#mischie writing

Her mind plagued her with images of Viktor in his final days, slowly decaying. Suffering not only from his ailments, but from the pain of betrayal from the only person he sought comfort from, as his condition started preventing him from the work he often escaped to. Those tired golden eyes piercing her in accusation as they slowly closed a final time.

She could only tell Jayce's approaching her once his hand reached her shoulder. Her eyes quickly went from his hand to his face, where he wore an apologetic expression.

"It's not your fault." He said as softly as he could. 

She couldn't respond. Her hanging mouth felt as dry as when she was in Shurima. Her gaze followed Viktor's statue body up to his face, the sharp corners adorning his jaw looked as pristine as they did the first time they met. He was beautiful.

Her beautiful fiancee whose thick accented voice she would never hear again.

That's when the grieving surpassed the guilt. She fell to her knees in a painful sob, her hand finding purchase on the statue before her. The tears rolling down her cheeks blurred her vision, but it didn't stop the flashing images of Viktor behind her eyes. She sobbed quietly, holding back her voice as much as she could - she shouldn't be allowed to grieve for the loss she bestowed upon herself.

Jayce kneeled beside her in silence for a moment, a hand gently placed on her back for comfort. But it wasn't long before he decided to leave her alone - he felt like she needed a moment by herself with Viktor.

As the tears started to subdued, she groggily sat beside the statue of Viktor hugging her knees together and resting her head on his feet. She spent the night in Jayce's office in a broken slumber, whispering apologies to the cold night air during the brief moments of consciousness.

She woke up the next day with Jayce's warm hand on her shoulder.

"Let's get you to your dorm," he spoke softly "You need some proper rest."

She didn't have the presence of mind to deny him, so she simply nodded before Jayce took her hand, gently bringing her to her feet and led her through the halls of the Academy.

Once they reached her door, he cooed her inside.

"I'll leave you to it, the Council needs me," he said. "I'll come by later so we can get you some food, okay? Rest well."

As soon as the door closed behind her, she was hit by a stale yet familiar scent - the scent of her life together with Viktor. The room was untouched, as if they had left it just this morning to work and she was coming back at the end of the day, the thin layer of dust covering every surface the only indication that time had passed. The bed was unmade, piles of books filled the shelves by the windows, there were some clothes discarded on the floor probably from the last time one of them jumped in bed after a long day and couldn't bother throwing them into the hamper. 

A renewed wave of misery crashed onto her at the sight, she forced herself to stand her ground and not collapse onto the floor again. She walked around slowly, taking in every little detail, not daring to touch anything, as if preserving the scene could somehow bring her back to that old life from two years ago.

She stopped at Viktor's desk upon noticing his journal opened up on his last entry. She felt conflicted, there was a part of her that desperately wanted to read his journal in a feeble attempt to feel close to him again and she almost gave in to the urge, but the guilt held her in place - was she even allowed to pry into his personal notes after everything she did?

She took a deep breath. This journal was Viktor's last words, his final message to the world - there could be his will or dying wishes written in there, he was a very meticulous man after all. He deserved at least to be heard a final time. The girl sat down on his chair, pulling the journal closer to her.

"I am afraid I might be living the twilight of my life and I'll soon be headed to that good night.

Despite working tirelessly to find a way to prolong my days, to cure this wretched ailment that fell upon me, I still can't see even a glimpse of a solution in the horizon.

And this growing decay inside me doesn't seem to want to stop anytime soon, expanding the distance between us in this morbid race I've been forced into.

The only thing keeping me sane is the light and warmth of my hearthfire that is [Y/n]. The possibility of a future where we get to grow old together side by side keeps the darkness at bay. I'm sure I'll find a way to get there.”

She hastily closed the journal back to save the pages from getting stained as the tears began falling copiously down her face again. Her knees gave out and she fell down, holding her torso up by the edge of the desk.

The tears turned to sobbing and then to wailing. In the uncanny familiarity of their bedroom, she finally allowed herself to grieve.

As the tears started to subside, she felt the weight of exhaustion pull her down. It hit her that she hadn't had a proper night of sleep on a bed ever since she left on her expedition. For a moment, the lethargy she felt paired up with the self-loathing festering inside of her had her considering curling down on the floor where she knelt and sleeping right there, but something tugged at her.

She felt a warm gentle humming radiating from her left arm, traversing its extent in waves. She quickly pulled back the sleeve of her coat and saw the golden veins on her marbled new arm faintly glowing. The sensation was gone as quickly as it came, the luminescent golden quality of the appendage dying down. and she realized she didn't feel as tired as before.

Her new magic came to her aid.

She chuckled dryly. “You would  have loved this, Vik. A way to prolong your working hours without any chemical additives.”

She pulled the sleeve back down, standing up. Shedding the garments from the trip unceremoniously, she opted for a pair of sweats and a shirt whose sleeves fully covered the new arm. There was too much weighting at her mind at the moment, unpacking the stuff she went through with anyone just wasn't on the docket.

As the second wind her arm provided her died down, she grabbed Viktor’s journal from his desk and hopped onto bed. She fell asleep holding the journal tight against her body, lulled by the faint scent of him that still lingered onto the unmade bed.

The next five days happened in a daze. She laid in bed for hours, unable to leave, with energy to only to switch between silently crying, sobbing or sleeping. Jayce would come when he could, bringing her food and consoling her for as much time as he was able to spare. She was grateful for him, but would often leave a lot of what he brought untouched - she felt chronically nauseated. 

On the sixth day, Jayce found her sitting up on the bed. 

She was unkept, drained, yet there was a glint of something else behind her eyes. Something different from the ruined state she had been in. The sides of her mouth even curled up in a forced half-smile when she noticed the man.

“Good morning,” he muttered gently, placing the tray of food on the desk. “How are you feeling?”

“Not good,” she answered, looking down. “But a bit better than before.”

“Good to hear,” Jayce responded, sitting on the edge of the bed with her.

“I need to leave this room and do something,” she muttered, turning to the window. “Occupy myself a bit.”

“I think that’s a wonderful ideal,” Jayce said, reaching for one of her hands. She flinched for a second, avoiding his contact at first. But then quickly relaxed right after, offering her right hand out to him. He took it in earnest.

 “They say that's good for the grieving process.”

“Yeah, it wouldn't be fair to Viktor’s memory either,” she chuckled. “I wonder what he'd say if he saw me like that.”

It was Jayce’s turn to chuckle. “I think he'd understand.”

“I might head back to the UDS, the Undercity model definitely needs to be updated after two years.”

Jayce didn't respond. How odd.

She searched his face and saw apprehension, his eyes fixated on a corner of the room.

Finally, with a deep breath, he met her gaze.

“The UDS has been dismantled.”

A couple of seconds passed before his words fully sank in.

“What?”

“With the growing conflict with the Undercity, priorities shifted,” he explained. “It didn't make sense to allocate funds to it any longer.”

Yet another pillar of her life tumbling down in front of her. All the work she's done over the past decade was discarded on a whim.

How Piltovan of them.

“That's my life's work, Jayce,” she barked, yanking her hand away from his grasp. “What about all my documents? My blueprints? My model? Was it all just discarded?”

He paused again. 

“No,” he responded apprehensively. “Look, I tried arguing against it…”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Jayce…”

“You have to understand the circumstances, everything changed after the Council was bombed…,” he trailed off.

“Spit it out, Jayce!”

He swallowed dryly before speaking. “Everything that was in the UDS room is being used in the effort against the Undercity, including your model.” 

“WHAT?” She almost jumped out of the bed. “With whose authorization? This is absolutely preposterous, I can't –”

She fought to find the words. Pressure started to build beneath her skin as an onslaught of thoughts plagued her mind, one more preposterous than the other. She could feel her jaw clenching,  her breathing getting labored.

Her marbled arm getting warmer.

“Everything I mapped and cataloged about the Undercity was to help them, to better their lives,” she said between her teeth. “Not to brutalize them.”

“I know, but the intel the UDS could provide was detrimental to the conflict effort. The Council voted for it almost unanimously,” Jayce tried justifying. “There was nothing I could do.”

Likely story.

She scoffed. “And what would the Council have me do then? Escapading through the Lanes to gather more intel for their war effort? Because you know I won't do it.”

“No… 

Jayce paused, taking a deep breath.

“With me out of the Lab and Viktor gone, you are the only one left with decent knowledge to continue developing projects on HexTech…”

She glared at him.

“What are you suggesting?”

Jayce swallowed dryly once more, unenthusiastically meeting her gaze. And with the same lack of intention, as if he couldn't believe his next words himself, he blurted out.

“They want you to develop HexTech weapons.”

Jayce's words brought their exchange to a standstill. With knitted brows, he waited for her response, trying to gauge her reaction from her countenance. All the while, she waited for his next words. Because there needed to be next words.

Because the nature of this proposition was so absurd, Jayce couldn't be serious.

“No.”

“(Y/N)-,” Jayce tried arguing, but she abruptly cut him off.

“I won't do it, that's final,” then pressure bubbled back up, each word pronounced like a punch. “Honestly, I feel offended you even considered bringing this to me.”

Jayce huffed. “You think I don't understand how this sounds? I don't like the idea either, but the conflict with the Undercity has been escalating to a degree that's getting out of hand.”

“Oh, so the solution is to bomb them with HexTech explosives? To litter their underground with HexTech mines?”

“We need the upper hand to put an end to the conflict!” It was Jayce’s turn to get worked up. “It would issue their rendition and we would be sparing lives!”

“We would be taking lives!” The swell of ire poisoned her words, building them into a vile crescendo. “To paint it as a panacea to the conflict is wishful thinking at best.”

“It is not ideal, but we’re far past the peaceful negotiations phase,” he retorted. “You would know that if you were here in the past two years.”

