Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[2024-12-04]

Welcome to the landing page for butterfly soup. Consider this place a bit of a dev diary. Skip to the next chapter if you're just here for the reading.

STATEMENT OF INTENT:

butterfly soup is about death being the end only if you assume the story is about you. It's about life only getting more complex and messy, not less. Never less. It's about love, change, and my slow death spiral as I read through League of Legends lore. It's also about plants.

More than anything, I need Viktor and Jayce to be extremely normal-abnormal about each other. But this fic is also going to explore a lot of the world that Arcane left us with, notably the Nation of Zaun plot that died with Silco, the consequences of Caitlyn and Vi's relationship as borne out through their family, and the aftermath of the Battle of the Hexgates even as it's made "palatably abstract". Just give me a second, let me cook, and we can all play in this space together. Deal?

TAGS/WARNINGS:

Everything that Arcane brings to the table, that's on the table here, too. Of note are violence, child death, and body horror. I love me some good, clean body horror. (melts ya boy like a popsicle) (what who said that)

CHARACTERS PRESENT THUS FAR (THE FACTS ARE THESE):

• Jayce and Viktor: as seen on TV. They call me the acceleration rune the way I cut and paste bitches between continuities.
• Vi and Ekko: ayo it's the remix.
• Caitlyn and Mel: waiting just off stage left.
• Jinx: don't worry about it (smile)
• Orianna: a non-character made extremely character.
• Callista and Atlas: if you're mean to my kids then I'm legally obligated to beat you to death.

[2024-12-08]

I've come to terms with how this story is a Jayce/Viktor fic masquerading as an exploration into the direction that Piltover and Zaun would head after the close of the series. The League of Legends got me; I bought the Runeterra lore book yesterday. I'm glad that I get to inherit Arcane's interest in Noxus, because that particular investigation into what an empire is culturally is so fascinating. Anyways, you know it's over for you when you're flipping through a book and out loud say to yourself "Oh, so they do capitalize Sump". Banish me to the woods with a hatchet and a Snickers bar.

[2024-12-15] Updated for Act II 2025-02-24.

THE PLAYLIST:

[ACT I]

Boreas by The Oh Hellos;

Recover by CHVRCHES

And if I recover, will you be my comfort?
Or it can be over, or we can just leave it here

Press Restart by WALK THE MOON

Everything Goes On by Porter Robinson

But if I was gone tomorrow, won't the waves crash on?
Is it selfish that I'm happy as we pass the setting sun?
Someday I'll be overcast, but you won't have to cry
'Cause we'll do the grieving while I'm by your side

Into the Storm by Marianna's Trench

Creator (Music Box Version) by Lena Raine

[Instrumental]

[ACT II]

Waterloo by ABBA

Waterloo, I was defeated, you won the war
Waterloo, promise to love you forevermore
Waterloo, couldn't escape if I wanted to
Waterloo, knowing my fate is to be with you

Nothing You Can Take From Me by Rachel Zegler & The Covey Band

Thinkin' you're so fine
Thinkin' you could have mine
Thinkin' you're in control
Thinkin' you'll change me
Maybe rearrange me
Think again if that's your goal

My Body's Made of Crushed Little Stars by Mitski

I work better under a deadline
I work better under a deadline
I pick an age when I'm gonna disappear
Until then I can try again
Until then I can try again

Bethlehem Steel by Delta Rae

A restless kid wants to use his hands
He's got a real quick trigger and some new demands
He grows up fast, and he grows up real
And when he comes around, he finds there's no more steel

Soul-shaking, to his knees
He's got the same old rocket and a new disease
And he won't take it, on his neck
He's talking red hot whiskey, he's got no respect

Aristocrat by New Politics

Cause you’re a rich bitch and you’re super bad
With your black lips and your taxi cabs
I’m a quick fix for the shit you lack
Dirty porcelain, sick aristocrat

Empires on Fire by BANNERS

Like a city overthrown
We're turning buildings into stone
We leave the bodies to the crows
On a funeral of fire

Now we're choking on the fumes
Spread the lie and kill the truth
They're in the ashes of the proof
We watch the flames rise higher

Years of War by Porter Robinson

Oh, two hundred years of war
Fight 'til we are no more
A curse on the streets of gold, oh, oh
Just know, that mine is a hand to hold
Take back what the kingdom stole
A curse on the streets of gold

Million Pieces by Bastille

It breaks my heart
Breaks my heart into
A million pieces, oh
It breaks my heart into
A million pieces
If it's gonna break me
Won't you let me go?
Leave it till the morning
I don't wanna know
Breaks my heart
Breaks my heart into
A million pieces

[25-01-23]

FURTHER READINGS/INSPIRATION BOARD

BOOKS:

Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer

An Unkindness of Ghosts by Rivers Solomon

bolobolo by Hans Widmer

Trans & Disabled: An Anthology of Identities & Experiences edited by Alex Iantaffi

FILM:

The Wind Rises from Studio Ghibli

Wolf Children from Studio Chizu

OTHER MEDIA:

SOMA from Frictional Games

INTERNET ACCOUTREMENTS

Mystery Flesh Pit National Park by Trevor Roberts

SCP-7408 / DR KONDRAKI CUT UP WHILE THINKING

Wolf 359 Ep.41 "Memoria" by Gabriel Urbina

[more entries to follow at a later date]

Chapter Text

Some years later, the theory would go like this: two equal amounts of force working in opposite directions cancel each other out, resulting in either a null state or perfect stasis. Since this stasis is incongruent with the inherently kinetic nature of time, the spell ejected its subjects from existence. Entropy died. 

But closed systems only exist on paper. There is always wastage, diffusion, emulsion, exchange, reaction, even at the most microscopic of scales and in the most esoteric of contexts. 

Essentially: perfection only exists so long as you look away before everything comes crumbling down. 

The forces that maintained the spell waned, slowly. The anchor crept back into being first. Tiny glimmers of a polished, refractive surface. Blue pigments. Enough of a sparkle to catch the eye of a passerby when gravity finally realized that the runestone was again its subject. It dropped to the flagstones with a soft chime. 

“Hold on. I heard something.”

Manicured, fair-skinned fingers picked it up, turned it over. Dark eyes peered through the missing facets, revealing impossible geometry, gaps in space. The very act of holding the stone felt oddly heavy and sluggish. 

“Did that fall from the sky?”

A laugh. “Can’t exactly rule it out, can we?” 

The stone travelled from pocket to desk drawer to workbench. A small pick scratched harmlessly across its surface. A jeweler’s lens watched as another facet returned to being. Sunlight and moonlight filtered through its surface as days passed. Notes were scribbled. A ring box was appropriated. The stone sat on a pillow of plush velvet. 

Then, all at once, in the square of twilight that fell through the office window, the spell’s subjects rejoined the continuity. Dust whirled as air displaced. The wood boards creaked beneath the sudden new weight. 

Viktor’s right arm draped across Jayce’s shoulder, having slipped from its position on his forehead. Jayce’s frame was still hunched over, his hands curled together in absence of anything to hold. 

There was a long silence as reality inhaled and settled back into itself. A second. Then two. 

“You know,” croaked the voice behind Jayce’s ear, “I always thought dying would be fairly simple, but I’m learning that I am not very good at it.” 

Jayce’s eyes were squeezed shut. It took him a moment for the words to register, for the weight of his own body and the body blanketing his shoulders to sink in. 

He gasped. “Viktor—!” 

Falling forward, he barely caught himself from crashing to the ground. An elbow jammed the floor, sending a spasm up his ulnar nerve. He coughed from the pain. Every joint in his body locked together. His extremities tingled. Spots blotted his vision. He felt as if he’d been sat there for eons, gradually mummifying, his muscles turned to fossils.

“I’m here.” A hand ghosted over his back, between his shoulder blades. 

Slowly, Jayce tried to rise. Everything was a pain point. He pushed with his hands, intending to rock back onto his knees, to clamber up, nothing coordinated as it should. He curled into a ball on the floor.

“Don’t rush yourself.” A shuffling to Jayce’s side, and he felt Viktor’s presence shift, casting a long shadow over the floor. “Move your fingers and toes first.” 

Jayce grunted in frustration, but he did as he was told, and eventually he was able to sit up, his arms still covered in pins and needles but mobile. Immediately, he turned to look at Viktor, and he couldn’t help but startle.

The Machine Herald stared back. 

Jayce felt his hackles rise. Despite everything, he instinctively recognized the man in front of him as a threat. Perhaps it was the unnatural, blank facade of its face, no eyebrows to furrow or mouth to quirk. Or maybe it was the two halves of Viktor’s face cleft to either side, his eyes closed as if in death. Or it might’ve been that the Herald’s wiry frame loomed over him—anyone would feel small standing next to that. 

Jayce sucked in a tight breath, in and then out. “Is this real?” he asked. “Was any of that— are you— Viktor, are you in there?” 

“It seems so.” The voice reverberated softly through the air. 

Jayce gave a short, disbelieving laugh, a smile creeping to his face. “We’re still here. I don’t understand.” 

The Herald’s mask turned away, golden eyes casting about the room. “What you did was incredibly foolish, Jayce.” 

“What? No. No, Viktor, you don’t get to say that. I did exactly what I had to, what I wanted to do. Maybe it was reckless, but it was right. It felt right.” 

“This wasn’t your burden to bear.” Viktor rose fluidly. He trailed his fingers over the office desk, the stacks of paper, the books, newspaper clippings, film reels. “The Hexcore, the Arcane, all of it was my doing.” 

Jayce’s mouth opened to argue back, to say that he was the one who had fused the Hexcore to Viktor’s body, that he was the one who had blasted a hole through Viktor’s chest without so much as a word to explain himself. But then he stopped. He frowned. By then, Viktor had crossed the room to gaze out the small window, and Jayce glared up at him from his spot on the floor. 

“Get over it,” he said.

It was Viktor’s turn to startle. “Excuse me?”

“I said, get over it. Deal with the fact that I care about you. You are never going to make me regret choosing to stay with you, and that is a promise.” 

Viktor didn’t move an inch, his body going completely, eerily still. “That is… I would be careful writing blank cheques if I were you.”

“Viktor…” 

The Herald’s mask tilted to the side and, when he spoke, his hollow voice carried a spark of dry humour. “You never know what delusions I may develop next.” 

Jayce’s shoulders relaxed. It took a few clumsy attempts, but he hoisted himself off the floor and crossed the room to wrap his arms around Viktor’s torso. The Herald’s chest was warm and smelled of copper. The ligaments shifted in a steady ebb and flow, not quite like breathing but not unsettling either, just a reminder that the man that Jayce held was alive, so alive. 

Viktor was slow to reciprocate, but once he did his grasp was firm. Both hands fisted in Jayce’s jacket, and Jayce soon found that he needed to stand on tiptoe. 

“Do you have any idea where we are or what happened?” Jayce asked. 

