and sound at home or work. This is your morning report from your favorite announcer, Firefly. I'm happy to inform that the revolt against a certain chembaron was incredibly successful this week, garnering protest crowds in the hundreds. An Eye record! I hope we break it again soon. Sources say that despite lack of comments from the corrupt, the cup seems to be tipping in our favor. I mean, how hard is it to pay fair wages? Impossible for these suckers, apparently. Regardless, there are plans for a follow up protest in the coming weeks, check in with the hound at the drop, or consult a friend on it, someone's bound to know . . .
Notes. 6/24
Breakthrough. Signal found at 6. More to come soon.
-JT.