Jayce had a terrible habit to resort to petty comebacks whenever a discussion wasn't going his way. She saw it happen more times than she wished to whenever he and Viktor got stuck working on particular complex projects for far too long and exhaustion made everyone cranky. 

Right now, dealing with the socio-political calamity at hand was clearly turning him into the worst version of said Jayce. And, like she did in the past, there was a world in which she'd brush it off and simply reel the conversation back to the topic at hand. To douse the flames so as not to get them both burned.

This was not such a world.

In the next second, she violently got up, lifting a finger at Jayce. “I will NEVER willingly participate in the genocide of my husband's people!”

Jayce did the same, barreling towards her, shoving a finger to her face. “He WASN’T your husband. You LEFT HIM at the altar to DIE!”

That was the last straw.

---------------------------------------------------

Jayce had realized he went too far the moment he noticed the tight knot in her brows and the lack of glimmer in her eyes, a blend of hurt and rage. He’d apologize, said he didn't mean it and the words that came out of him were mere fruits of the spur of the moment.

But it was the last pillar holding up the home she built in Piltover. And it came crashing down before her eyes, the falling rubble sending debris all around her. And as the dust settled down, she saw the only possible way forward.

Or downward.

She started packing as soon as Jayce left her room, sliding a large over-the-shoulder bag from under the bed. She made quick work of stuffing some clothes, her journal, and some other light equipment. She finished up by carefully placing Viktor's journal atop her belongings, slotted between some fabrics for safekeeping.

She put her coat on, pulled the hood over her head, slinged the bag over her shoulders and sneaked out of Academy.

And she was suddenly back to when she was a kid.

The divide between Topside and the Undercity seems abrupt at first glance. A clean cut, where one could easily pinpoint where one ended and the other started.

However, someone from The Fringes knows that there are a lot more shades of gray in this black-and-white picture Topsiders like to paint.

Much like the intricacies of the socioeconomic relations of the sister cities, exist capillary breaches connecting them. Crevices invisible to the eyes of Piltovans, that in their hubris, never made an effort to look into. Alleyways a little wider than a foot that always remained unpatrolled by enforcers before the conflict and that she was sure wouldn't be patrolled now.

From checkpoint to checkpoint, she slipped between those cracks until there were no more blue uniforms in sight. 

Truth be told, the Enforcers were much more worried about preventing trenchers from moving up than making sure no topsider was sneaking into the Undercity.

She stopped sneaking once the familiar smell of stale urbanity air hit her nostrils. The streets were eerily quiet, much different from the neon-bathed everlasting nightlife she was used to - if it wasn't for the humming of machinery or the eventual person walking hastily by her, she'd assume it was a ghost town.

Apprehension took hold. She wasn’t sure exactly where to go, just hoped she'd stumble upon a friendly face at some point. Maybe people who’d recognize the Architect from all the on-site data gathering she used to do as part of the UDS. Maybe even someone who'd remember her walking around with Viktor.

Pain rose from her chest at the memory. 

In the new relative calmness devoid of the fear of being perceived, her mind raced. There was a cacophony of emotions roaring inside her, sadness that her place in the academy was no more, grief from the very recent loss of her fianceé, guilt from breaking her promise and leaving Viktor to die alone.

But on top of it all was rage. Pure molten ire for Piltover taking over her life's work, which she toiled over for years on an underfunded (due to pure disinterest of topside on the matter) section of the academy, and twisting it, completely stripping it of its original purpose, perverting it at its core. 

And Jayce, of all people, not vetoing it? 

She fumed, clenching her jaw as she made her way forward. Her marbled arm tingled erratically every time a new painful memory resurfaced, but she was far too engulfed in her righteous wrath to take notice of that.

Or of the quickly approaching footsteps from behind.

In an instant, she felt the loss of the weight of her bag as someone swiftly took it off of her shoulder. The figure then held her bag tight against them, never faltering in their stride. It took her a second to snap back from the astonishment before dashing behind the thief.

She ran as fast as she could, not worried with her clothes, her equipment or any of her belongings inside her bag - only Viktor’s journal. But as the chase continued, her lungs burned, not used to the thick, polluted air of the Lanes anymore. Soon, every fiber of her body started screaming for her to stop, her legs started faltering and she watched as the distance between her and the thief grew.

She was going to lose the very last piece of him she had. Have it mercilessly snatched away from her grasp. And again, she was gonna be unable to prevent it.

The very thought made her sick, like a humming uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. And it quickly expanded, hot and incandescent, every cell inside her igniting in a chain-reaction until it engulfed her in a golden inferno.

Her marbled arm flew forward on instinct, the veins glowing an intense golden hue. With a scream, as if all the pressure that had been building up exploded, a burst of energy went flying from her outstretched palm, hitting the thief squarely in the back.They fell on the floor, rolling around from momentum, before stopping. 

She stopped at their prone body, falling to her knees as she tried to catch her breath. Gazing down down at her marbled arm, she notoced the vein’s glow was already dimming. As soon as her breathing normalized and the nausea from exertion subsided, she grabbed her bag back and slung it across her torso.

She got up and was about to leave the scene, but something told her not to. She glanced back at the thief's form, still prone on the floor. Worry nagged at her, she had no idea what had just transpired and how whatever that was could've affected the thief outside of stopping them in their tracks. 

She took a deep breath before kneeling back down beside the thief and turning them on their back. She was met with his eyes, wide and scared, frantically looking at her. The rest of his body was completely still. Whatever she's done, seemed to have paralyzed him. Locked him in his own body.

She panicked. The thief, a man probably in his early 20's, didn't deserve this fate. Glancing over her marbled arm, she wondered if she could somehow reverse it. She was supposed to be a healer mage now, right? She did it before, sort of. 

Taking another deep breath, she placed her marbled palm on his chest. With her eyes closed, she tried to envision him running earlier, tried to perceive her own guilt for his fate, tried to beg the Cosmos, the Immortal Flame that made her its Aspect, to heal the man and grant him back his movement.

And then she started feeling a warmth blossoming in her gut, slowly travelling through her body up until her marbled palm. She opened her eyes and watched as the golden veins on her arm glowed, bathing her and the man in a cozy warm light. As soon as the light subsided, the thief gasped, quickly sitting up and scooting backwards.

“It's ok-,” she faltered, being suddenly overtaken by vertigo. Whatever healing she did paired with the chase seemed to have taken its toll, rendering her unable to continue. Her body stumbled forward, heavy with exhaustion. She barely had the presence of mind to catch herself with both palms to the floor.

From her peripheral vision, other figures started approaching the scene.

She heard their conversations.

“Be careful, she's a mage.”

“Go check if Nadir is OK, I'll deal with her.”

“Look at her clothes, she's a Piltie.”

“Quick, grab her stuff before she's back up again.”

Don't . But the words wouldn't come out. The figures kept closing in. She held her bag with as much force as she could muster, but her arms felt amorphous. There was no defending the bag anymore.

“Wait! Don't harm her! That's (Y/N)!”

A familiar voice rang from a figure further back. She looked up from her curled state on the floor, spots dancing in her vision with the motion.

“Ralph-,” was all she could muster before passing out.

---------------------------------------------------

The next time she opened her eyes, she was on a bed. The ceiling above was wooden, planks held together by bolted steel. 

“Ah, you're awake.”

She quickly sat up trying to find the source of the voice. On a chair on the far end of the room sat a tall, lean man with light brown hair. 

“Ralph?”

He beamed at her, dimples forming at the sides of his mouth. The same smile that would grace her all those years ago, when she was still just a kid of The Fringes. The first in command of the little band of misfits that she called her friends.

The man that used to have her heart.

“I really wasn’t expecting to see you down here,’ he said. “I'm sorry about the debacle the boys put you through, they didn't know.”

Memories of the chase came back at his words.

“My bag!” She frantically looked around. “Where's my bag!?”

“Woah, woah. Easy there!” Ralph cooed, motioning with his hands in an attempt to calm her down. “It's right there, on the floor next to the bed.”

She sighed in relief upon looking down and spotting the leather bag with gold and white accents she brought from Piltover.

Ralph chuckled. “So, how are you feeling?”

She lightly shook her head with a sneer. Such a mundane question felt almost comical at this point. She exhaled before responding. “A bit tired, but nothing to write home about…”

“Glad to hear it,” there was a shift in his eyes, as if a mask fell off. “Now, can you tell me exactly what you are doing back here in the Lanes?”

She frowned. “Why's that important? It's me Ralph, the Undercity is basically my home.”

Ralph leaned over, a more serious expression adorning his features. “You have to understand, (Y/N), the Undercity and the Topside are basically at war. It is very suspicious to have a Piltie wandering around the neighborhood.”

“I'm not a Piltie!” She scoffed, clearly offended. “You fancy me a spy or something?”

“Not me, I know who you are,” he continued. “But the others don't. And I need a good explanation to give them about someone from up there just happening to be here, especially with the little trick you pulled on poor Nadir.”

She grimaced as worry tugged at her. 

“The one who took my bag,” she whispered. “Is he ok?”

“He's fine, just a little shaken. He'll live.”

She sighed in relief. Ralph kept eyeing her, suspicion still heavy on the pinch of his brow.

“Let's start with that,” he continued. “Was that some new fancy weapon Piltover developed for us?”

She blinked in bewilderment. “Of course not! Why would you think I'd be the one to contraband Piltovan weapons to use on Zaunites?”

Ralph didn't answer. Instead he studied her face, seemingly checking if it betrayed her words.

“Then what was it? Nadir said that he couldn't move after you shot him. And that somehow you undid it with your hands.”

She exhaled, looking down at her hands. At this angle, one could assume her marbled appendage was but a glove or some form of accessory, and not her actual limb. 

Would it be wise to lay everything out to Ralph? That she was essentially a mage now, something unusual enough to be anyone's guess what kind of reaction the Zaunites would have?