Viktor hummed in thought. “I could guess, what with your rune being the apparent catalyst, but there was that strange device, a parallel instance of the Arcane. It was also being directed by runes. It could be that the resonances amplified each other, but— Eh, no, there are too many unknowns.” 

“Not too many,” Jayce said. “We’re here together. That’s one known.” 

“True. And we still have our physical bodies. Two knowns.” 

“You’re kinda crushing my ribs.” Viktor’s grip loosened and Jayce let out a relieved huff. “Three knowns.” 

“Sorry.” 

“I’ll live. Four knowns.” 

“You’re ridiculous. Five knowns.” 

The office door creaked. “Right, so I was going to do the whole ‘who’s there, nobody move’ thing, but this is just weird.” 

The two men quit their embrace with a jolt. 

Standing in the doorway was a young woman with a round face and almond eyes. Her hair, a dark plum colour, was tied back in a ponytail. Helpful, since it kept her vision clear to focus down the sight of the shotgun she aimed at the pair. 

“Whoa,” Jayce said, holding his hands up defensively. “We’re not going to hurt you.” 

The woman studied them both, spending only a fraction of a second on Jayce before flicking to Viktor. Her face pinched in consternation, but there was no fear. 

“You’ve seen better days,” she said. “What are you doing in my office? How did you even manage to get in here?” 

“Listen,” Jayce said. “We’re just as confused as you are, but I swear, we’re not a threat.” 

The Herald’s voice rumbled softly, “How did you come into possession of this?” His hand ghosted slowly over the desk and plucked the runestone from its cushion, turning it over in his lithe fingers. 

“Hey!” the woman said. “Don’t—” She cut herself off, repositioning the butt of the shotgun against her shoulder. “A friend of mine found it. It’s archaic and very old. Put it back. Now. ” 

“It is his,” Viktor said, cupping the stone in one hand and gently taking Jayce’s wrist with the other. He pressed the stone to Jayce’s palm. Jayce tensed at the burn of a very recent memory.

The woman huffed. “I know you revenants aren’t especially clear-headed when you first wake up, but you can’t just take that. It’s not as if his name is on it.”

“Not physically,” said Viktor at the same time Jayce asked, “Revenants?” 

The woman’s attention shifted to Jayce. “Did you know him? You know, before?”

Jayce’s mouth pinched in confusion, but he answered honestly. “Yeah, of course.” 

“And you just followed him like a sheep, helped him break into the Memorial Archive to steal an artifact from my office? I’ll have you know I need that, probably more than you.” 

Reluctantly, Jayce placed the runestone back onto the table. “What can we do to convince you to please put the gun down?” He doubted that a shot from that thing would be able to hurt Viktor, but he was too tired for a fight. 

“That’s a start,” the woman said. She sighed, dropped the gun from her shoulder to instead hold it low across her body. “You two are just a pair of perfect idiots.Why do I always get the idiots?” 

“Like calls to like?” Viktor suggested. In another life, he might’ve said it under his breath, but it seemed that the Machine Herald had a hard time whispering. 

She glared at him. “He’s got jokes. Lucky how that’s the part of your psyche that stayed intact. Alright, I want you two out of my office. Follow me.” 

The two men shared a look before slowly shuffling out the door. Viktor had to duck, and even then the crown of his mask scraped against the doorframe. 

The woman stood to the side to let them pass then closed the door behind her. “Come on.” 

The hallway was lit with electric bulbs, but they shone a dim, warm colour as if to simulate gas lamps. They descended a curved stairwell and entered a wider corridor. Brass nameplates adorned each door, demarcating professors, librarians, researchers, archivists. Here and there, framed photos and newspaper clippings were mounted on the walls. Jayce tried to read them, but the woman kept up a brisk pace, and he was forced to pass them by. 

“This place…” Viktor murmured. 

“In there.” The woman stopped, gesturing to an unmarked door larger than the others. “Can't believe this is my night.”

The room inside was circular and cavernous. Even with the lights on, the ceiling remained shrouded in darkness, but somehow, the space was still strangely cozy. Enormous steel shelves full of wooden crates took up one semi-circle, some spilling wood shavings onto the floor. Papers were pinned here and there, identifying the contents. Towards the back, near a second door, was a makeshift kitchen set-up and several randomly assembled pieces of furniture: a long table, stools and chairs, three loveseats of different makes and colours, a sofa, a broken grandfather clock, a tatty rug woven with accents of Piltover gold. 

The woman strode ahead of them to the far side of the room, slinging the shotgun on a strap over her back. “Don’t mind the mess. The oldies have their own breakroom a floor down, but us grad students prefer this place. Coffee?” She lifted a kettle from its hotplate. “It’s instant. And decaf, frankly. I’m not losing sleep for this.” 

“Uh, sure?” Jayce said. 

She set the kettle to boil before sitting on the long table and crossing her legs, a motion that made the petticoats of her skirt swish. “I’m Callista.” 

Jayce didn’t like the idea of seating himself, of taking a lower and more vulnerable position in this exchange, but his body made the decision for him. His ankle and knee panged insistently, and he collapsed into one of the chairs. 

“Jayce,” he introduced himself. 

Callista gave a short laugh through her nose. “Okay, yeah. Sure. And you?” She nodded at Viktor, who Jayce realized was hovering behind him like a shadow. “Or do you not have one yet? I know revenants tend to feel disassociated from their old name.” 

“You called me that before,” Viktor said. “A revenant.” 

Callista shot Jayce an accusing look. “You didn’t tell him?” 

Jayce shrugged. He had no idea what she meant. He guessed she might be assuming more than a couple things about their current situation. 

“Okay, here’s the short version,” Callista said. Her tone softened. “A long time ago, you died. But, because your body isn’t organic the same way most people are, you didn’t go anywhere. It’s not very well understood how, but eventually you mustered enough life force to come back. So, welcome back.” She gave a little wiggle of her fingers, hopping off the table when the kettle whistled in record time.

Briskly, she fetched three mugs, dishing dried coffee grains into each. “You’re actually rather late to the party. Most revenants clawed their way topside five years ago, though you still see stragglers here and there. By the way—” She flipped the lid off the kettle with a pop . “Did you crawl out of the sump? Because you look like you marinated in three different kinds of chemical juice before taking a grit sander to the face.” 

Viktor looked down at himself for a moment before looking back up, blankly. 

“Sorry,” Callista said, smiling. She put two mugs of watery coffee on the table while sipping from a third. “I am right, though.” 

Viktor gestured limply to the coffee. “I cannot drink this.” 

“Oh, I know. I just thought you’d like to feel included.” 

Jayce took a sip of his and grimaced. He wasn’t sure he could drink this. “Thank you for the coffee, and also for not shooting us.” 

“Yes,” Viktor said, “you are being rather kind all of a sudden.” 

Callista took a long drink, apparently immune both to its taste and the scalding temperature. “I know it’s rough coming back to life. My friend, the one who found the stone you’re so interested in, she’s one of you. She came back with the first crop and, wow, yeah, that was not pretty. The whole city was in chaos, and none of the revenants knew what was going on either. Most don’t have any memory of their past lives.” 

Jayce held his mug in both hands, hunching over as his thoughts swirled together like mud—disorganized and sluggish. Clearly they’d travelled to somewhere completely unlike the world they knew. Another dimension. Another another dimension from the one Jayce had visited, thank god. This place at least had one other person and some truly horrific coffee in it. And Viktor. Viktor was here with him. 

“Listen,” Callista said, “I've got somewhere to be, but you can stay the night here if you need. I have to pick up a few things tomorrow anyways, so I’ll be back to check on you. There’s food in the upper cabinets and blankets in that basket. Just don’t steal anything.” 

Jayce looked to Viktor, who gave a small, nearly imperceptible nod of his mask. 

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Jayce told Callista. “We won’t touch anything, we swear.” 

“Mhh, your word isn’t worth much considering your revenant friend already talked you into one B and E.” She moved for the door, slinging a canvas bag over her shoulder next to the shotgun. “And does he have a name? Because if not I’m calling him Sunshine.” 

“What?” Jayce said. 

“For my warm and inviting personality,” Viktor supplied. 

Callista snorted. “No, it’s your eyes. Those things are disconcerting.” 

Jayce looked and saw that she was right. When they’d opposed each other, Viktor’s eyes had glinted the feral yellow of a predator, but now that he was at rest, Jayce noticed the flecks of gold and amber that danced like solar flares. 

Viktor looked back, unwavering, watching Jayce watch him. 

“Alright you two,” Callista said from the door. “Don’t make me have to call the police tomorrow or my mum’s going to be insufferable about it.” A squeak of hinges and a tiny click left them alone in the room. 

After a moment, Viktor lifted his mug to his face, letting the steam curl and pool in the recesses of his mask. “Our situation could be worse.” 

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Jayce said. “I only understood half of what she was talking about, though.”

“Tomorrow, we make a thorough assessment of our circumstances. Tonight, you must rest.”

Jayce couldn’t argue that. 

“Do you not need to sleep?”

“I decided it was inefficient,” Viktor said with a dull tinge of regret. “You, however, have the privilege of retaining all of your many design flaws, and I doubt you’ve had a decent night’s sleep in ages.”

“It feels like a lifetime ago.” 

“Maybe it was, considering what we’ve been told.” 

“Right,” Jayce said, setting his coffee aside and pressing his palms against his knees. He flinched, froze. 

“What is it?” Viktor asked. 

“I… I don’t think I can move.” Jayce laughed quietly, incredulously. After he’d sat, all the strength in his limbs had deserted him. His left leg in particular felt like if stone had nerve endings. “I live in this chair now.” 

“That won’t do. Here.” Viktor knelt, the considerable height of the Machine Herald bending until his shoulder came level with Jayce. He slipped an arm around Jayce’s back. “Whenever you’re ready.” 

It took effort to stand, even with Viktor lifting him. Slow and steady, they made their way towards the large, well-loved sofa. 

“You know,” Jayce said, “for a second I thought you were going to carry me.” 

There was a moment’s pause where Viktor stopped walking, Then he dipped, crooked his other arm behind Jayce’s knees, and lifted him into a bridal carry. Jayce’s teeth clacked together. This new arrangement was extremely topheavy, and the journey to the sofa took just as long as it would’ve otherwise, Viktor swaying with every step. 

It wasn’t until Jayce was laid horizontal that he remembered how to breathe. 

Viktor sat on the floor next to him. “Let's… not try that again.” 

Jayce swallowed. “Oh?” 

“When this form first came to be, I needed it to be strong. There was so much to accomplish. But now, I regret being stronger than you.” Viktor trailed a finger under Jayce’s jaw, coaxing his chin to tilt upwards and reveal a mottling of bruises across his windpipe. 

Jayce sucked in a breath. Viktor acted differently as the Herald, more sure of his actions, more forward. Jayce wished he’d seen those traits from his partner in the lab, and he wondered why he hadn’t. 

“It’s okay, Viktor. I’m okay.” 

