#zaun builder

// As with many things, to many Zaunites the New Year and its corresponding Eve are primarily an excuse to drink and drug oneself into oblivion. 

Those privileged enough to live on the high rungs of the social and corporate ladders often host and attend rooftop parties, watching celebratory fireworks from the tops of skyscrapers, where they will have the best vantage point. (Occasionally, those who aren’t on those high rungs will sneak onto the roofs as well--and depending on whose roof you’re climbing, you could be in for some serious trouble--but this is a less talked-of tradition.) Fancy, expensive liquor is served, and everyone makes a concentrated effort to avoid drunkenly falling from the top of a twelve-story building.

There are fireworks displays from all around the city, though the ones set off in the Academic District and near the lab of the Mad Chemist are by far the most spectacular. Parties with a good view of these displays tend to be on a pay-for-invite basis. 

The scientific communities often get together for their own separate, indoor gatherings, celebrating discoveries and breakthroughs of the past year. Many such parties are held in astronomy observatories, giving attendants a clear view of the sky as it bursts into color. 

[Note: I am so so soooo sorry for all the linguistic jargon in this one, you guys. But hey, I’m kicking Wednesday off right!]

Part One: History | Part Two: Population | Part Three: Language | Part Four: Culture | Part Five: Political Climate | Part Six: Law 

Part Three: LANGUAGE

// This depends heavily on your class/income–though ‘drinking’ is a pretty universal tradition across all social rungs. To break it down a bit:

The bigwigs will throw huge, elaborate parties, with nice favors for every guest. There’s booze of pretty much every type imaginable–fancy, unpolluted stuff. There are live bands, nice food, and a fantastic view from the top floor of an executive’s skyscraper. This sort of party, naturally, is very impersonal, and is based more in corporate politics than any sort of goodwill towards men. People use these get-togethers to climb the social and corporate ladders, not to connect with friends. 

More middle- and low-class folk have more intimate gatherings, though a lot of those are based in their jobs still. Hell, sometimes there’ll be “parties” that go on during the work hours at some factories, just because the people there don’t have the time to spare to take a break and have an actual party. 

(Yes, if you aren’t already filthy rich, you are expected to work on Snowdown.)

When the work day is over, however, those with families will go home to them, exchange what gifts they can. The adults of the family will drink and they’ll all play, and it’s generally a fairly family-oriented evening all around. 

Those without… well. Bars in Zaun also operate through the Snowdown holiday, and they’re often open all night.

An equally popular tradition, however, is to just get hammered and high out of your goddamn mind. Snowdown is a time for happiness, after all–and for some, the closest you can get to happiness is just to forget that you’re miserable. Youth gangs will have their own “get-togethers” where they trade river-diluted booze and Shimmer over an open dumpster fire. This, unfortunately, results in a lot of… complications. 

  this city made us                                                       this city made us

                                          -                   -

[ The first snowfall of the year is always a little surreal in Zaun, because the smog is so thick that it makes the flakes seem to almost hang in the air, producing an effect like time has slowed down for the city alone.

Due to the poor air quality, snow in Zaun is “filtered”, so to speak, through the smog, and gets quite sooty as it falls. The first fall is the worst, however, to the point that it’s hard to quantify the exact amount of soot and ash. This is especially difficult when you consider that the quantity varies from year to year. On the plus side, when it snows heavily enough, it can clear the air up quite a bit.

“Cell, come dance with us.” Caitlyn would refuse; Cell would not. Caitlyn should return to Piltover before her family started to worry; Cell’s family didn’t give two shits what their daughter did, as long as she got her degree. The winter sun was setting over the City of Progress; the Grey was thick and viscous already on the Правая сторона. 

Caitlyn had no reason to dance. Cell had a reputation to maintain.

The freshmen all moved in herds, for there was safety in numbers and they were young and vulnerable. The ground pulsed like a heartbeat, entombing them as they descended down the stairs into the dark and flashing lights. Perhaps she could smell alcohol and sewage and sweat and artificial air, but all of her senses were rendered useless under the sheer wall of sound.

Caitlyn had felt sound, before, had seen it leave colours in her vision. But only under circumstances of extreme stress. This? This was normal for Zaun. So it must be normal for Cell.

Poor Cell.

The dancefloor heaved with bodies, tangled limbs and bobbing heads, and she could see neither rhyme nor reason to it. There was just the NOISE, the pulsing bassline and screaming music that was deafening her to touch, to smell, to even sight. Overwhelmed, she let them drag her to the floor.

None of them knew how to dance. They just jumped to the music.

Caitlyn quailed. Cell grew bored with the monotony.

Between the shadows of a crumbling pylon, a skinny man moved his feet. His face - when she could see it under flashes of the strobe - was determined. His arms hung loosely by his side but his body swayed and rolled. There was a curious kind of military motion to what he was doing. It drew her.

He nodded, in vague acknowledgement, in awkward recognition of her interest, but he did not stop. He stepped and stomped and shuffled, turning the sheer noise into music to follow. She watched his feet, and as they crowd jostled and jumped, she started to dance with him. 

Caitlyn hadn’t danced in years. Not from choice. Not since Orinana had died. Of course, she danced with David, or allowed herself to be passed around a ballroom over the holidays. But she was a swan: graceful, beautiful, and entirely unmatched without her partner. Dance was about joy, and Caitlyn knew not what joy was anymore.

Step and step and lift and cross-step, step and shuffle and step and shuffle. Heels tapping on the bald cement floor, grinding, bobbing, sliding. Arms to raise now and then to flick back ragged hair or to slice at the air, shoulders rolling. She had always been a quick study, and soon she was not dancing opposite him but beside him, falling into rhythm with him as the darkened club pulsed and roared.

Other freshmen started to fall in line, trying to curry favour by imitation. Others around them ceased their mindless leaps and tried to do the same. The skinny man gave Cell an almost incredulous look, and grinned. She went to grin back, but found her face already fixed in that expression.

Step and step and turn, one foot shuffling from the heel while the other tapped out spaces on the floor. Military fleetfooting was the only term that came to mind. She could feel the motion of what they were doing rippling outwards. The entire room fell into conformity, a room of hundreds all unique and diverse in their matching uniforms of spikes and leather and dyes and tattoos, joining in on their own take of the dance. No more chaotic leaping and jostling. Rhythm. Cohesion. Unity. They all moved together, and yet they all moved alone.

For a moment, both Cell and Caitlyn marvelled that perhaps Zaun and Piltover had more in common than they did different. But then all thoughts were forgotten, as the DJ switched to a new beat.