On the other hand, what would omitting her newfound abilities really do? Was this sort of preservation even necessary at this point? She didn't have anywhere to go, no reputation to uphold, no legacy to keep. 

Maybe this new identity might put a bigger target on her back. But could also be the key to open new doors on her path.

She was willing to take the risk.

“There's a lot I need to tell. Bear with me.”

She told Ralph about Viktor. How she indeed became romantically involved with him. How his health drastically declined during the last years of their relationship. About her research on mages and the subsequent quest that it led her to.

Ralph listened patiently without a word, his expression unreadable.

“I ended up in Targon and, although I couldn't bring a mage back with me,” she pulled her sleeve up, fully revealing the marbled arm. “I brought back a neat souvenir.”

With a knitted brow, Ralph got up from his seat, carefully getting closer to her. His eyes locked on her arm.

“What is that?”

“An arm,” she said matter-of-factly. “That's also a conduit for magic.”

She offered her arm up towards him. He studied it, carefully touching her marbled forearm with sheer curiosity, her words gradually sinking in.

“You became a mage?”

“Yes. Well, technically a host for an Aspect,” she replied. “Supposedly, I can heal people now.”

“Were you able to heal Viktor?”

The tightness in her chest returned. Guilt tore her insides, like a knife between her ribs. She swallowed back a lump forming in her throat before speaking.

“When I got back, he was already gone.”

His eyes shot up from her arm, acknowledging her words. 

“I'm so sorry to hear that.”

Ralph let go of her arm, sitting beside her on the bed. He shed whatever guarded facade he was putting up until now, instead wearing a familiar soft expression. She found comfort in that.

Enough to break her own facade down as tears began rolling down her face.

Ralph wrapped his arms around her at the sight, pulling her into his chest. The gentleness of the act paired with nostalgic familiarity that was him made her feel unusually safe. And she let go, the tears crashing down like a downpour, staining his shirt in its wake. She sobbed as he soothed her, gently running his fingers through her hair.

She felt so weak, as thin as paper. Coming undone on a moment’s notice. A house that wasn't a home, with no beans, pillars or columns - standing on its walls alone. The whole of it coming down on the slightest of breezes.

She pulled herself away from him after calming down, sitting up straight again. 

“I'm sorry about this…”

“Don't be,” he cooed. “You went through a lot, I'm not sure what I would do with myself if Lyanna d-.” He paused, rethinking his next words. “If I lost Lyanna.”

They sat in silence for a bit, not knowing what to say next. But somehow it was comfortable, as if time hadn't passed and they were still two kids again, without a care in the world. She was glad, she desperately needed some semblance of normalcy.

Ralph was the first to break the silence.

“Tell me more about this arm of yours,” he turned to her. “How does it work?”

She held her marbled arm, studying the golden veins on its surface. “Honestly, I'm not sure. The most I did with it was what happened with that Nadir guy.”

Ralph hummed, a wishful glint behind his eyes as he once again analyzed her limb. He then looked down as his own right arm. 

“May I ask you to try something?”

With his left arm, he pulled the jacket he wore off, just enough to unveil his right arm.

Or what was left of it.

Her eyes grew wide in stupor at the sight. His arm was missing from the middle of his biceps down, the limb crudely bandaged up at the bottom. The tissue was tinted red with dried blood. 

“Oh gods, what happened!?”

He chuckled dryly. “Enforcer bomb went out right next to me, I was lucky it only took my arm.”

“Ok,” she exhaled in resolution. “You want me to try to heal that wound?”

“Actually… Can you try bringing my arm back?”

Her eyes shot up to his face in exasperation.

“That's one tall order!”

“Could you at least try?,” he pleaded. “You said you weren't sure how those powers worked, but you did heal a man from being paralyzed.”

She scoffed. “Paralyzing that I inflicted in the first place!”

“All the more reasons to try then, that arm seems to be packing quite a punch.”

“I'm not sure about that…”

“Please, (Y/N),” the vulnerability in his voice caught her off-guard. “I need both my arms to work. We've been fighting for scraps ever since the conflict with Topside broke out, the loss of my arm only made providing for my family that much harder.”

With a deep breath, she reached Ralph's damaged arm with her marbled hand. Carefully as not to hurt him, she pressed her palm on top of the bandages.

“Here goes nothing.”

Closing her eyes, she tried to perform the same method she did when healing Nadir. She pictured Ralph with his right arm outstretched, the bottom part of his stump free of bandages, all the innards exposed. His humerus slowly regenerated, growing out of the upper arm region until it was complete, the radius, ulna and the hand following right after. Once the bones were settled, all muscles, tendons and ligaments acted the same way, until his whole arm was good as new. She then prayed, begged to the Celestials and the Aspect of the Immortal Flame to regenerate Ralph's arm. To bring back his full range of motions.

Her marbled arm hummed with energy, like an electric current traveling from her core to her palm in waves. Her breath hitched, weariness setting in as if she was on a jog, her energy getting steadily drained. But she persisted as much as she could, until the lightheadness she felt verged into a fainting spell. 

Letting go of his arm, she panted as she caught her breath. She blinked a few times after opening her eyes in an attempt to get rid of the spots dancing around her vision. She glanced at Ralph's arm once she composed herself.

Where once was a badly bruised stump, with bloodied scars still inflamed, was a stump smooth and completely healed. The skin all around it even seemed fuller and healthier. 

But there was no new arm in sight. Whatever healing she could muster couldn't create new flesh.

Her eyes met Ralph's, whose crestfallen expression told her he had arrived at the same conclusion.

But he quickly shook his head, smiling at her.

“At least you sped the healing process. It's a relief to get rid of the soreness.”

He then proceeded to take a big stretch with a loud yawn, before making a thespian show for getting up.

“If you don't have somewhere to stay, you should come to my place. I think Ekko would be interested in having you and those powers join his ranks.”

---------------------------------------------------

Ekko was indeed interested to have her and her powers join his ranks. Ralph led her to what she'd learn was the Firelight’s hideout - an oasis hidden at the upper level of the Undercity. A resistance group that once fought against the exploitation of Undercitizens in the hands of chembarons, and now fought back against Topsider’s occupation and forced pacification. 

The people of the Hideout had mixed feelings towards her at first. There were those suspicious of someone who came from the Topside, hosting magic inside a bizarre arm. However, there were also those who knew her from when she was known as the Architect from the Academy, responsible for leading urban projects for the betterment of the Undercity. Soon, the suspicion thinned out, thanks to the vouching of Ralph and Lyanna, and she started to use her newfound powers for the sake of the community the Firelights had created.

Having a purpose again helped her navigate her grief better. With each smile her healing helped provide, each burden she helped lift, her consciousness felt a little less heavy. Viktor would be pleased, having his legacy survived in her, despite the suffering she'd previously caused him.

She learned of a mural on which the Firelights would paint the faces of notorious Undercitizens lost. After a while, she convinced them to add Viktor's face to the roster - a fellow Undercitizen Scholar who fought tooth and nail to make the Lanes s better place. She'd find herself looking up at him often; somehow, it brought her comfort to see his face among his people again. It kept her resolve firm in assisting Ralph and the Firelights.

Although the community was very self-sustainable, she learned that the conflict between Topside and the Undercity had created scarcity. One method they found of somewhat countering it was stealing as much as they could from the people outside the Hideout - especially from Pilties. That was what happened to her on her first day back - Ralph’s team spotted her gilded bag from a mile away, and so she’d become a target.

One day, after one of these expeditions, Ralph came up to her as she was doing some healing on an elderly Lady. 

“Hey.”

He called from behind her.

“Give me a second, Ralph.” 

She had her eyes closed, as she gently pressed her marbled palm on the lady's upper back. After a while, the glow of the veins on her arm faded out as she exhaled.

“There, Mrs. Siva. You should be able to breathe better now.” She beamed at the lady. On cue, Mrs. Siva took a long and unobstructed breath and smiled.

“Good heavens, the rasping is gone,” the Old Lady exclaimed. She turned around, taking both of the girl's hands. “Thank you kindly, my dear.”

The girl smiled back. “Don't mention it. Come back to me whenever you need.”

As Mrs. Siva left, the girl turned to face Ralph. Her eyes widened as she saw him.

“Your arm!”

Ralph smiled, waving at her with his hand. His new right hand. Connected to his new right arm. From the middle of his upper arm, where once was nothing, a mechanical prosthetic arm sprung, in steel and copper. 

Prosthetics and augmentations were common in the Undercity, but with conflict causing both scarcity and destruction, rendering more and more people in need of mechanized limbs, they had become difficult to come by. That in itself would be enough cause to be surprised at Ralph's new acquisition, but this one also had a… refinement that was not commonly seen. She watched him wave at her, his movements natural and smooth, as if it was a real arm. If she didn't know, it could've easily been mistaken for a weird over-the-elbow metallic glove and not a prosthetic.

“That's amazing! Where did you get that?”

“It is, isn't it?” He twirled his wrist around, opening and closing his fingers. “I heard people talking about this guy’s workshop at the Entresol level and I decided to check it out. Turns out he was the real deal!”

“It must have cost a fortune,” she commented, getting up from her stool, and reaching for his new arm in awe. 

“Would you believe me if I said it didn't cost me a single penny? The dude's doing this from the goodness of his heart or something.”

“Oh, wow,” she muttered. Instinctively, she glanced back at the painted mural, spotting Viktor. “I'm glad there's still people out there just making people's lives better.”

“Tell me about it, although… “ he scratched his chin, his eyes looking away from her. “He was mighty impressed with how the arm had healed before he did the procedure, and I ended up telling him about… Well, about you.”

Her eyes shot back at him with a scowl.

“Are you insane?”

“Wait wait, hear me out. Do you see this?” He brought both of his hands close to each other, touching each finger from his flesh hand to his prosthetic one rhythmically, with an impossible precision. “This kind of finesse is not a thing when it comes to prosthetics, and he theorized that life-like movements are a direct result of the interface between his tech and your healing magic.”