“Neither you are okay, nor is it okay.” Viktor’s voice tightened. It was uncanny how his mask didn’t move an inch despite the tremor in his words. “I did this. I hurt you, and for what? Some deranged vision? A dream? I wanted to put an end to the pain, not, not—!”

“Viktor, I don’t hate you.” 

The Machine Herald fell silent. His hand dropped from Jayce’s face, instead picking at a seam in a couch cushion, an action so tiny and human that it made something stir in Jayce’s chest. 

“Your leg,” Viktor said. “How did that happen?” 

“I, uh, I fell.” 

“May I take a look at it?” 

Jayce nodded, and Viktor unclamped the brace from Jayce’s shin. Neither of them acknowledged the irony, the echo, the distorted mirror that hung between them. Viktor passed his hand over the leg, pausing at the spot where Jayce remembered his skin tearing and bone jutting free. Bones, it turned out, were startlingly white. 

Viktor’s eyelashes fluttered. Then he drew back with a gasp. “No!”

“What is it?” Jayce asked, panicked. 

Viktor clutched his hand to his chest like he was trying to hide it away. “It’s nothing. You are fine. I didn’t— I just, I cannot help you.” 

“Okay.”

Viktor sat back down, this time with his back against the arm of the sofa, facing away from Jayce so that all he could see was one half of his old self. 

A thick silence descended. Faintly, something hummed with electricity. The wood of an old building creaked. 

The longer that neither said anything, the more convinced Jayce became that they were both avoiding similar conversations. He didn’t notice when he fell asleep. There was no transition, only waking to discover a blanket had been tucked overtop of him, and Viktor was gone. 

Chapter Text

Viktor watched Jayce after he fell asleep. There was a hitch when he breathed, a stall, a shudder on the inhale that suggested a cracked rib or bone bruise. 

May I take a look at it?

When Viktor had placed his hand over Jayce's shin, he'd only wanted to look. And he had. He hadn't done anything–he repeated this to himself like a mantra. 

But as his mind expanded, focusing in on the minutiae of his partner's body—the pores in the marrow, the vessels, the proteins, the cell death, the atomic nuclei, that one quark that wobbled ever so slightly out of place—an instinct at the core of his being said, I can fix that. 

I can change that. I can make it better. 

A wave of fresh revulsion swept over him at the memory. He'd never touched Jayce. He'd fought with him, spoken to him, brought him into his own mind, but he hadn't changed him like he had the others. 

He might've, though. He almost had. 

He felt the urge to sob, but he couldn’t. He remembered what it was to be nauseous, to retch, but his body wouldn’t. All the sadness, grief, and guilt of human despair warred inside him, unfiltered. It took him to pieces. 

Why couldn't that final implosion have been the end? 

Viktor stood. His body moved like water, so smooth and seamless that he felt he barely existed at all. And who was he, if he wasn’t fighting for every step forward?

No. No, stop that. He was alive. And because he was alive, that meant he needed to get to work. 

He started with the crates in the back of the room. Most had their tops firmly nailed down, and he left those alone so as not to wake Jayce. Others he could peer inside. Progress Day souvenirs stared back at him, shiny trinkets and pennants. Another had stacked painting frames carved with swooping designs endemic to the Undercity. And there were objects he didn’t recognize even after reading their labels, like a mask carved in the image of a pensive jackal or a medicine chest with a foreign logo. 

The pieces were all here, but he didn’t have the time to put them together. There were more straightforward answers hiding elsewhere. 

He slipped out of the room and closed the door quietly behind him. The lamps in the hall had dimmed to near nothing, but Viktor’s new eyes didn’t need light. He walked the hall, reading the newspaper clippings, the plaques under the paintings, the captions attached to class photos.

Each new certainty settled like a stone in what would’ve been his gut. 

When he came to a staircase, he descended into a room even larger than the one Jayce slept in. A sloop model airship hung from the ceiling on cables. Next to it, a dozen or so robotic contraptions of all shapes and sizes, some with wings, others with propellers. 

The ground level was populated by glass cases and free-standing walls that displayed paintings, enlarged photos, and blocks of explanatory text. 

Viktor walked through them. His footfalls echoed through the space, and he glanced down to see that in a clearing between exhibits, the floor was decorated with a geometric mosaic—a map of Zaun. He traced his way up the Lanes, noting the loving detail in each backalley and branch, until he came to the Fissures. He stopped in the place where a young cripple had grown up, scuffed the spot with his toe. 

His journey had brought him to the far back of the room, directly opposite what must’ve been the main doors. A monument in gold and bronze stretched from the floor to the distant ceiling. It pinned Viktor to the spot. The Hexgate. 

A large book sat on a plinth at the foot of the monument, opened to a random page. Despite a lack of tears, Viktor’s vision swam. The names were endless. The dead, the missing, the lost. Every entry a hole ripped through a family. 

He barely registered that he was flipping through the pages, reading each and every name, until he arrived at the last few and stopped. 

Sky Young. 34. Survived by her father and brother. Every life you touched was better for it.

Viktor’s next memory is of glancing up from an array of books he’d pulled free from library shelves. The library in question was in an opposite wing of the archive from the museum floor. How long he’d spent there, he didn’t know. 

A beam of light fell across a paragraph on Piltover’s civil history. 

“You’ll put those back once you’re done,” Callista said, angling her flashlight to scan over the books.

“That is how a library works, yes.” 

Pale morning sunlight crept in through a distant window, and Viktor’s thoughts went to Jayce. Was he awake? 

Callista rolled her eyes. “I brought you some clothes, so you’re welcome for that. Can’t have you walking around naked.”

“It’s been thirty-one years.” 

Callista’s face pinched, first in reaction to the sudden change of topic, then in confusion, then pity, understanding, sympathy. “It’s thirty-two, actually. The anniversary was last month—that’s why the memorial is all shined up, the annual polish. Honestly, there are a lot of other things around here that could use that polish, but that’s where the money goes.” 

“Thirty -two. ” 

“Hey, it makes sense you’re in shock. I asked my friend to meet me here this morning, so she should be here soon. She’s like you. She’s been through it.” 

“She would not understand what has happened to me.” 

“Everyone says that, and then two conversations later they’re her best friend. But yeah, we won’t force you. I will force you to leave the Archive, though, because it needs to open up for the day. Put these on and I’ll tidy the books.”

Callista threw a wad of balled up clothing at Viktor, and it hit him square in the chest. 

“There’s two layers to it,” she said. “There’s an undergarment for your arms and legs that stretches so that fabric doesn’t pinch in any sticky joints, but… you don’t really have those. Huh. The top layer is usually loose and flowy for the same reason.” 

Viktor examined the clothing. The undergarments were at once unnecessary and too small for his frame, but the overlayer was workable—a soft, gray shirt and a pair of pants with cuts up the side so they almost resembled the skirt of a robe. Admittedly, they had a nice swish to them. 

“Do I need to?” Viktor asked. 

Callista paused, a stack of books in her arms. “Yes? I suppose you may not think of that body as yours yet, may not see a reason to cover it, but the rest of us are still a modest society. Have some shame, for our sakes.” 

Viktor obliged. He folded the hexclaw tight to his back to slip on the shirt, and he wrapped the two remaining vestiges of Jayce’s blanket around his neck like a scarf. 

Placing the last book onto a returns cart, Callista hummed her approval. “Sunshine cleans up nicely.”

“It’s Viktor,” he said. This girl, pushy as she was, was their only touchstone in this new time. And she’d proven herself generous. She at least deserved to know who she was speaking to.

She smiled. “Nice to meet you, Viktor. Care to go fetch your friend from upstairs? I have some documents I wanted to pick up, so I’ll meet you back down here.” 

As Viktor returned to the storage room, his movements felt more assured. Yes, their circumstance was strange and harrowing, but he was putting the pieces together. There was a solution in all of this somewhere. He just had to find it.

The door creaked when he opened it, and he saw Jayce stir from the couch. 

“Good morning,” Viktor said. 

“Why did you leave?” Jayce asked. His voice croaked with sleep, but it was clear he’d been awake for a while. The way the question fell from his lips, it was like Viktor had walked in on an ongoing conversation. 

“I was only downstairs,” Viktor said. “I didn’t go far.” 

“No, before. After you woke up with the Hexcore.” Jayce laid a hand over his breastbone. 

“You’re still thinking about that.” 

“I’m thinking about everything, over and over in my head.” 

A sigh whistled from deep in the Herald’s chest. “I thought I’d made myself clear at the time. The Hexcore should’ve been destroyed before any of this happened. I asked you to do it. It was meant to be the last thing I ever asked of you.” 

Jayce closed his eyes, face pinching. He sank back into the couch. “You were bleeding out—-”

“I tend to do that,” Viktor said, nonplussed. “You swore you would get rid of it, and instead you made it an inextricable piece of me. It was— well, it was a betrayal. It wasn’t for you to decide.” 

“I’m sorry,” Jayce said. 

“You’re not.” 

“What?” 

“You’re not, because if I were in your position, I wouldn’t be. I might want it, to be sorry, I might try, but I wouldn’t mean it. Even if my lack of remorse hurt you.” 

A beat. “I’m sorry it hurts you.” 

Viktor wandered around the back of the couch. “Can I ask, how would I have died? I imagine it’s something embarrassing. Did I collapse down a flight of stairs?” 

“You don’t— Viktor, the council chamber exploded.” 

“Exploded.” He pronounced each syllable slowly. 

“Councillor Kiramman died.” 

“I see. You lost much.”

“I would’ve lost everything.”

And there they were again, sitting in a not-quite-uncomfortable silence, somewhere between tension and understanding. 

“Then I am glad,” Viktor said, “that you didn’t.” After all, what did his pain matter in the face of Jayce Talis’ happiness? How ironic that in this form, this iteration, the one he created to be devoid of emotion, Viktor’s heart was the most conflicted it had ever been. 

Jayce opened his mouth to say something more, but then he reconsidered. Instead, he shifted his position in order to sit, then pried his way to standing with the support of the couch arm. 

“We are wanted downstairs,” Viktor said. “Are you alright to walk on your own?” 

“You might need to teach me the tools of the trade.”

“We will get you a new brace, and some support if you should need it, but you’re only injured. You’ll heal.” 

“That doesn’t mean you get out of teaching me.”

“And have you eaten?” 

“I’m hungry, but I’d rather not eat. I think my stomach has forgotten how to digest food. When I tried to eat before the battle, I ended up throwing everything back up.” 

“Your diagnosis may not be entirely incorrect,” Viktor said. He’d never experienced starvation himself, though he’d come close a few times, but he’d seen it in his neighbors. “You will need to start eating again slowly.” 

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Alright, come on. We're being evicted.” 

When they joined Callista downstairs, she led them through a side door, down a maintenance hall, and into a maze of service corridors with pipes running overhead. 

“Main door is still locked for another hour,” she explained. “We're leaving through the back.”

They turned another corner, and Jayce said, “Wait, this is the Hexgate. We're inside the Hexgate?” 

“You're right,” Viktor said. He'd gotten a familiar feeling from this place, but Jayce had always spent more time with his boots on the ground at the construction site. Viktor knew the building best as two-dimensional blueprints. Of course Jayce would put it together first. 

Callista shot them a bemused look. “Well, the Archive was built on the decommissioned shell of the old Hexgate, sure. That's why it's the Memorial Archive.” 

“What—” Jayce swallowed dryly. “What happened to the Hexgate?”

Viktor appreciated Jayce's attempt to fish for information, even if it was incredibly clumsy. 

“Jayce,” he said gently. “While you were asleep, I discovered some information that you should know.” 

He should've told him as soon as he'd found him awake, but Viktor himself was still partially in disbelief. If the truth rattled him, then it would gut Jayce—he always felt everything so keenly. And even though he knew better, Viktor was loath to be the one to tell him. 

“Here we are,” Callista said, shoving open an access door with her shoulder. 

Bright morning sun flooded their vision, and the sounds of the outside world swept in—bird calls, machine puttering, light chatter. 

“Morning!” The voice that greeted them was high and sharp like the strings of a violin. 

“Hey, Ori,” Callista said. 

Despite being warned that she was “like him”, Callista's friend still caught Viktor off guard. 

She was whiter than bone with two carved, unmoving eyes. Brass curlicues swept from the base of her neck upwards like a flame, arranging themselves into the facsimile of a girlish haircut, and she wore a frilly blue dress, her limbs covered in sheer hose.

But even more than Ori, it was the figures idling behind her that put Viktor on edge. One was undoubtedly human—olive skin, black hair, a gap between their front teeth. The other one, though, was a construct as stark white as Ori, all long, lithe limbs, gold embellishments, and black ligaments. Their face would've been perfectly blank except for the pattern of round-leaf vines painted from their left brow down to their chin, tattooed like glaze onto a teacup. 

That was— they were his. That one was his. A follower, a believer, a person once. He'd made them. The soldiers, the extensions of his mind and will. When Callista had first described the revenants, he'd had his suspicions, but he hadn't thought, hadn't wanted to think… 

One advantage of the Herald's mask was that it kept Viktor's horror effortlessly concealed, but Jayce wasn't so lucky. He had to fight to hide his unease, and it was clear on his face.

Callista was quick to greet the two, exchanging pleasantries, complaining about due dates, workshifts, trying her hardest to appear casual and distract from the two anomalies following behind her. 

It didn’t work, but Jayce’s uncomfortable stare creeped them out enough for them to slink inside with only a few words. 

The acolyte—the revenant—moved with a weight different from how Viktor had designed them. There was gravity there, like they were meant to occupy the same world as their human peer all along.

Callista breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay, I don't think those two care enough to rat us out. They're not exactly sticklers.” 

“Sorry,” Ori chirped. “I know you told me to come alone, but they showed up to work early and I couldn't make them go away.” 

“It's not your fault,” Callista said, then she gestured to her friend. “Jayce, Viktor, this is Orianna.”

“Good to meet you,” Viktor said, blankly. 

“Hm!” Orianna said, more of a musical tic than anything. “And it's lovely to meet you, Jayce. Viktor.” 

Viktor studied her for a long moment. She was different from the other revenant, and he didn't recall evolving her, but there was an undeniable similarity, a connection he couldn't quite place. 

“Cal told me that you’ve only just woken up,” Orianna said. “I hope it’s not rude to ask, but where exactly were you buried?” 

Her question carried a knowing undertone that Viktor clocked immediately, but again, he couldn’t put a finger on who she was or what she was getting at. Did she recognize him? The other revenant hadn’t.

“I don’t recall,” he said. 

She waved away the question. “Then don’t worry about it. Whoever you might’ve been before doesn’t matter—this is a new life. I can answer any questions you might have and introduce you to the revenant community in the Entresol. Most of us that wake up don’t have any family that recognizes us, but I see you already have a… companion.” 

She motioned to Jayce, who had wandered over to a low wall that served as a partition behind which to view the sprawl of the city. 

“It’s Piltover,” he breathed, “but…” 

“It’s been thirty-two years,” Viktor said, falling in beside him. 

Piltover proper was largely recognizable—the rows of apartments and slate-roofed residences, the domed monuments, the city squares—but the gold was duller, replaced in part by a rainbow of other metallic shades: brass and bronze, oxidized silver and anodized iron. 

A busy network of cables and wires stretched over the river Pilt. Some were covered in mossy growth, while others extended from sturdy support towers to ferry gondolas back and forth. 

Even at such a distance, the changes to the Undercity were obvious. Factory smoke no longer choked the air, apparently cordoned off to a corner district where white and grey plumes wisped skyward. Flags flapped from rooftops. In at least three spots, the crowns of massive trees broke above the eaves, and many more spots of green, red, and pink foliage were dappled across the lanes. 

And there was glass, so much glass. Glass in place of roofs, walls, even a bridge. In the Undercity of Viktor’s childhood, glass had been a luxury, a fool’s dream even. It existed only to get broken in. And now it was everywhere, glinting proudly in the sun. 

“This isn’t our world,” Jayce murmured, disbelieving. 

“It might be,” Viktor said. “I suspect it is. It just continued on without us.” 

Jayce kept his gaze fixed on the horizon so that Viktor could only see the edge of his expression, but his eyes looked so lost that it squeezed something between Viktor’s ribs. 

He placed his hand overtop Jayce’s. 

Callista sidled up behind them, Orianna in tow. “So,” she said to Jayce, “do you have somewhere to go? Because Orianna can take Viktor to the Entresol, but you don’t really seem—” She searched for a polite word. “—housed. At the moment.”

“I guess I’m not,” Jayce said, gesturing aimlessly to the city. 

“I will be remaining with him,” Viktor said. 

“Then you can clean up at my place,” Callista said. “No one’s there to be bothered right now, and I’ll see if you fit any of my brother’s clothes. We’ll take the trolley.” 

Orianna clapped her hands together, and they made a sound like a champagne toast. “Field trip!” 

As they left the gardens that surrounded the Memorial Archive, Viktor pulled his scarf around his head to obscure his face. The ends kept slipping until Jayce reached up and tucked them securely in the back. 

Orianna kept up a steady stream of chatter as they walked, pointing out this building and that, taking specific delight in the concert hall and statue garden. When they boarded the trolley, Callista paying the fare for all four of them, she switched tracks and prattled on about the Entresol and the neighborhood where the revenants had taken up residence. She made several references to boardwalks and canals that Viktor couldn’t reconcile, but he accepted that this dissonance would be his new normal. 

He spotted more than a few revenants as they traveled. They were all cast from the same mold, but in the years since their mysterious revival they’d taken to differentiating themselves. Some had masks to mimic human faces. Some sported gilt metalwork. A few had replaced whole limbs with alternative materials, painted themselves entirely new colours, and all wore clothes that showed off their personal style. Simply put, they were people. 

And none of them spared him a second glance. The same couldn’t be said of the trolley’s other passengers, but their odd looks seemed more due to annoyance at his large size and the extra seat he took up. 

“Where did Viktor come from?” Orianna asked him, tapping a finger to her face. She spoke as much with her hands as she did with her voice, something Viktor noted was common with the revenants. Compensation for their lack of facial expressions. 

“My name?” he asked. 

“Yes, was it your name before, too?” He hesitated for one breath too many, and Orianna caught it, jumping in. “So you do remember your old life. At least a little.” 

Again, she was prying. More than just prying, she was prying in ways too specific to be accidental. Viktor felt his hackles rise. This girl was a threat . He just didn’t know to what degree. 

“I remember my name. That is all. Did you choose your name, Orianna?”

“Yup.” She held her thumb and pointer finger in front of one eye, tapping them together like a clapperboard to mime a wink. 

The trolley took them deeper into Piltover, across the commercial district and into the residentials where they had to disembark. 

“Transit lines don’t go all the way up,” Callista said in apology. “Can’t encourage the riffraff, you know?” 

The walk wasn’t long, and Viktor linked his arm with Jayce to steady him. It was thanks to this that he felt when Jayce’s steps began to lag. 

“If that park is the same,” he muttered to himself, “and that street, then—”

Callista trotted up to a small gate and unlocked it. The action was so casual that it almost allowed Viktor to ignore the larger, much grander gate immediately next to it, the interlocking keys woven into its design, and the stately house beyond. 

“You’re a Kiramman!” Jayce blurted. 

Callista swiveled on the spot. “Is that a problem?”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” 

“Well, good.” 

Jayce, however, was frozen to the spot. Viktor bowed his head to whisper to him. “I know that you were close with the Kiramman family, and this is a lot for you, but finding somewhere else to go may prove difficult.” 

“I guess it makes sense,” Jayce said. “House Kiramman was the place I went first when I needed help. This is just—”

“The draw of destiny?”

“I was going to say cruel irony.”

“I will lock you two out if you don’t start moving!” Callista said. 

“She will,” Orianna said happily. “She’s done it before.”

They ascended the front steps and slipped inside the huge double doors without issue. The foyer as well as the great hall were well lit, spotless, and utterly empty. The tile was polished to a mirror sheen. Beside each floor-length window was a potted plant that, no matter how hard he tried, Viktor didn’t recognize. 

Callista brought them up the stairs at the end of the hall, but she stopped suddenly once she alighted on the upper landing. 

“Hey, smart cookie!” 

Callista stuck a hand behind her back, gesturing for the others to retreat. “Mom! I thought– I thought you went to Terrace Hall today.”

“I'll head over later, slept in. Stroke of luck so I could run into you. You're never home anymore, Cal.” 

“No one's ever home. This house is a ghost town.” 

“Nah, I see your brother still haunting the place sometimes.” 

“Oh! Is he,” Callista shuffled in place, trying to shield Viktor and Jayce from view, “good?”

A laugh. “Sweetheart, ‘is he good?’. You’re the least slick person I know. Who's there?” 

“Um.”

“Boy or girl?” 

“Mom!”

“Neither?”

“Hello, Mrs. Kiramman!” chimed Orianna.

Callista stiffened. “Not a word.”

“Hey, I didn't say any…” The words trailed off as their speaker finally managed to look past Callista's shoulder and down the stairs. “...thing.” 

Orianna had her shoulders hunched, her fingers waving a guilty little wave. Viktor was drawn back, pulling up to his full height in anticipation. 

Jayce just stared. 

Vi's hair was still cropped short, now with a few light streaks. Gold piercings with multi-coloured jewels were scattered randomly on her ears, nose, and eyebrow. Smile lines and scars traced the planes of her face, and her form had filled out in a way that reminded Viktor of General Ambessa. They'd caught her in a state of half-dress, with her shirt partially unbuttoned over her chest and a leather jacket slung over her shoulder. 

“Vi?” Jayce said. “Is that you?”

Vi blinked. She blinked again. “Yeah, dumbass! Who else? What the hell is this?” 

“What are you doing at the Kiramman manor?” 