She hummed in response, eyes trailing his prosthetic arm again. Failing to bring Ralph’s arm back had pained her. It made her reminisce of her own time being an amputee, how even the most simple of tasks suddenly became a hassle in the face of her disability. She also watched him being often cast aside in the hideout, even when done not maliciously - the lack of his limb made him a liability. But now he had his arm back - and a damn good one at that. 

Imagine if all of the people in the hideout in need of a limb had a fine prosthetic like Ralph now possessed. 

“He said he was interested in meeting you.”

She blinked a few times out of her thoughts. With a long exhale, she turned to look at Ralph.

“I’m interested in meeting him too.”

---------

Lucky for her, Ralph had been on scavenging missions for the Firelights for a while, his experience navigating this new oppressive Zaun proved worthy. They reached the Entresol level without a hitch.

“The workshop is down this alleyway.”

As they ventured forth, it wasn’t long before dissonant sounds began to emerge, mingling with the industrial noises of the underground. Voices. A cacophony of conversations. 

As the voices grew louder, signs of inhabitancy started appearing, becoming less scattered as they went. Tents with people inside, laundry poles filled with clothing, small groupings of people talking among themselves. It wouldn't be so weird to see such things in Zaun, had the rest of the underground not been so empty. A spark of light in the darkness.

“They’re all patients, waiting for their turn.” Ralph commented. And that's when she noticed - all these people either had missing limbs or busted prosthetics. “Most of them are victims of the conflict.”

Ralph led them towards the core of the settlement - a narrow building slotted between two others. Here's where the number of tents were much denser. It's also where a woman stood, leaning with her back to the building's wall, right next to the entrance door. She had her arms crossed over her torso, one of them a prosthetic similar to Ralph's. She smirked upon noticing them.

“So you brought Little Miss Magic, huh,” she sneered. “Come right in, the Herald's expecting you.”

Without another word, the woman held the door open for them. Ralph nodded at her, going in first. The girl hesitated a bit before  taking a deep breath and venturing inside after him. 

The first noticeable characteristic of the place was the smell - moldy and dusty with hints of motor oil, battery acid and a distinguished metallic scent. The second was how dimly lit the place was, enough that her eyes took a second to adjust to the new surroundings. 

As her vision got accustomed, she saw what could only be described as a very messy living room. Almost every surface was full of tools, books, trinkets and rolls of parchment paper, but you could clearly see a tattered carpet on the floor, a beaten sofa on a corner and even a small dinner table with some wooden chairs on the other. This was a home made into a workshop.

Before she could register anything else, Ralph whistled at her as he disappeared around a corner.

“C’mon, the actual workshop is this way.” 

With a nod, she followed Ralph, taking caution not to step on anything. 

The threshold to where he disappeared to took her to a stairway leading down, presumably to the basement. The crackling noises of welding carried all the way up to the top of the stairs, where she stood. Light shone from the basement entrance every time the tool made contact with the metal and said whirring took place, outlining a tall silhouette on the wall facing the doorway downstairs.

Ralph was already halfway down, carelessly making his way to the ominous lair of the Herald. She brought her hands together for a moment, caressing her marble palm in a grounding motion. Everything since leaving the Hideout felt ominous, oppressive. And this dark workshop where this mysterious Herald resided was almost comically villainous - in the basement of a suspiciously dark, damp and empty house. 

She very much missed the verdant nature of the Firelight's Hideout.

With a resolute exhale, she ventured downwards. Whatever waited for her here, she could face it. If anything, her arm could save her like it did before. Hopefully.

As they stepped through the wooden archway that framed the workshop entrance, they were faced with the source of the welding. At the opposite side of the room, a tall, distinguished figure stood with their back turned to them. The glint of metal caught her eyes immediately - the Herald seemed to wear some sort of full plate armor. His right leg and right hand were both prosthetics, a sign they at least knew their craft intimately. But the most prominent aspect of the Herald was an articulated claw-like welding tool, reminiscent of a thin third arm, that sprung from a bulky shoulder pad.

The Herald worked on a prosthetic leg. Sat beside him, on the same table he worked on, was a middle-aged man whose leg was missing. It wasn't hard to guess he was the owner of the metal limb currently being welded.

Ralph cleared his throat. “I brought her.”

The Herald stopped what he was doing, turning around to face them. Yellow glowing orbs met them through the slits of a metal mask.

“Ah, impeccable timing.” The Herald spoke in a thick accented voice, seemingly modulated by the mask, giving him a robotic lilt. His tone was mechanical, plain - the flexion between each syllable almost non-existent. “Come forth, aid me.”

She glanced at Ralph, who in turn simply nodded. Gathering courage, she stepped forward, towards the table and into the Herald's space.

The metal man proceeded to attach the prosthetic leg to the patient's body, who in turn groaned in pain as the nerves connected to the machinery. The metallurgist then moved to the side and waited, observing the girl in silence.

She turned to the patient. “Sir, I'll perform some quick first-aid. Is that OK?”

The man nodded in response, his breathing still a bit labored from the procedure. She brought the marbled arm up to the man's leg, placing her palm right at the seam between metal and flesh. Closing her eyes, she began the maneuver. In the dim light of the basement, the glow of her veins bathed her surroundings in golden light as she channeled her magic. The patient's eye widened at the sight, but quickly fell shut as a long sigh of relief escaped his lips.

Once the glow died down, she shuddered. “There,” she breathed out, taking a step back. “It's done.”

“Mr. Castro, experiment walking with the prosthetic.” The Herald instructed.

The man - Mr. Castro - hesitated at the request. He brought his hands to his new leg, rolling his foot around, seemingly just trying to get a feel of it. He then slid the leg off of the table, sitting at the edge without touching the floor. With a resolute exhale, he dropped down.

He blinked a few times, a knot in his brow. Once he felt secure enough, he took a tentative step with the prosthetic, putting his full weight on it. 

His eyes widened. 

Then he took another step.

And another.

And another.

He was soon walking around normally, like he had never lost a limb in the first place.

“Fascinating.” She heard the modulated robotic voice of The Herald say. But she paid no mind as she watched Mr. Castro taking a stroll around the workshop. There was a swell inside her chest, a giddiness she hadn't felt in forever.

It was hope.

“I wish to speak with her in private.” The Herald spoke again, breaking the spell she was in. “Take Mr. Castro and tell the guardI won't be seeing anyone else today.”

“What? Why?” She argued, but Ralph quickly cut her off.

“Sure.” 

She blinked a few times at him, her brows knit together. An unspoken interjection in her open mouth. Ralph just patted her on the shoulder, the corners of his mouth turned up in a reassuring smile. She held his gaze, but quickly let her shoulders drop with an exhale. If Ralph trusted the Herald, she'd give him a chance.

She watched Ralph and Mr. Castro as they left the workshop until they disappeared into the staircase. Nor her or the Herald spoke, but there was a growing tension in the pit of her stomach. She caressed the wrist of her marbled arm, acutely aware of the metallurgist's movements through the corner of her eyes.

Once the telltale sound of the door closing rang out, the Herald spoke again.

“I was going to offer you a new arm,” he said, the same modulated monotone voice. “But it seems that this is no longer necessary.”

She snapped her head to his direction and watched as he brought his hands to the back of his head, gently unclasping the mask. 

As he lowered it down, the world froze.

A chill swiftly ran down her spine, slotting itself in her chest. It felt tight, compressed, ready to burst. She needed to run, but was unsure if away from here or aggressively towards the Herald. Fight or flight.

Because she was seeing ghosts. 

Honey-glazed eyes sat atop sharp cheekbones on the pale face that both haunted her dreams and guided her path. But it couldn't be him, could it? This Herald Must be playing tricks on her. He was dead. There was no cure for death.

“Hello, Woodpecker.”

And yet... 

She threw herself onto him, wrapping her arms around his torso. The metal plates felt cold pressed against her cheeks, highly contrasting with the warm tears running down her face. She tried speaking his name, but only sobs came out.

Relief.

Months of unrelenting sorrow washed away in an instant. With every wail escaping her lips she felt another amount of weight being lifted off of her shoulders. He was alive. Gods, her Owl was alive! 

Once the initial shock ebbed, with her breathing still ragged, she tilted her head up to face him. He stared down at her, his face neutral, saved for a slight arch of one of his eyebrows.  

His reaction - or lack thereof - gave her pause.

“I- I'm  sorry.” She took a step back, letting her arms fall to her sides. 

“Don't be, it was an expected reaction.” The Herald, no, Viktor. Her Viktor. Her fiancé Viktor spoke. “I have something for that.”

The mechanical third arm that sprung from his shoulder moved, the claw-like extremity of it reaching for a nearby shelf. It grabbed a small transparent glass vial, the pearlescent liquid sloshing from side to side as the arm moved back towards the girl, offering her the item.

She hesitated for a second, but took the vial nonetheless. 

“Drink it.”

She turned the unlabeled vial in her hands. 

“It will make you feel better.” Viktor encouraged again.

Wiping the tears off of her face, she uncorked the bottle with a pop. She glanced up at Viktor again, looking for something - anything -, but he kept quiet, waiting for her next actions. With a low exhale, she brought the vial to her lips and drank up its contents. Her face instinctively scrunched up at the bitterness of the liquid, as she felt it burn down her gullet, reminiscent of a distilled spirit. 

The burning died down, leaving a warm and fuzzy feeling in its wake. Like the cozy warmth of a hearth. Her ragged breathing subsided, the tears stopped and she felt her eyelids a bit heavier. Whatever turmoil the shock of seeing him sparked within her vanished, leaving a warm numbness in its stead. 

On the other hand, her mind felt impossibly sharp. 

“What did I drink?”

“A concoction I developed. I give it to patients when they are not being particularly cooperative.”