“What am I–? What are you ! I live here!” 

“You–” 

“And what the fuck is that thing?” She pointed past Jayce to Viktor's impassive face. 

“A friend,” Orianna said. 

“I am not a thing,” Viktor added. 

Callista tugged at her mom's elbow. “Do you know these people? They tried to break into my room at the Memorial Archive.”

Vi shook her head incredulously. “Cal, that is Jayce-fucking-Talis.”

“The–” Callista's head whipped back and forth between her mother and Jayce. “The Man of Progress? That Jayce-fucking-Talis?” 

“Yes! You're a history nerd. How did you not put that together?”

“There's a thousand Jayces in Piltover, maybe two hundred in New Zaun! I went to school with seven of them. And he looks nothing like the archival footage.”

“The beard does a lot,” Viktor agreed.

“I could shave it?” Jayce muttered. 

“No, no.”

“You,” Vi said, pointing a finger at Jayce, “you're supposed to be dead.”

“Nope, still alive, just missing in action,” Jayce said, almost sheepish. “We don't really understand it either, but we're here now, we survived, and apparently we've met your…”

“My daughter.” Vi crossed her arms. “Damn, why not? This may as well be happening. And you are?” She jerked her chin towards Viktor. 

Viktor relaxed his stance. “I believe we met once before, Violet, back when I appeared more like myself. I apologize that I could not do more for your father.”

Vi's nostrils flared. “Son of a bitch.”

“I do not intend harm.”

“Damn right you don't,” Vi said, cracking her knuckles like she was prepared to box the Machine Herald barefisted. One knuckle made a nasty pop sound and she hissed, wrung her hand out. 

“Mom,” Callista said, “they haven't done anything wrong. I brought them here so they could rest, and so that Jayce–” She paused, looked back at the man in question. “Oh. Wow, she's not kidding. You're really him.” A giddy, almost manic smile spread across her face. “This is incredible.” 

“He needs a shower,” Orianna said, finishing in Callista's stead.

“Pff, yeah he does,” Vi said, and she hung her head, eyes squeezed shut as she debated with herself. A great sigh, and she rolled her shoulders. “You can deal with his sorry state first, then. You two show Jayce where to go, find a guest room, and meanwhile I want to talk with Tall, Dark, and Fucked Up over here.”

There was a moment where neither man moved, both hesitant to be parted, but then Viktor nudged Jayce up the stairs, spurring them both to action. “Go. Take care of yourself. I will join you soon.”

“Don’t hurt him,” Jayce told Vi, but it was barely a threat, more a weary plea. 

She pursed her lips to mime consideration, and, after a moment’s thought, said, “No promises if he starts anything.”

The girls ushered Jayce down the upstairs hall while Viktor and Vi lingered on the stairs, Vi leaning against the gilt railing and Viktor watching the retreating party.

“I thought you would've rather spoken with Jayce,” he said. 

“I would, but I trust he won't try to hurt my daughter or her friend.”

“Then we both have our priorities.” 

They exchanged steely looks, and Vi sighed. “I can’t fucking believe this.”

“Does our continued existence inconvenience you?”

“Yeah, it inconveniences me! I’ve got shit to do! A life to live! And you have no right walking away from that battle scott free. Do you have any idea how many people died?”

“I do.” Viktor’s voice was soft. “I read their names.” 

Vi flexed the fingers in both hands taught, curled them into frustrated fists. Nails bit into her palms. “Urhh! Knock it off! Do you gotta be so repentant?”

“I— Yes?”

“Janna spare me. What happened to turning the world into one big machine? Wasn’t that your whole deal?” 

“I realized I was wrong.”

“Just like that?”

“Jayce… He made me realize that what I truly wanted was never perfection.” 

Vi’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, so you’re the biggest fucking idiot.”

“There is much I would need to do to make up for the pain and suffering I have caused, and I doubt I could set everything right, but yes, a good first step would be acknowledging that I am, in many ways, the biggest fucking idiot. In this specific context.” 

“Damn.” She let out a low whistle. “You’ve got issues, but sure, I believe you.”

“Just like that?” 

Vi jabbed her knuckles into Viktor’s chest with surprising force. “Watch it. And yeah, let's call this the beginning of your second chance. Everyone gets one. I’m fucking watching you, though.” 

“If you do not want me here, I will leave. I only ask that you care for Jayce.”

Vi tsked. “Everyone thinks you two tore each other to shreds, you know. Even Ekko wasn’t sure what happened, and he was the only one who came off that roof alive.” 

“Ekko…”

“Yeah, uh, shit. What did he used to look like? White face paint, that was his thing. Dark skin, white dreadlocks? Fuck, he’ll want to know about this. I don’t think he gave a rat’s ass about you, but he felt kinda bad about vaporizing Jayce.” 

“As one does.” 

“So how long has it been from your perspective? Because I can barely remember that day anymore, just flashes of, well, the worst stuff. But Jayce looked, I mean, has he aged at all?” 

“No. My understanding is that we disappeared from the roof of the Hexgate and reappeared in your daughter’s office. The runestone was there. It likely acted as a tether, moving us outside of the continuity and then bringing us back in. Equal and opposite forces.” 

“But you didn’t go anywhere? See anything?” 

“What should we have seen?” 

“I don’t know. Ekko talks sometimes about the Arcane being able to yank a person from one world clear into another. He’s not crazy open about it, but he definitely saw some things.” 

An image sparked in the back of Viktor’s mind: a devastated world, the sky perfectly blue and empty. Jayce knelt in front of his desiccated copy. Nothing but silence. 

“Perhaps…”

Lethargy swept over him. It was so sudden that at first he couldn’t register that it was happening. The sensation was both familiar and alien, the disequilibrium, the increase of gravity, the fog. This body wasn’t meant to feel tired. The translation between sensation and cerebellum was skewed.

“Hey, are you good?” Vi asked. 

“I am fine,” Viktor said. 

And then he collapsed down the flight of stairs. 

Chapter Text

It took an embarrassingly long time for Jayce to bring the stool into the shower with him. On a purely logical level, there wasn’t any reason not to. The stool was wood. The shower was so large it bordered on parody. And Jayce was bone tired.

Even so, he’d hesitated. He was alone, no one but him, yet there was still something embarrassing about not being able to do something as simple as clean himself the way he always had. 

Then his ankle spasmed and he limped along the wall to fetch the stool. 

When he emerged, Callista was perched on the edge of the guest bed, Orianna playing idly with the gauzy window curtains. 

“So the clothes do fit,” Callista said. “My brother shares sizes with the Man of Progress.”

Jayce grimaced at the nickname, and Orianna glanced over. “Hm! I’ve already spoken with her. No interrogations or historical debriefing unless you consent to it first.” 

Callista’s mouth fell open in a silent scoff. Then she pouted. “Just couldn’t let me appear considerate of my own free will, could you? I don’t have anything to write with, anyways.” 

“Tell you what,” Jayce said, sitting next to her and reaching for his brace, “we can go question for question. Me first then you.” 

“Deal.” 

Jayce sat the brace in his lap, rearranging the improvised parts so that they sat in what passed for an open position. “Vi is your mother, but you’re a Kiramman, so is Caitlyn…?”

“She’s my mum. She still lights a candle for you every memorial anniversary, by the way.” 

Jayce tried to picture Caitlyn all grown up, grown even older than him, with a wife and a daughter and a son. All he could imagine was Cait’s face superimposed over Councillor Kiramman, which was a bit ghastly. 

“Is she here?” he asked. 

“That’s another question.” 

“Right, your turn. Hit me.” 

“Did you really fight with a giant hammer?”

Jayce sputtered. A bolt slipped from his brace and clattered to the floor. “That’s what you want to know?”

“Of course it is,” Callista said, kneeling to retrieve the bolt. “I only know of you as a symbol, this historical figure shaped by other peoples’ interests. History isn’t just a story; it’s a tool. And while giant hammers are epic and iconic and make for lovely monuments, I can’t imagine they’re practical on the battlefield.” She clutched the bolt in her fist and mimed a wide, two handed strike. “See? The downswing of something so large would leave your back entirely open. Pure mythology exaggerated to fit the city's narrative, clearly.” 

“Well,” said Jayce, “I hate to disappoint you, but…”

Orianna chirped her mechanical version of a giggle. “You didn’t!”

“Oh!” Callista said. “Oh my god. I mean, I’m sure you found a way to make it work.” 

“I’d be lying if I said that the iconicness of the hammer didn’t factor in. I was really preoccupied with my image when I made it.”

She handed him the bolt. “The hammer is pretty cool. You wanted to know about mum?”

Jayce slid the bolt into place, affixing the matching nut. “Is she doing well?”

“Ugh, there’s this whole thing going on right now. Noxus is pissed because some of the second generation kids were born with magic talents, so they’re threatening action unless we surrender them to the empire. Mum’s trying to assert their Piltoven citizenship, but it’s tricky. Noxus is our biggest trade partner, and they control the ports in northern Shuriman, too. We’d normally have the Demacian deligacy on our side, but they don’t care about baby mages. And they’ve been cagey lately besides.” 

“Whoa,” Jayce said. “Back up. Remember, I’ve been dead for thirty-two years.” 

“Right, sorry.” Callista sucked her tongue against the back of her teeth. “Starting from after The Battle of the Hexgate, let’s see. During the reconstruction period, there was a gradual trickle of immigration from the outer bounds of the Noxian Empire, those that couldn’t live up to Noxus’ standards and more than a few retired warmasons seeking work, since they weren't able to keep pace with army life. They helped rebuild Piltover. They even set up their own little borough, Blackgate. But then their kids got born with magic, and Noxus feels entitled to it. They’re not huge fans of outmigration. Mum’s been working with Noxian ambassadors to settle things, but the empire isn’t known for backing down.”

“She’s working with the Medardas?”

“You got it in one.” 

Jayce swung his leg over and into the cradle of the brace. The metal slats rattled in protest. “Then they might have a chance. I’m glad those two ended up as allies, even if that combo is kind of terrifying.” 

“Well, she’s been gone for over a month now, so progress is slow.” She stretched out the last word, rocking on her heels and up off the bed. “And it's only gotten worse since she left.”

A knock on the door. “Ladies?” Vi called. 

“And Jayce,” Orianna said helpfully. 

Vi stuck her head in. “I know what I said. We've got an issue.” 

The issue turned out to be Viktor sprawled at the bottom of the staircase in an incomparably undignified position, though according to Vi he'd looked even worse when he first fell. 

“Ah, the cavalry,” Viktor muttered. 

“What happened?” Jayce asked, biting back an edge of panic. 

“My knight,” Viktor addressed him flatly, “you seem to have misplaced your white horse.”

“Let me see him,” Orianna said. She descended the stairs with the same mincing steps as a bird. Sans preamble, she laid a hand across Viktor's forehead. 

He batted her away reflexively, the motion sharp. “Don't touch me.” 

Jayce's mouth thinned to a line. Viktor sounded almost petulant, which was both endearing and a sign that he was well and firmly lucid.

Orianna set her palm to his forehead again, this time more firmly, but she took it away just as quickly. 

“He's sunstarved,” she pronounced. 

“Already?” Callista said. “He's only just—I suppose he hasn't technically awakened, but shouldn't the same principles apply?” 

Orianna shrugged. “Hm! Not if he isn't your typical revenant.” 

“We can take him to Terrace Hall,” Vi said. 

Viktor angled his head towards Jayce. “Have I ever told you that this is my worst nightmare? People speaking about me, over me, as if I'm transparent?”

“You might’ve mentioned it before.”

“Yes, I recall horrible dreams where I'm transfigured into a coffee table.” 

“He's losing it,” Vi said. 

“Right here!” Viktor barked. “I am right! Here! ”

Everyone flinched, Jayce included.

“Fine,” Vi grit out. “You’re losing it.”

“Sorry, but Mrs. Kiramman is right,” Orianna said. “About Terrace Hall, I mean. It would be best if we made our way to their clinic before you wink out.” 

“I am not going anywhere,” Viktor said, “until one of you explains exactly what you are talking about and what you are proposing to do with me.” 

“Your body is starved,” Orianna said. “Revenants are partially organic but our inorganic components render us closed systems. Therefore, in order to be self-sustaining, we've cultivated mutualistic instances of the arcaniformes to act as our metabolic input, a sort of reverse parasitism.” She paused. “It's biological, or the closest thing to it.” 

It was hard to tell, but Jayce was fairly sure Viktor was staring into the middle distance. 

“I never was much of a biologist,” he said. “You may explain in greater detail on the way.”

—

Essentially, it was the plants. 

As their gondola puttered over the Pilt, Jayce gazed into the river below, as the clots of lily pads and reeds too vibrant to be natural. Bright yellow ivy climbed up the cliffs, and magenta ferns unfurled from gutters and drainage pipes, the same strange flora that had bloomed around Viktor’s commune.

“And that’s why it’s called sunstarvation,” Orianna was saying. “The arcaniformes photosynthesize solar energy and water into organic compounds, and they’ll diffuse those nutrients to us like we’re mycorrhizae.”

“Mycorrhizae,” Viktor repeated carefully, folding his voice around the new word. The sunlight of his eyes flickered like faulty filaments, and Jayce was trying desperately not to stare, not to fidget anxiously, not to let his leg bounce because damn that would hurt. His brace had already slipped out of alignment. It pinched in some parts and hung loose in others, really belying its slapdash nature the longer it saw use.

“Fungus in root systems,” Orianna said. “Technically, the plants could borrow nutrients from us just as easily, but the two systems want to find equilibrium.” 

“And we are often the ones running a deficit,” Viktor finished. 

“You just need to be careful not to interface with anything hungry.”

“Fascinating. And you revenants figured this out on your own?”

“It was either that or succumb to the long sleep,” Orianna said cheerfully. 

Vi bumped her knee against Jayce’s to get his attention. “How bad is your mindfuck right now?” 

“I’m barely hearing anything they’re saying,” Jayce admitted. “It’s like I don’t have room for any more information. It’s— You think everything is finally over, and then it’s just not.” 

“This decline was inevitable after my separation from the Arcane,” Viktor said. His tone denoted no pain, only exhaustion. “My existence is untenable. That is why I sought the heart of the Hexgate, to maintain myself. And this form, I crafted it to ensure that I would succeed, but it demands an efficiency that only the Arcane can provide.  It was a gamble, all or nothing.” 

“You’re not dying again,” Jayce said. 

“I should hope not.” He laughed. “I may finally get it right this time.”

As the gondola drew closer to the top level of the Undercity, all of the minute changes came into view. Crisscrossing walkways, snake-like tree roots, and rusted utility vents wove together chaotically, the whole resolving into a patchwork of colour through which strode its citizens. Their dress was still markedly more rustic than Piltover, but there was less factory grease and chemical burns than before, more darned wool and dyed leather. 

It was extremely obvious which building was Terrace Hall. Its glass facade rose in tiers like a shimmering, gelatin cake. Its metal framework gleamed copper, though most of it was oxidized, and the sparse brick walls were choked with mural work, graffiti, and the ever present plants—the arcaniformes. A willow tree curtained over the bridge that connected the courtyard of Terrace Hall to the top street level, and Jayce ran his fingers through the strands as they passed. They were scaly like cedar branches. 

He glanced beneath the bridge, expecting to see more alleyways. Instead, the Pilt stared back at him. Boats bobbed on mooring lines, docks jutted from doorways, but the alley was gone.

“Did the Undercity flood?” he asked. 

Viktor slowed his already glacial pace, the cloak he’d insisted on wearing fluttering around him. He followed Jayce’s gaze, and something soft and broken crept into his voice. “Oh…”

“They called it the Second Sinking,” Callista said. “A couple of years before the revenants woke up, the Pilt overflowed its banks again.” 

“The sump is gone,” Vi said, her tone nearly matching Viktor’s, but her grief was dulled by time. “And the lowest levels of the Entresol. It’s all underwater. A bunch of the factories got washed out, even more homes, so many fuckin’ people. Can’t even swim in most of the canals because of the chemicals.”

“But it was also the first time Piltover decided to act like a proper sister city,” Callista said.

“True,” said a new voice. “We did have to drag them kicking and screaming, but we made it happen.” 

Jayce had only met Ekko briefly, and their time together had felt more like a truce than camaraderie, but what he remembered was a wiry teenager with a flint in his eyes and a jut in his walk, made to act a decade older than he really was. 

The Ekko that marched across the courtyard had finally earned those years. His build had broadened, meat filling out his bones and even softening in places. His hair was bound in long, sporadically beaded twists, the ends secured in a knot at the back of his head, and a swirling cloud pattern ringed his head, etched into his fade. He wore a sturdy coat. A pauldron sat stitched into the leather shoulder—the white visage of an owl. The presence he projected was one of calm, casual confidence.

“Vi,” he said. The depth of his voice was startling. “You’re late.” 

“I brought company,” Vi said, sticking her hands in her pockets. 

Ekko nodded. “Cal, Orianna.” Then he stopped, gave Jayce a look that he was going to have to get used to from now on. “Oh, shit.” 

“Hello again,” Jayce said. “It was Ekko, right?”

“Oh, shit!” Ekko repeated, clapping his hands this time and rubbing them together in relish. A grin spread over his face. “I knew this would happen. I knew you weren’t dead.”

“You… knew?” 

Ekko scoffed. “Yeah. You just vanishing into thin air was not nearly weird enough for the Arcane. And way too convenient, so I knew there had to be something more to it. Time travel, right? I wonder if…” His eyes slid over to Viktor, to the taper of the Herald’s mask that the hood couldn’t hide. “Okay, is anyone else seeing that or is it just me?”

“Just you,” Viktor said, drawing the hood tighter. 

“Don’t worry,” Orianna said. “He’s dying again and won’t hurt you.”

“Ah,” Ekko said. “Cool?”

“Not dying,” Jayce corrected. “We’re here to get him help.”

“Well, seeing as you just won me a crazy unlikely bet, I’m all yours.” Ekko winked. “A very pretty lady owes me a very stiff drink now.” 

The inside of Terrace Hall was the epitome of organized chaos. Once they left the main lobby, the corridors tightened into a bustling maze of offices, workshops, meeting rooms, kitchens, dormitories, storage closets, and finally, mercifully, a clinic. Like the front, the walls were glass to let in natural light, and arcaniformes crept in through cracks in the stonework, tiny fronds of teal and spurts of red. 

Ekko jogged up to the resident doctor. “Hey, keep this on the downlow and I buy you your meals for the next week.” 

The doctor, a man with dark hair and just the barest flicker of Marai heritage, didn’t bat an eye. “Deal. Revenant or full organic?” 

“Revenant.” Ekko said. Only he remained with Viktor and Jayce—Callista, Orianna, and Vi had peeled off to visit someone named Atlas, granting them privacy and promising to check in later. “He’s sunstarved.”

“That’s easy enough,” the doctor said. 

Ekko pulled a face. “Eh, we’ll see.”

The doctor led them to the far corner of the clinic, past rows of unoccupied beds, to where the foliage ran wild, which didn’t seem very conducive to a sanitary medical practice. Long-tongued lilies left smears of pollen on Jayce’s coat, and tufts of golden grass swished underfoot. 

“Here,” the doctor said, motioning to a ledge tucked into the corner, more a bay window than a sickbed. Nasturtium vines gummed their way up the edges, parting around a divet that implied a spot to lay in. 

Viktor didn’t fit. He could only partially recline, his legs tucked up towards his chest. He shifted around so that his back faced the windows instead, moving gingerly, almost sheepish at how much space he occupied. Between the flowers, the uncanny, demure movements, and the sunlight that broke over the edges of his mask, he reminded Jayce of a fairytale princess. 

The thought was so ridiculous that he had to laugh. 

Viktor fixed him with a look. “Ah, the first stage of grief: denial.” 

Jayce’s mood immediately switched. “Again. You’re not dying.” 

“Hmm. Anger. It’s progressing.” 

“Well, then can I bargain with you to stop making those jokes?”

“Sadly not, you’ll just have to accept it.”

Jayce caught sight of Ekko out of the corner of his eye, twists swishing as he shook his head incredulously. 

The doctor swept in to break the moment. “The arcaniformes should take if you let them, but I’ll start you on a drip just in case.” He hooked an intravenous bag to a clip on the wall and produced a vial of opalescent liquid from his apron.

“What is that?” Viktor asked sharply. 

“It's only Resin,” the doctor said, fitting a needle.

“‘Only Resin’,” Viktor parroted in blithe annoyance. “Define for me—” 

“It's like Shimmer,” Ekko said, and Viktor jerked away so harshly that he crushed the stems of several plants. 

“And you're just flaunting it about like it's a nip of cordial liquor?!” 

“It's safe,” the doctor said, offended. 

“Poor choice of words,” Ekko said. “My bad. Resin is chemtech, but after the council decriminalized it they slapped down a world of regulations. It is safe.”

“I will gladly drink a quart if it puts your mind at ease,” the doctor said, and added under his breath, “and let me do my damn job.”

“No chemtech,” Viktor said. “Put it away.” 

The doctor hummed in indifference and disassembled the needle and drip, stowing them away in a cabinet. 

By then, the plant life had noticed Viktor perched on the ledge. Tendrils nudged his hair, leaves and flowers and stalks laying themselves over his limbs like loyal dogs comforting their master. Something like a sigh emanated from deep within the Herald’s core. 

“Is it working?” Jayce asked. “What does it feel like?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t feel like anything, really.” His body eased into the vine-covered wall, the scalloped leaves parting for him. “Though, I thought I was no longer able to sleep...” He fell quiet.

Jayce frowned, drew closer. “Viktor?” 

“Right here,” Viktor murmured. 