With this new presence of mind, she carefully analyzed Viktor, taking note of every little detail she failed to capture before. First of all, he was bigger. Not taller, bigger. As if someone had scaled him up proportionally - although still thin and lanky, he was at least half a foot taller, but his whole torso was also wider. His irises were still golden, but his sclera was very dark, almost black. He was still the same, but different.

Just like her.

“How are you alive?” She asked, tilting her head slightly. “Jayce said you were dead. He had a statue in your honor!”

“Did he, now,” he muttered. “And how, pray tell, did he say I died?”

A pause. She furrowed her brows, eyes flickering to the floor as she mentally recounted her conversations with Jayce.

“He didn't say.”

Viktor hummed. “He was never good at lying.”

There was something off with the way Viktor spoke, she noticed. Although the words he used and the phrases he constructed were full of mirth, the way in which he delivered them were dull, monotonous. Like he didn't believe in the sentiment behind them. 

Or worse, he was hiding something from her.

It didn't deter her though.

“Then tell me the truth, how are you alive? Why would Jayce omit this from me?”

“I was supposed to die. No doctor in Piltover had the knowledge necessary to cure me.” He started, turning his attention to the tools on the table. “So Jayce breached the barriers between Piltover and Zaun to bring me to an old acquaintance. An alchemist.”

“The doctor?” She asked. Viktor had told her once about an old mentor of his, an hermit-like man whose laboratory was set inside a cave in the upper levels of the Fissures.

“Precisely,” he noted. “He theorized he could use a combination of his own research with the Hexcore for a solution. So Jayce retrieved it for him.”

“And his theory was correct.”

“Indeed,” he continued. “But it exposed Jayce to new knowledge regarding the Hexcore.”

He looked at his prosthetic hand, opening and closing his fingers. 

“He learned about how I experimented altering my own physiology with it,” he said. “And about Sky…”

Her chest tightened. She still remembered how Sky’s accidental death had impacted Viktor. How they vowed to keep it a secret. How they held a funeral for her, just the two of them, and scattered her ashes around the place she and Viktor used to play as kids. 

If Jayce had learned all that… 

“He reported you,” she concluded. “And you were banished.”

“The Hexcore is still part of Hextech,” Viktor responded.”If the Council knew of its use for human experimentation and the subsequent death of a person, right under Jayce’s supervision, it would sully our work forever. No, he didn't report on me.”

She frowned again. “So he just… fabricated that you died to protect HexTech?”

He turned towards her. “You and I both know HexTech would continue being used while it was profitable to Piltover, ethos or no ethos.”

She studied his features, contemplating his words. “Then why…?”

“Jayce wished to protect our legacies.”

She paused. Viktor fought all his life to make a name for himself. To climb from the pits of Zaun all the way to the top of Piltover, using both his intellect and unrelenting force of will to do so. He defied every expectation set upon him, took a major risk when he decided to bet on Jayce and his research, succeeded with HexTech and had so much more to give to the world.

Only to be forced to face his own mortality.

And when he decided to use the technology he created to defy his fate, an unfortunate casualty took place. There was no ill-intention behind his actions, it was a misfortune. And for that Piltover could snatch all his accomplishments from him, erasing his name from the impact HexTech created.

“It was an accident,” she murmured, looking down. “The very nature of HexTech is risky, we are dealing with magic!”

She huffed, crossing her arms over her torso.

“And the only reason you were experimenting with your body was for desperation, not ambition,” the grip she had on her biceps  grew tighter. Whatever the concoction she drank was, it damped her feelings but didn't mute them. “To cure a condition imposed on you by Piltover, when they decided to prioritize progress and profit over the lives of the people responsible for that.”

“You fail to consider I'm a Zaunite,” Viktor spoke, unfazed by her reaction. “The accident with Sky, the human transmutation, none of it would sully a Piltovan’s name. My crime is being born on the wrong side of the bridge.”

She looked him in the eyes, brows knitted together.

“And you are fine with that? Having to be dead to uphold your legacy?”

“It was the only solution, my feelings regarding that are irrelevant.” Viktor responded. “It's better to die as one of HexTech's creators than to live as the banished trencher, is it not?”

She took a step forward. “No! It's better to live as one of HexTech creators, despite everything that happened,” she spat back at him.”And the trencher part should be irrelevant to begin with!”

He searched her eyes, his own gaze still neutral. He pressed his lips together in a thin line before speaking.

“Is it better to understand the logical choice of a loved one,” he spoke, his tone still flattened, but with a tinge of softness. “Or to spiral in sorrow at her betrayal?” 

Her eyes widened. Viktor's words tore her insides like a knife slicing through her sternum. This conversation was bound to happen sooner or later. She took a deep breath before speaking again.

“Not enough words exist… For me to properly convey how sorry I am for leaving you.”

She felt a lump already forming on her throat. Her eyes searched his features for possible ill-reactions to her words. But he simply stared blankly at her. “I can't imagine the pain you must have felt, being betrayed and abandoned at such a delicate time,” she dropped her gaze to the floor. “And you were cured without my help, my actions served only to bring you pain.”

Tears formed between her lids. No concoction could deter the weight of her remorse it seemed. 

The sound of metal hitting the ground foretold his approach. She felt his hand cupping her chin and tilting her head upward to meet his eyes. 

“You misunderstand,” he spoked, his tone unchanged. “I believe you made the right choice.”

“What?” She whispered back. “But I betrayed your trust, I left you to die alone.”

“What made more sense? Going after a possible solution based on information, or staying put waiting for the inevitable outcome?” He let go of her. “I saw your research, you had a strong foundation.”

She grasped his hand with both of hers.

“But you asked me to stay,” she cried. “And I left, even after promising to not do so!”

He straightened his back, looking down at her.

“I was simply emotional, clouded by my plight. I don't blame you, quite the contrary. Your choices made the most logical sense.”

She watched with knitted brows as he made his way back to his workbench. Something about his response just didn't sit right with her. This aloofness felt… Uncanny. As if he behaved as a mere caricature of his former self. But before she could dive more into it, he spoke again.

“I have a proposal to offer you.”

She blinked. “A proposal?”

He turned around to face her again. “Yes, I would like to propose a partnership. To collaborate in aiding those in need, like we did today. My prosthetics and your healing.”

“Oh! Ah, I-  yes!” The whole rollercoaster of a conversation made the ordeal from earlier feel like it had happened a century ago. The shift astonished her.

“Is that so? I am glad to hear it.” But his tone didn't convey that. He turned around again, sorting tools on the bench before continuing. “Let me know how you would prefer to coordinate this endeavor, what days and times would you be available to come over.”

She blinked a few times. “I thought… I was going to move in with you?”

“Ah,” he said, halting his movements for a second. Without looking back at her, he continued. “Yes, that could be arranged.”

—-------------------

It was well into the late hours of the night when she came back to the Workshop. 

After their reunion, she bid Viktor farewell and went back to the Firelight’s Hideout with Ralph. She notified Ekko of her decision, telling him to send those in need her way at the Entresol Workshop, assuring him she'd tend to all of them. She grabbed her bag, bid everyone good-bye and made her way back.

Along the way, a million synapses were firing simultaneously inside her head, creating an almost overwhelming cacophony of thought. Viktor being alive still felt surreal, so much that there was a part of her which suspected the whole ordeal up until now was but an elaborate ruse orchestrated by the Celestials in Targon. Worse yet - that she was still suspended in time and everything was just a dream, or some sort of purgatory. 

She thought of Jayce, how he'd lied about Viktor's fate, adding it to the list of wrongs he caused her since she came back. But also about the circumstances he was put through to reach those decisions. She left him all by himself to tend to the HexTech lab, a city on the brink of civil war, and his dying partner. It was easy to point fingers at him now from her safe distance, easier yet to scapegoat her frustrations on him.

There was also something about Viktor’s behavior. She always admired his intellect, his capacity to solve a myriad of complex problems with astonishing ease. Yet it was in his fiery disposition, paired with his genius, that lied who he was at his core: a witty, passionate, snarky, and sometimes insufferable man. To see him act as coldly as he had felt almost offensive - like the personification of a vague idea of him. A pale imitation of the Zaunite inventor.

And yet, she couldn’t hold it against him. Not only because of the guilt she felt, even if he seemed fine with it. He still went through so much - from the days he'd slave away to find a cure for his ailment while he could feel his time running out, to the betrayal she'd bestowed upon him, to his unofficial banishment to Zaun by someone he held dear. He was collecting life-altering events like postcards, wearing traumas as badges. Of course he'd be different.

She just hoped there was a chance for her to bridge that rift between them.

Finally, she arrived at the workshop. Once inside, she made her way down the basement, spotting Viktor still at his bench, tinkering away at a prosthetic arm. 

“I'm back.”  

He turned around at the sound of her voice, and she was met with his maskless face.

“I will show you to your bed.”

He made quick work to put away his tools, grabbing his cane and taking the lead up the staircase afterwards. She followed behind with a low ‘ok’. They climbed another set of stairs, stopping at a floor above the entrance. 

She observed his movements with quiet amusement. Although he still needed aid to walk, his stride felt much firmer than before. It was almost like his body regained the vigor it had at the time they first met. Something akin to warmth bloomed inside her at the sight.

Viktor led her to a room at the end of the corridor. He opens the door and she is met with a simple bedroom; worn-out wallpaper adorns all walls, there's a small wardrobe next to the entrance, leaning against the wall adjacent to the door. Journals, tools and rolled-up parchment papers are scattered around the room as well, but in smaller numbers than in the rest of the workshop. Finally, two beds are located on each side of a window, one by each remaining wall of the room, parallel to each other. The one near the door had clear signs of having been slept on, the other was neatly made.

“You may use that bed,” Viktor said, pointing to the latter. “Feel free to store your belongings in the wardrobe, or as you seem fit.”