“Stay with me.” 

“Of course.” 

Another long bout of quiet followed. Jayce scrutinized Viktor’s relaxed form, unable to find the rise and fall of a chest, just the tiny, almost imperceptible undulations of artificed flesh. He tucked an errant nasturtium bloom away from Viktor’s face. 

“Did you want me to take a look at that?” the doctor asked. When Jayce turned, he motioned at the rapidly deteriorating leg brace. “We’ll just move to the next room.” 

“I… I really should, huh?” 

With the brace undone and Jayce’s shin propped up on a stool, the doctor wasted no time in locating each and every pain point, poking and prodding without remorse.

Jayce bit his tongue and swore. “Careful! It’s still healing.” 

“No, I don’t think so. How long have you had this for?”

“Uh.” Jayce’s grasp on the passage of time was about as solid as molten slag. 

“My guess is the callus is already being replaced by hard bone, so it’s been a month or more.”

“Then why does it hurt so much?” And why does it send splinters of pain radiating up to his hip if he takes a step wrong?

“It’s called a malunion,” the doctor said, lowering Jayce’s leg from the stool. “When the bone tries to heal back together without being in the right position. From your body’s perspective, the most important part is the gap closing, not how well it fits.”

“Can you fix it?” 

“Not easily or cleanly. The procedure would be invasive and has a chance of making things worse. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can scrounge up a brace better than that old thing.” 

The doctor shuffled away, and Ekko slouched against the wall. “Damn. I’m sorry, man.” 

Jayce waved him off. A day ago, he had thought there was no future left for him—a future with a little pain and frustration in it was a huge improvement. 

“Well, I’m sorry for blowing you to atoms thirty years ago.” 

“Apology accepted,” Jayce said with a tired grin. 

He could still see outside the windows and into a courtyard to the south of Terrace Hall. A giant, pink-leafed gingko shadowed half the brick, and a flock of children played a game of full-contact tag under the dappled light. A revenant and young teen worked together to weed a garden bed. A man in a wheelchair helped a gap-toothed girl balance on her hoverboard. 

“You’ve done so much to improve the city,” Jayce said. “I’m almost jealous.” 

“It’s taken… I guess it’s taken a lifetime,” Ekko said. “And a stroke of luck. A handful of people with decent heads and working hearts trip their way ass-backwards into power, and boom, actually progress.” 

“It’s more than I ever did.” 

“Because you had less than a decade,” Ekko said. “And also you’re a bit dumb, but hey, your mistakes greased some very important gears for us. Besides, shit is never over. Like—” And here he gestured to an olive-skinned tween skulking around the base of the gingko. “See that little dude? That’s Damian. He’s one of the second-gen Noxus kids. His house burnt down a week ago, his dad’s in critical condition, and we have no idea what caused the fire. Could’ve been a hate crime, even if we’ve never seen shit that bold in Blackgate before, but the kid keeps going on about it being Noxians. Makes no sense.” 

Maybe that was what Callista meant about things getting worse. 

Jayce massaged his knee. “Politics isn’t for everyone. I learned that firsthand.”

Ekko grinned ruefully. “Nah, I signed up to solve problems like this. I just fuckin’ hate it.” 

There came a knock at the door and both men looked up, expecting to see the doctor. Instead, a revenant wearing a deep purple smock dress wandered in holding the scruffiest, flat-faced orange cat Jayce had ever seen. She walked with all the grace of a dizzy seven-year-old, her course jackknifing, her ankle nearly rolling, her grip on the poor cat slipping and readjusting so that its back paws dangled awkwardly. 

“Anthy,” Ekko said, “did you need something?”

“Heimlich wanted to say hi,” she said, forcing the cat to wave its paw. 

Jayce’s blood ran cold. The way she spoke… she didn’t just walk like a seven-year-old, she was seven years old. Fuck. There had been kids in Viktor’s commune. He’d wanted to help everyone he could, and in the end he’d evolved everyone, too. Indiscriminately.

Jayce let the deluge of questions rush over him. Did she understand how mismatched her body was from her mind? Did she remember being a human child? Did she grow? Mature? Or was she trapped in developmental limbo for the rest of her existence? His racing thoughts were a welcome distraction from the hot, confused, instinctive fury that burned in his gut. This was wrong in a way he couldn’t ignore.

“Hello, Heimlich,” Ekko said, bringing Jayce back to reality. He waved at the disgruntled cat.

Jayce coughed, tried and failed to turn it into a laugh. “Heimlich?”

“He gets real dramatic about hairballs,” Ekko said with a shrug. He turned to shoot Jayce a knowing look, but stopped when he noticed the other man’s strung out expression.

“You don’t say,” Jayce said, flatly. 

Ekko’s tone gentled. “He is actually a weirdly gross cat. Anthy, don't squeeze him or he'll barf.” 

“It's okay,” she said, carrying Heimlich away to an unknown fate. “He likes it.”

Once she left, Ekko said, “I know.” 

“Are there others?” Jayce asked. 

“A few,” Ekko said. “Anthy is the youngest we’ve found.” 

Jayce hunched over, head in his hands. 

“The older ones, the ones we figure are maybe ten and up? They can start to understand that something is wrong, but Anthy will just forget. This is her normal. It’s the only life she’s ever known.” 

“Is that—? Does that make it better?” 

“For her, maybe.” 

Pure unfettered disgust swept through Jayce, breaking in waves against the edges of his heart. 

How could he?

“I need to talk with Viktor.” Before Ekko could say otherwise, Jayce was already marching hobble-stepped out of the room and taking a sharp turn into the next. 

But with each limp towards the corner where Viktor sat in his trance, the words died away in Jayce’s throat. Anger coursed hot through his veins. His muscles sang with tension. But every flicker of rage turned inwards in arcing solar flares.

No matter what Viktor had done, no matter what he had become, what mistakes he had made, what irreparable wrongs he had wrought, Jayce forgave him. He forgave him unconditionally. There wasn’t a world across all of possibility where Jayce could hate him. 

And what did that make Jayce?

His knees hit the floor before he reached Viktor, sending a harsh, satisfying, searing pain up his leg. He imagined the malunion cracking in two as he rested his head against the ledge, hands raised. Like praying for absolution at the feet of a saint. 

Guilt and love warred inside of him, the mixture so potent it made him nauseous. 

Shame—Viktor surely felt even worse than he did. Regret—-he had set them on this path, after all. Desperation—how could they fix this? Futility. 

Fingers brushed the crown of his head. 

Jayce looked up. 

Viktor peered down at him, the Herald’s mask giving nothing away. Neither spoke. And then, slowly, haltingly, Viktor lowered himself from the ledge, nasturtium vines trailing from his arms and shoulders, some detaching from where they’d fused with his skin, many more forming a living veil. He knelt next to Jayce. He held him, pressed their foreheads together. 

And Jayce just cried. 

—

Later, much later, the Kirammans returned with lunch. 

Orianna held multiple mess hall trays aloft like a juggler, deftly navigating the clinic to set them on a bedside. Vi was already halfway through her bowl, giving Ekko a what? look as she passed. And Callista was bickering with a new arrival entirely. 

He sported Caitlyn’s dark blue hair and a conventionally attractive, boyish face. The hand he offered Jayce to shake had crescents of black dirt stuck under his nails. “Atlas Kiramman,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Talis. I’ve been brought up to speed.”

Jayce shifted from where he was using the crook of Viktor’s arm as a backrest. “You can just call me Jayce. It’s nice to meet you, Atlas.”

Callista smirked. “Mom named him after her favourite pair of gloves.” 

“Yeah,” Atlas said, “because I’m her favourite .” 

“This again—!” Callista swatted at her brother with surprising force, and he nearly tripped over Viktor’s leg in his attempt to get away. 

“You love me!” he said as he continued to dodge her swipes, the professional veneer of his first impression crumbling away. “You love me! Say it! You love me! Say it and I’ll let you get a hit in! Say it!” 

Vi finished the last of her meal, chewed, swallowed, set the bowl and spoon on a window sill, and grabbed both her children like a cat going for the scruff. “What are you, five?”

“Her IQ is, maybe,” Atlas said. 

“Says the one who’s never been peer reviewed!” Callista snapped. 

Vi scoffed fondly. “Unbelievable.”

Viktor inclined his head towards Jayce to whisper in his ear. “You should've stayed.” The words ghosted from the Herald's mask like soft wind. “You could've had this.” 

Jayce settled back against Viktor’s frame. “Had this with who?” 

“I… I don't know. Someone. Anyone.”

“I already told you, no regrets.”

Orianna dolled out the mess hall trays, completely nonplussed by the squabbling of her peers. 

The meal was salted bread with seed oil and vinegar, pickled fruits, and a stew with wild rice and bits of meat that Viktor tried to convince Jayce were shrimp. They were bugs. He was absolutely certain he was being fed bugs. The bugs tasted okay. 

“You need to eat slowly anyways,” Viktor said. “Your trepidation works to your advantage.”

Callista took her own tray and sat on an adjacent bed. “Are you feeling any better?” she asked. 

Viktor curled and uncurled one of his hands. The arcaniformes were still attached to parts of his anatomy, but it seemed that they didn’t have a soporific effect unless he let them. “I am stable, but I suspect that would not be the case were I…. unsupported.” 

“That’s not too bad,” Atlas said. He spoke with his mouth full and covered it with a hand. “There are a few revenants with permanent arcaniforme grafts. It just has a bit of a learning curve.”

“No, this body was made with a specific purpose, to be attuned to a specific power source. It is too resource-heavy for mere photosynthesis to maintain—any extraneous movement or exertion incurs a heavy cost. There is only one thing that will sustain it.”

“And that’s not an option,” Ekko said flatly. 

“It is not.” 

“Are you sure?” Jayce asked. 

“There is another option,” Viktor said, “though I am unsure of its logistics. I see no reason why I would be unable to refashion this form again into something more efficient, granted that I had the resources and stabilizing element. Previously, I used Shimmer— an extremely potent form of it.”

“We could use Resin,” Callista suggested. 

“No way that flies,” Atlas said. “Resin is to Shimmer what cough syrup is to cocaine.” 

“He’s right,” Orianna said, gestures left blank as she thought. “Nothing like the Shimmer of thirty years ago exists anymore, and anything that got close is lost in the depths of the sump.”

Callista’s spoon dropped into her bowl with a rattling sound. “The Bathus!” 

“That’s what I was thinking,” Orianna said. 

As Atlas groaned, Jayce asked, “What’s a Bathus?” 

“Our pet project,” Orianna said. “We’re calling it the Bathus Mech.” 

“The sump is basically an underground cave network filled with chemical soup,” Callista said. “It leaves chemical burns on human skin, and not even revenants can swim in it without being slowly eroded. But there's the entire history of a people buried down there. Centuries of knowledge and Zaunite culture being eaten away by the day.” 

“And so Ori and my sister built this hideous clunker,” Atlas cut in, “in my workshop. I had to disassemble two whole rows of hydroponics to fit it.”