She murmured an “OK” and made her way to the bed, taking the bag off of her shoulder in the process. Placing it on the floor next to the bed, she began to unpack quietly, but a question kept tugging at her mind, trying to overtake the forefront.

What was even their relationship anymore?

To be allowed to share a bedroom with Viktor once again, but in an ill-imitation of what they once had felt like a bad joke. It served only to emphasize the distance between them, to dangle what she desired right in front of her, but just out of reach. 

Did he plan this? Was this him punishing her for her transgressions? Or was this him also being unsure on where they were as a couple? Were they even a couple anymore? Maybe she should try to talk to him about it…

Does she even deserve to discuss this with him?

The sound of fabric shuffling and the clanging of metal snapped her out of her thoughts. Instinctively, she turned her head to the source and took a sharp breath at the sight. Viktor was in the middle of shedding all layers of both clothes and armor off of him, facing away from her. 

She was stunned, torn between turning around and giving him some privacy, or allowing herself a glance at the body she once knew so intimately. But the second it took for her mind to process what she was seeing solidified her decision on the latter.

He was more different than she anticipated.

Now with the outer parts of the armor off from his torso, she could see his back bare - or as bare as it could be. His whole spine seemed to be metallic, its outline protruding out from his skin. The brace he used to wear was substituted by a series of rubbery cylinders around his ribcage, connecting the new spine to his sternum, now also metallic and protruding in a similar fashion. The whole contraption felt like an exoskeleton. Where his alabaster skin was visible - his pectorals and abdomen -, bright purple veins shone from underneath.

She fought back a sigh, as to not alert him. In this candid moment, the only word that came to mind was beautiful. Still so, so beautiful. Warmth blossomed on her face as the urge to touch him emerged, to trace the seams between metal and flesh with her fingers. To embrace him from behind and learn what his scent was like, if it changed at all. But she shoved it all down with as much force as she could muster. 

He was not her fianceé anymore.

This was as good of a time as any to turn around and resume unpacking. But a last glance at him made her audibly gasp as she saw him in the middle of dropping the lower half of his armor, his underwear in full display.

That's when he noticed her staring.

She turned around as quickly as possible, getting back to her bag in a feeble attempt to cover for her perverted misdeeds. But it was futile, the sound of footsteps - alternating between metallic and soft ones -, alerted her of his approach. His hand touches her shoulder and she flinches.

She turned around crestfallen, meeting two pools of molten gold swimming in dark sclera staring back at her. The same dull, indecipherable look on them.

“You're agitated,” he declared, rather than asked. “I can provide you with more of the calming serum, the effects of the one you took earlier already wore off.”

“I, ah-... No,” she blabbered, more than responded. His naked torso so close wasn't helping either. “No, that is not necessary. Thank you, though.”

“Are you certain? You're clearly troubled.”

She sighed, taking a deep inhale right after. She turned around completely, her whole body facing him. “I'm sorry, I was watching you undress. The sight of you bare took me back, is all.”

It was a subtle change, but something sparked behind Viktor’s eyes. The gears turning in his head almost made a sound.

“We were a couple. I understand now, you are in need of intimacy.”

Viktor shrunk the gap between them in an instant, his hands dropping directly to the hem of her shirt. He pulled it, the fabric riding up her torso, getting caught under her armpits. She was stunned, his sudden initiation took a few seconds to register, but she allowed him when it did, putting her arms in the air to let him remove her shirt all the way. This was more than she had hoped for.

Without a moment to spare, his hands go around her, reaching for the clasp on her bra. His finger swiftly unhooks it, and he removes it all the way, leaving her chest bare. A shudder escapes her as the sensitive skin comes into contact with the frigid air.

Viktor doesn't react, opting instead to carry on with the task, dropping his hands to the clasp of her pants. His movements were quick, but not desperate. They were swift and precise like an assembly line.

Her pulse drummed inside her ears, making her dizzy. Instinctively, she brought her hands to his chest to steady herself. And through the soft touch of her palm to his skin she felt the thumping of his heart. The steady thumping of his heart. 

Her eyes shot open, searching his face. His eyes were focused on the task at hand, his mouth closed, his lips relaxed against each other, and his breath coming in steady intervals.

He was unbothered. 

She grabbed his shoulders and pushed him away from her. He drops his hands, searching her face in confusion.

“Do you want this?”

She muttered, her gaze piercing his. It takes a second for the question to register.

“What do you mean?”

“I feel like you're not here,” she says, her brows arching in a pinch. “You're just going through the motions.”

He blinks twice, his brow furrowed.“Is this not to your liking?”

“That 's not…,” she looks down, taking a second to gather her thoughts. When her face turns back up, there's resignation in her eyes. “Look, time might not have passed for me, but it had for you. And I left you on such a sour note…, “ she trailed off, unsure if she really wanted to say her next words out loud. 

But she had to.

“You had two years to let those feelings fester. It'd make sense for you not to want this.” Her eyes drop to a corner of the room, avoiding his gaze. She exhales. “Or me.”

The silence that lingered next felt like an eternity. She wanted nothing more than for him to dismiss her worries, to say he wanted her the same way he did before. That nothing that transpired negatively affected how he saw her, that he missed her every day since she left. That he is as happy to see her, to hold her again, that she is about him. But deep down she knows that such a naive scenario is completely unreasonable.

Yet nothing prepares her for the words that leave his mouth next.

“I might have failed to disclose,” he says, tone unchanged. “That I do not possess the ability to feel any longer.”

----------

After the fiasco that was their moment of intimacy, Viktor explained the origin of his lack of feelings. The procedure Dr. Raveck performed - a mixture of open-chest surgery and chemical infusion -, although resulting in his successful recovery, came with a side-effect: the complete removal of his capacity to feel.

“And what about all this metal?” She asked, motioning at his artificial limbs. “Was this the Doctor too?”

“No, these are my doing,” Viktor responded calmly. “I got rid of the hexcorized tissues in favor of parts I had control over.” 

Yet, the cosmic punchline was in the bittersweetness of it all.

There was no doubt in her mind that she was glad Viktor was alive. A part of her was thrilled to be by his side again, to be able to watch him use his intellectual prowess to aid those in need. Like he always dreamed of. After all those months beside him, watching him decay bit by bit every day. After mourning his loss for weeks, engulfed in guilt imagining his last days all alone. This opportunity to be with him again felt like a blessing.

But something wasn't right, he wasn't right. He miraculously came back from the dead. But he came back wrong. 

Viktor was not the man she loved anymore, just an echo of who he once was. An uncanny simulacrum, not completely different, but an ill-imitation of the original.

Like a song she knew by heart, but every now and then he changed the lyrics, sang off-key, outpaced the tempo. In every exchange, every act, no matter how mundane, something was always frustratingly wrong.

It was in the way he walked, still impaired and aided by a cane, but it lacked the grace of before, being replaced by an almost robotic stride. It was in the way he was built, still thin with long and lanky limbs, but he was now rigid, standing artificially straight. It was in the way he spoke, with his still low and accented voice, but with a new dull lint of his speech, tempered and softened, lacking the once alluring sharp edges 

And all of it seemed to mock her. 

In this new form, Viktor was both her persecutor and warden - his very presence tormented her, made her acutely aware of her love for his old self and the fact he was forever gone. But it also kept her in place, for she couldn't leave him. She had no right to.

Not when she had done it once already. Not when he needed her help again. She just had to endure, to bear the cross of her own mistakes in spite of her feelings. And so she did.

—--

Luckily, he kept his mask on throughout the day, blocking out the world from his remaining humanity, and unknowingly shielding her from excess torment, albeit a little. In his full herald garb, the girl could pretend he was someone else entirely, his accented voice was the only hint of his old self, and even that was attenuated by the modulation of the mask.

She started to use his metallic veneer as a tool to help her envision him as someone else entirely. While masked, he wasn't her once fianceé Viktor, but the transhumanist scientist known as the Herald. By clinging to the difference on these labels, she was able to keep some semblance of sanity.

The schedule around the Emberlift Alley Workshop was divided in three blocks. The mornings were  designated for new patients, people whose issues were yet to be assessed and properly diagnosed. It was also when Viktor took their measurements in order to build them their prosthesis. Around noon came those whose synthetic limbs were already built and just had to be attached, as well as those in need of maintenance. The evenings were devoted to building the prosthesis based on the measurements taken in the morning. She only needed to be present for the afternoon appointments, when her healing was necessary.

And she'd take every opportunity available to not be present in the same room as him. To avoid unnecessary feelings and ruminations from clouding her mind. To keep her focus on her work.

Instead of remaining idle, she started to organize the rest of the house bit by bit during her free time, trying to bring back some of the home aspect to the place. The busy work kept her from dwelling on the stalemate, preventing her from spiraling into dark thoughts. The people of Zaun needed her in topnotch condition, there wasn't room to come undone. Viktor didn't comment on it, but noticed the effort - the organized space brought him further clarity of mind.

One evening as she was sweeping the floor in the living-room, a familiar voice called her name from behind her. It belonged to Ralph.

“Long time no see, Ralph!” She greeted him, turning around. “Are you here for mainte- what's all that?”

Ralph grinned as he approached her, a small wooden crate in his arms filled to the brim with… Junk?

“It's material for the prostheses!”

“No offense, but,” her hand delicately plucked a corroded rusty screw from the crate, rolling it between her index finger and her thumb. “I don't think these can be used.”

Before Ralph could respond, an accented modular voice rang from behind them.

“They can,” its sound alone sent a shiver down her spine, inching her dangerously close to the precipice of her own mind. “Ralph brought these for me at my request.”

That day she learned just how Viktor was able to keep providing people with prosthetic limbs even under the shortage of resources the conflict between the two cities was causing.

Stricken by curiosity, she followed him as he took the crate down to the workshop below. He placed it on the desk next to the HexCore, its pulsating cold light casting ghastly flickering shadows over the stone walls of the basement. She watched as the Herald pressed various keys on the machinery the HexCore sat atop before the runic matrix reacted, spinning faster than before. Her breathing hitched when an energy beam erupted from the core, elevating the material from the crate and amalgamating its contents together - sorting it by material, no less. In the next moment, all the contents inside the crate were gone, and sheets of different types of material rested on the desk next to it.

An almost inaudible ‘amazing’ escaped from her lips. She swore the Herald chuckled before continuing.

“Those I've helped come bearing whatever form of scraps they find as a show of gratitude,” he explains. “Although the sentiment is unnecessary, the gesture allows me to help more people in the long run.”

Ralph is one of those who often visits with scraps, and in the days that follow is the one person tethering her to some semblance of lucidity. Whenever he comes, he makes sure to stay a while, a warm smile always on his face.

“Your situation is so unique, I'm not sure I have the words necessary to help you,” Ralph relented during one of his visits. They both sat across from each other at the recently uncluttered dinner table. “But I need to encourage you to cut yourself some slack.”

A chuckle escaped her lips.

“I cut myself some slack when I betrayed his trust, didnt I?,” she murmured with a long exhale. “I don't think I should be allowed to do so ever again.”

Ralph rolled his eyes, exhaling loudly in mock annoyance.

“You know what, you actually shouldn't. You are the worst person to ever step foot in Runeterra, and your sins could never be forgiven,” he conceded, looking away from her. “For instance, leaving your gilded life in Piltover to come to the Fissures just because you refused to build weapons to be used against us. What a crime.”

She arched an eyebrow in a knowing look. “Ralph…”

“Not to mention all the years in the Academy, fighting to bring positive change to the Undercity!” He turned back to her, crossing his arms. “And spending all her energy healing our sick after getting her shiny new arm? What a monster!”

His words held good intentions, but failed to truly reach her. Every moment interacted with Viktor was a dire reminder of her mistakes, a memento of her subsequent loss, and an omen of her guilt.

She woke up one day in the middle of the night in full alert. Sitting up on the bed and quickly scanning her surroundings proved there was nothing to worry about, it was just another rough night for a troubled mind. On instinct, her eyes landed on the bed on the other side of the room, and she was graced with Viktor's sleeping form.

It was a rare sight, one she subconsciously tried avoiding by opting to always go to bed before him. The Herald had a habit to stay up late tinkering away at the workshop downstairs, which gave her ample time to get ready for bed and be fast asleep before he was even in the room. The last thing she needed was being further damaged by the sight of him stripped down from his Herald form to something more akin to the man she once knew.

And that was the right call, because seeing him now with his face bare, lips slightly parted, and a peaceful look on his face was… Blissfully painful. 

And dangerously magnetic.

Her limbs moved on their own as she slowly rose from her bed, tiptoeing her way to his side, eyes locked on him, committing this Viktor to mind as much as possible. She sat on the floor next to his bed, resting her head over one arm atop the mattress. 

She watched him sleep, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The same sharp jaw, now framed by metal, the thin cracked lips, moles dotting the area above his upper lip, just under his eye, and the twins at the side of his neck.

This was not the Herald. This was Viktor. 

Her eyes landed on his hand closest to her and she dared to snake her marbled hand towards it, stopping right before touching it. One marbled pinky curled around his and something akin to elation blossomed inside her chest. 

Her eyes fluttered close. In the dark behind her eyelids, she could almost pretend they were back at their shared bedroom in Piltover. His scent and the ongoing soft sounds of his breathing lulled her into a false sense of security, and before she could do anything, sleep claimed her.

When next she woke, the clarity of the day lit up the room from the window. Lifting her head up from her arms, she winced as the stiffness of her neck made itself known. Massaging the region, her eyes searched for Viktor but found an unsurprisingly empty bed.

With a groan, she rose to her feet while mentally chastising herself for falling asleep on the floor. Not to mention having Viktor waking up to her sleeping creepily at his side like an obsessed lunatic. She dreaded what he'll have to say about it.

A glance at her own bed proved she wouldn't have to wait to find out. On top of the mattress rested a vial - filled with a clear liquid she recognized as the calming concoction Viktor offered upon their first meeting - and a note. She picked it up and read it ‘Drink it whenever you feel restless’.

Apart from that, he never mentioned that night again. And she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

—--

The day she dreaded came earlier than anticipated. After nudging a frame on the wall to the side and back, rotating it ever so slightly clockwise and counterclockwise for the ninth time, she exhaled in resignation - the frame was fine as it was the first time, she was merely stalling. Stalling from recognizing her work was done, the whole house had been thoroughly organized. 

Which meant her only excuse to be absent from the workshop outside of the afternoon hours was no more. 

She exhaled once more, trying to weigh her options. On one hand, she could keep on being present only when the prosthesis were being attached, she'd just have to find other things to do around the workshop in the meantime - sitting idly with her thoughts was an easy way to slip into spiraling. There was the option of going out and finding purpose somewhere else, maybe going back to the Firelights Hideout to be a part-time inhouse healer. But then again, there was a conflict happening out there, and exposing herself to being caught by enforcers or in the crossfire of a shooting just because she didn't want to spend more time with the Herald than necessary was… Stupid. On the other hand, being present during assessment could prove useful - getting to know the patients and their woes beforehand could give her more insights and perhaps make her work better. She could even heal them beforehand in case they had wounds still open, or even aid them with stuff completely unrelated to the prosthesis whatsoever.

She glanced at the wall clock and felt a chill run down her spine - it was still mid-morning. She could do this, couldn't she? They say consistent exposure to a trigger tends to dull its effects on a person. She already spends a lot of time in his presence daily, a little more couldn't make such a big difference. Let's not think about the different circumstances each part of the day schedule entailed, with the afternoon time being more busy work and her being able to ignore Viktor's presence entirely, while the morning period would consist of observing and learning on her part. Just. Don't. Think. About. It.

With a resolute exhale, before resolve could escape her, she patted the remainders of dust off of her clothes and made her way down to the basement.

Viktor was sitting at the HexCore desk, noting something down on a parchment paper. She fought the icicle in the pit of her stomach signaling her to run.

“Greetings, sit on the table. I'll be there in a moment” he spoke without facing her, the orange glow of his mask kept firmly at the paper before him.

“No, uhm… it's actually me” She greeted shyly. He turned to her upon hearing her response.

“Oh,” he interjected. “There's still a couple hours before the afternoon appointments start.”

“I know, it's just… “ She could feel her resolve faltering, but pressed on nonetheless. “I was thinking about being present during the morning assessments as well, to learn of your methods and perhaps lending a helping hand where I could.”

A pause befall the two and suddenly the air was thicker. Her eyes kept away from him, fixated in the glow of the rune matrix beside him. The icicle in the pit of her stomach evolved into a dagger and was risking becoming a sword each second that passed between them. 

She started deliberating being torn asunder from the inside or just bolting out of the door, not to set foot in the workshop again, when Viktor spoke. “I believe your contributions could be valuable. You may stay.”

Before she could respond, the creaking of the wooden stairs behind them announced the arrival of a patient. She turned around and was greeted with a familiar face.

“Hey, Miss Architect! Long time no see!” A middle-aged man with an athletic build and thinning gray hair stood leaning on a crutch, his left leg missing from the knee down.

“Yo-you're Wenn, right? The courier?” Memories of the countless times she visited the Undercity for data gathering flooded her mind, his face a constant presence. But once the words left her mouth, her eyes did a double take at his missing limb. “Oh… “

“Yeah, I know… “ Wenn jested coily. “But Mister Herald here is gonna make me all good, isn't he?”

“Correct,” Viktor agreed curtly. “Please sit on the table so I can get your measurements.”

Wenn did as commanded while Viktor prepared the tools. The girl stood by the HexCore desk, crossing her arms. “So, what happened to you?”

“Same as everyone else, Enforcers,” Wenn answered nonchalantly. “Was doing my rounds in a permitted area and was still met with a landmine. I was darn lucky it only got my leg.”

“Please, hold still.” Viktor’s robotic voice cut through. 

“I wish I could say a mine buried in a permitted area surprised me, but I'd be lying…“ she commented dryly. Enforcers brutality against Zaunites was already a well-known reality often overlooked by the Piltovan state, but ever since the conflict broke out, it felt like it had been cranked up to eleven. The Enforcers filled Zaun with barricades and checkpoints, stipulating permitted areas for passage. Unfortunately, it looked like they didn't keep the bombs solemnly in prohibited territory.

“Tell me about it… “ Wenn sighed. “This whole situation was bad enough before, my radius of operation had shrunk significantly because of it, losing my leg was the cherry on top of this shitcake.”

“We'll solve that part at least.” She assured him.

Viktor turned around and was about to rise from his chair when she stopped him. “I can note down his measurements for you.”

“That would be helpful, I appreciate it.” Viktor acknowledged it, turning back to Wenn after informing her the number. 

The girl diligently grabbed a pen on the desk and started writing down what Viktor was telling her when something grabbed her attention - the schematics she was scribbling on. Something was off, the schematics was for a standard prosthesis, something that he usually builds for the common folk. A courier like Wenn, who spends his whole day on foot, walking around the uneven stone pathways of Zaun needed something more sturdy, with more padding. Viktor certainly had something like that designed, didn't he?

“Is this the right schematic?” She prodded. 

“It's the leg one, correct?” He retorted.

“it is.”

“Then it is correct.”

Did Viktor really only have one-size-fits all for each single prosthesis? 

She shook her head slightly, brows knitted as the gears turned inside her head. She could see where Viktor was coming from, by working with standard models he could attend to a larger number of people in less time. Tailoring each design individually was simply not time-efficient, despite the boost in quality for each piece. Not to mention, to most people the standard design would suffice. 

But how about these edge cases such as Wenn's? If they give him the standard module, he'd be back in two weeks or less for maintenance, or replacement altogether. Sure, they'd be making his life better, but only slightly. Wouldn't this be considered inefficient?

Her eyes traveled back to Viktor, and something clicked. Viktor and Jayce were brilliant scientists whose sharp minds worked meticulously to solve complex problems. But she noticed early on in their partnership that they more often than not lacked the ability to perceive what the problems were in the first place. 

“We were analyzing some of your data and we came across the fact that the average commute time for those who come topside to work varies from two to three hours during rush,” Jayce began, running his index over the papers in front of him. It had been a couple of months since the partnership between the Undercity Development Section and the HexTech Research Division began, the Ventilation System project was already underway. The pair of scientists had pulled the architect aside as soon as she arrived at the lab that morning, seemingly eager to show her how serious they were. At least that's the vibe she was getting from Jayce. “And we were brainstorming some ideas for a faster and more robust Public Transportation System using HexTech.”

Jayce rolled out a parchment paper in front of them with a map of the Undercity. On top of it, he placed a translucent sheet of butter paper. Then, he grabbed a marker and started sketching on top of it. The girl leaned in closer.

“We noticed that the existing lift's engine is rather old, and demanded that the ascension was done as horizontally as possible,” Viktor chimed in as his partner sketched. Her eyes met his golden ones for a brief second before  returning to the paper before them in a fluster. She was still digesting why the leaner scientist had such an effect on her. “This resulted in a longer route between the Undercity Terminal and the Topside Terminal. And that in itself already largely adds to the commute time. So we moved the whole system to a location in which the distance between the terminals is the shortest, since building the new lift vertically is not a problem anymore.”

She studied Jayce's croquis on the translucent paper for a second, before calmly bringing her index finger to it and tapping on a location on the map. “This district right here has historically been formed by people who go to work Topside. It grew organically around the terminal,” she spoke calmly. “These are the people we'd be affecting by tackling this problem. If we move the system to the other side, even if technologically and logistically seems more efficient, we're failing to address the practical effect of such a change.”

She took a marker from Jayce and began scribbling on the paper as she spoke.

“Nowadays, the people start gathering at the Terminal around 4 am. They leave their houses and are promptly met with a line to get to the lift,” she wrote down ‘4 am’ and ‘house -> terminal’. “If we move the system here, all these people would have to find a way to go from their houses to the terminal, adding time and fatigue to the commute. Especially to those carrying wares, goods and tools with them. We'd need to address that.”

She finished writing down all points on the paper, before setting the pen aside. Then, she leaned back where she sat, meeting the scientist's gaze. “Your plan might be the most efficient time-wise, but it wouldn't be solving the problem. I'd suggest building the new system near that district, even if that means sacrificing some of its efficiency. The problem was not simply shortening travel time between Topside and the Undercity, but rather bringing more quality to the existing commute.”

She sighed at the memory, a little twinge of longing constricting her chest. She quickly shook it off, this wasn't the time for sentimentality. Her gaze lingered on the schematics a bit, before turning to the Herald with newfound resolution. If the goal was to aid the people of Zaun, then the magic in her marbled arm was not the only tool at her disposal. She needed to address his methods as an academic peer.

When Wenn left the Workshop, she pounced without hesitation.

“He's gonna be back here in need of maintenance in a couple of days,” she spat, looking down at the schematics.

The Herald stopped in his tracks. She felt the glow of his eyes on her, but didn’t turn to him. “How would you know that?”

“Didn't you hear? He's a courier,” she retorted. “The exertion of his line of work is bound to damage the structure of the prosthesis. Rather quickly even, I'd wager.”

The Herald didn't respond right away. Instead, he slowly made his way to her side. His focus on the schematics in front of her.

“In the assessments, are you taking into consideration the lives of who you help?”

“I don't pry much outside of the measurements,” he stated calmly, almost in a whisper. “I see what you are suggesting, but working with a template is far more efficient than tailoring each piece individually.”

“I don't disagree with that on a theoretical level, but do we have data on returning patients? Those with need for maintenance or replacement altogether?”

The Herald paused. “No.”

She finally turned to him, arching an eyebrow. “Then we don't know at what rate we're helping new people compared to returning ones,” she concluded. “Nor do we have data regarding what caused certain types of damage in returning patient's prosthesis, I presume?”

Another beat. “Correct.”

The silence lingered between them. She kept her eyes on him expectantly. With the mask, it was impossible to read him. 

“I was focused solemnly in helping the largest number of people in the most efficient way possible,” he stated finally. “I failed to acknowledge those points.”

Although spoken in a dull, flattened manner, his words spoke of regret. She could almost hear Viktor instead of the Herald. Her hand reached for the metal on his shoulder on instinct.

“You were doing what you thought best,” her words were soft. “Besides, it doesn't matter how big that brain of yours is. You're still a single person who tasked himself with this gargantuar endeavor of helping the people of Zaun. Something was bound to slip past you.”

He finally faced her and she thanked the gods for his mask. She'd unravel where she stood if she was to meet his face bare at this proximity. She quickly cleared her throat.

“I was thinking we could pinpoint the most prominent use cases and expand our line of templates,” she proposed. “That way we avoid having to tailor each prosthesis we make from scratch while also addressing the issue at hand. It's not perfect, but I believe it's a good improvement. I might not have the documents here, but I have some information of the average Zaunite jobs and occupation as well as geological differences from when I worked at the UDS.”

“Perhaps I've… forgotten the benefits of intellectual collaboration,” the Herald contemplated. “That is a truly elegant solution.”

“Glad I could help, I'll jot down the information I can recall and I'll get you the notes later,” she responded, taking a step back. “I'll go get some water before the afternoon patients start rolling in.”

In truth, she needed some breather from the whole interaction. The Herald was dangerously close to becoming Viktor and she couldn't allow herself to spiral. She was at the foot of the staircase when the Herald spoke again.

“I was hoping you would join me later tonight so we can design the new templates,” he proposed. “Work together, as we once did.”

She froze in place, her back turned to him. Her marbled arm pulsated with warmth with the rhythm of her heartbeat. The interval between them getting shorter as his words registered. She was already pushing her limits by taking the morning assessments with him, - doubling the amount of time she spent in his presence - and that alone was already taking its toll. Working with him at night would triple it. She couldn't possibly do it.

“Yeah, I think that's reasonable.”

Her words betrayed her. 

—--

If she was asked to describe at least one of the patients that passed through the workshop that afternoon, she wouldn't be able to do it. She went through the motions absentmindedly, completely engulfed inside her own mind, dreading the last third of the day. 

Why would she agree to his proposal? Was it another facet of the guilt she felt at his betrayal? Was it the sense of duty to the Zaunites in need? Was a product of the self-loathing she harbored throughout all the months she believed he was dead? Was it a combination of all of that?

Or better yet, was it a foolish hope of rekindling something between them through intellectually collaborating on a project, like it happened the first time? Even though he is not capable of feeling anymore?

Whatever the reason behind it was, her fate was sealed. 

Despite that, she still took all means necessary to stall her return to the basement. As soon as the last afternoon patient was gone, she excused herself to freshen up. After splashing water on her face more times than necessary, she made a quick detour to the kitchen to brew some coffee. Only then, holding a mug in each hand, did she finally make her way back down.

She found the Herald where she left him - sitting in front of his desk, bathed in the purplish glow of the HexCore. With a long exhale, she made her way towards him.

“Here, unbearably sweet,” she said, placing one of the coffee mugs in front of him. “Just the way you like it.’

The Herald turned to her and her heart sank when golden pupils swimming in dark scleras met her gaze. She had failed to notice his metal mask sitting next to the core on the desk. 

“Thank you, although I’d rather have it black,” Viktor spoke in his own accented voice. “Sugar adds nothing but empty calories.”

This was still the Herald. He was just wearing Viktor's skin. 

She stood rigidly beside him, putting as much distance from him as possible at the current setting. She kept her eyes low, opting to focus on the schematics in front of him instead of his face. But the space between them felt heavy, his very presence pulled her in and pushed her away simultaneously. It made the coffee she sipped go down like sandpaper. This was not going to work.

“You spoke earlier of information on the average jobs and occupations of the denizens of Zaun,” the Herald spoke without looking at her.

“Ah,” She gasped, snapping out of her thoughts. “That's right.” 

Her eyes quickly scanned the desk, spotting a blank piece of paper and dragging it to the space between them. Next, she grabbed a pen, uncapped it, and leaned the tip onto the paper. “Okay, so this is what I remember.”

She started narrating everything she could recollect, annotating it as she went. She scrambled her brain for information, and for each piece recalled, the neural path to the next one unfolded. In her head she could picture the Zaun of another time, when it still was simply known as Piltover's Undercity. The hum of the machinery and pipework vastly drowned out by the cacophony of everyday life. The thick air laced with the smells of the fishery, combined with the fumes of the factories and the sickly-sweet aroma of chemicals. The brief amounts of sunlight hitting the underground at noon when the sun was at its zenith, passing through like an eclipse. The neon artificial lights flooding the streets for the remainder of the day. 

Each new canvas her mind painted brought forth a description of how the citizens lived, how each human was a product of their environment. And how they molded it and were molded by it. 

It was chaos. Flawed. In dire need of quality for its resident’s life. But oh, so beautiful.

“I have forgotten how elucidative you could be when explaining your craft,” the Herald's voice brought her back to reality. The dim light of the Workshop felt more oppressive as her surroundings came back into focus. 

“I uh- Thank you,” she responded sheepishly. 

“I am serious. My mind is already brimming with a handful of design solutions from your explanation alone,” he continued. “Although I believe it is rather late and I’d like to let those ideas simmer down as I sleep.”

“Late?” She glanced at the wall clock and silently gasped. No less than three hours had passed since she began her lecture. Any semblance of the worries from before, gone. 

Maybe this could work after all.

-----

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 (In Progress)