“The only problem is we can't keep it powered without sunlight, and we can't fit enough residual Resin tanks to push through. That's what we need the little sapphire runestone for.” 

“The what?” Ekko asked, sitting forward. 

“Right,” Callista said, sharing a guilty smile. “That was going to be a surprise once we figured out how to make it behave. It's very temperamental.” 

“I'll bet,” Jayce said. 

“If we can get the Bathus to work,” Orianna said, straightening as she spoke, almost like a wire reached from the ceiling to her spine, “then I know where we can find the stabilizer you need. I guarantee it, in fact.” 

“Ori,” Callista said softly, reaching for the revenant's hand. 

“That was always the goal,” Orianna said. “And these men are engineers. They can help get the Bathus working much faster than we could alone, and you've said it yourself: every day wasted is another answer lost.” 

“Jayce?” Viktor prompted softly. 

Jayce drew his mouth to a thin line. “This would be… we're talking about bringing Hextech back.”

“That is why I'm asking you. It’s your call.”

“No, it's our call. It's your life.”

“I would like to try.”

“Then we try.”

“Hell yes!” The words burst from Callista, and she promptly slapped her hands over her mouth, face reddening. “That is, what I meant was, um, thank you?”

Atlas rolled his eyes nearly to the back of his head. “Guess I'll go pack up my third and final shelf of hydroponics. Hooray.”

—

The remainder of the day passed as a reminder to Jayce of how agonizingly slow progress truly was. The innovating process involved an agonizing amount of waiting, and no matter how fast his mind churned through hypotheticals, that didn't change the fact that sourcing space, tools, materials, and manpower took time. And the fact that bodies needed rest. 

At the moment, his was molded to the scant sliver of space Viktor left him in the cot they'd pulled to the window. Arcaniforme vines draped over the mattress, Viktor's mask, the schematics Callista had brought them that Jayce now browsed idly. 

“Look at this,” he said, holding up the pages for Viktor to see.

“They have no idea what they're doing,” Viktor pronounced, flipping the blueprint back to front. 

“You used to say the same thing about my drafts,” Jayce said. “Their only problem is that they're not doing it the exact way you would.” 

“Which is clearly wrong, yes, I'm glad you are following.”

Jayce laughed. “I really missed you.”

A pause. Outside, the sun had set and the long, day's-end shadows were vanishing into the complete darkness of night. As they did, spurts of bioluminescent flora glowed from rooftops, chimneys, flagpoles, a starscape in blues and pinks and greens.

“And I you,” Viktor said. “I missed you, too.” 

They fell asleep like that, gradually entangling. Jayce's dreams were silent and warm. Vague. Peaceful. 

He awoke to a violent jolt. A crack. A strangled gurgling sound. His hip slammed into the stone floor of the infirmary. Disoriented, he registered first that he'd been flung from the bed. Next, he registered the pain. 

Finally, he saw it: silhouetted by moonlight, a hooded figure hunched over Viktor's prone form, pressing the edge of a stark white knife deep into the metallic flesh of his partner's throat.

Chapter Text

Laying side by side with just the barest dregs of moonlight to see by, Viktor made an objective analysis of Jayce’s human features. 

The pinch of his brow—pliant skin, involuntary muscle contraction, social-communicative function. The twitch behind his eyelids—rapid eye movement, random synapse connections, encoding and recall of knowledge. The smell of him—a product of outside interaction, base animal communication, distinctive. 

Viktor had never had a very high opinion of bodies. They were a vessel for housing the mind and very little more, a collection of random traits refined through millennia of death and discard. Vestigial organs. Inefficient immune systems. True, he had a lame leg, but the human knee was a travesty overall. 

He’d been indifferent to his old body, and, when he allowed himself honesty, he’d resented its limitations.

But now, in his perfected form, Viktor found himself grieving the push and pull, the give and take of being human. Skin that went numb so it could be warmed. Energy coming and going. The pain that tears holes and the love that appears to fill it—and if that love never arrives, it isn’t the fault of pain. To gain and to lose. To be and to cease.

To grasp Jayce’s hand and feel his own mold itself to fit. 

To cry with him until they could both resurface, gasping for air.

To fall asleep next to him, truly asleep, just like this. 

The light creeping in from the window filtered over the crown of five fingerprints still barely, stubbornly visible on Jayce’s forehead, and Viktor’s thoughts deflated. They had so much work to do. 

The moonlight flickered. Something, the shadow of a something, had darted by the window. 

Viktor didn’t so much hear and perceive as he sensed the vibrations and stimuli around him. The air was still. All was quiet. Perhaps little passerine birds had returned to Zaun in this newfound time. Sparrows had frequented the sills of his childhood home—he’d fed them the crusts off his bread as often as he found them dead on the stoop from fissure gas. Maybe there were now berries for them to eat. 

He registered the next moments as if through the clicking of a camera's aperture. 

The room was empty. Click. A single, creaking step. Click. A dark figure stood over their bed. 

Viktor bolted upright. The figure, hooded, face obscured by black fabric, stomped on his neck, shifted, and drove a knee into where his rib cage would normally end. 

Despite this body's size and strength, Viktor was not a fighter. Outmaneuvered, he struggled. The power he'd wielded at his zenith was nowhere to be found. 

A haphazard kick overturned the cot, sending bodies spilling to the floor. Jayce, thrown violently awake, rolled across the room. Good. The further out of harm's way the better.

The knife slashed across Viktor's throat. 

At first, he didn't understand what had happened. This body wasn't meant to be harmed. It was impossible. This form was impermeable. That was the very rule of its existence. 

Something hot ran down his front. 

He was bleeding. 

No, he couldn't bleed. He didn't have blood. Blood was too slow, too indulgent to include in his grand design. 

He was being undone. The base, runic code that held him together was dissolving, his atoms disassociating, reverting to pure matter. Starstuff disassembled. Fusion ticking in reverse. Oxygen to carbon, helium to hydrogen. Protons. Electrons. Null.

He coughed reflexively. It came out as a wet squelch. 

The knife found his heart next. It wasn't a clean cut. Wasn't sharp like metal. It grated. 

He grabbed his assailant's arm, trying to pry loose. The blade twisted. Something snapped. 

Another stab into his side. There was no pain, no adrenaline to mask it. Just pure animal instinct willing him to live. He roared, guttural. 

Jayce rammed into the would-be assassin with his shoulder, and they went sprawling across the clinic, upsetting a trolley and scattering implements. He scrambled to stand. The figure was faster, slashing upwards. Jayce covered his face. Blood splashed all the way to the ceiling. 

“NO!” Viktor reached out from the floor, wishing for strength, wishing for speed, wishing for magic. 

A surprised grunt came from above. The assailant’s hand was poised high, knife pointing down, ready to impale Jayce in the spine. Vines wrapped around their wrists. 

The moonlight faded as the arcaniformes crowded tight towards the figure, spiralling, branching, inclining, jutting, blossoming, a jungle ready to swallow them whole. 

The figure whirled, slashing through the plant growth easily. Their eyes flashed pure hatred when they turned back around. 

Footsteps sounded in a nearby corridor. Lights began to creep under door frames. Outside, across the courtyard, windows illuminated. Help was coming. 

As quick as they had appeared, the assassin spun on their heel and dashed for the door outside, slamming it on its hinges and vanishing into the night. 

Stillness. Distant, confused shouts. The scent of ozone and burning. Jayce’s hands cradling Viktor. Oh, hello. 

“Fuck,” Jayce muttered, shoulders heaving. “Not again, not again. You can’t do this again.”

“I am alive,” Viktor said. 

“Are you sure ?” Jayce was creeping towards hysterics, which was warranted considering Viktor was melting—that couldn’t be good for his health. 

“You are bleeding and I am not. Help me stand?” 

Stunned, Jayce obeyed. Viktor tensed halfway, clutching at his chest. The wounds on his neck and side had stopped oozing, solidifying like cold wax. But the wound in his breast still wept. 

“Something is stuck,” he said. “There is a… burning. It’s— ah!” He’d prodded himself to try and identify the sensation. It wasn’t pain, no, but instead a wrongness so staggering it stalled his mind. 

Jayce’s broad hands hovered over Viktor’s chest. “There’s something in there? Like a bullet?” 

“It couldn’t be, not exactly.” But the longer it sat there, the worse it became.

“Stay still,” Jayce said, rooting around the floor until he found a set of tweezers. Splaying one hand over Viktor’s sternum to keep the hole taut, he gingerly inserted the pincers. More to himself than Viktor, he said, “It’s just like when we got stuck with shrapnel after the second run of the rune matrix exploded.”

“There’s no pain,” Viktor said, an urgency edging his words. “I’d rather you remove it quickly than waste time on my personal comfort. Triage, Jayce.” 

“I’m trying!”

“Just get it out!”

With a jerk and an obscene, wet sound, Jayce pried loose a piece of something oil-black the size of a thumbnail and held it up to examine. They both stared. 

“What is that,” Viktor said. The panic had left him the instant the foreign body was removed. 

“Is it… stone?” 

“Perhaps bismuth.” 

Jayce dropped it into a metal tray. “But you’re not dying?”

Like the other wounds, the hole above Viktor’s heart had stilled. “Not actively.” 

“Vik, you… you scared the shit out of me.” 

It took a moment for his internal processes to grasp what had just happened. This body was built for battle, for calm and calculation, a tool. Viktor wasn’t a violent man. The lack of a proper internal, physical reaction to the attempt on his life created a dissonance that made his head swim.

He gazed at the shard, contemplated picking it up, felt a wave of repulsion sweep over him. The panic threatened its return, and he looked away. “Whatever that is, it is anathema to me.” 

“What just happened?” Jayce ran his hand through his hair and gestured at Viktor’s wounds. “Will you be able to heal from those?” 

“I sense yes, though it may take some time.” That was one aspect of this body that Viktor would never begrudge: its repairability. “Despite the effect that blade had on me, that attack didn’t seem especially… purposeful. We’ve been back barely two days. I don’t necessarily blame them, but who would want me dead so soon? Who would even know that I’m here to be killed?” 

Jayce frowned, turning towards the door that led to the rest of Terrace Hall. Lights were on in nearly every window now, the movement of persons plainly audible, yet no one had come to check on them. The realization dawned on him just as a horrified scream broke through the night. 

“They weren’t here for you.”

—

The residents of Terrace Hall gathered in the east courtyard, cater-cornered from the infirmary. The Hall was large, but even so its overnight population was startling—those boarding at the dormitories, municipal staff, clerical workers who'd fallen asleep at their desks, a random assortment of children, a substantial contingent of revenants. Many shivered in the night air. All whispered. A few cried.

Even though Viktor was now the more imposing presence, he and Jayce fell into old patterns, Jayce acting as the wedge to part through the crowd while his partner followed behind. They emerged from the crush of bodies to see where the flashlight beams were focused: up the broad trunk of a yellow-leafed gingko. 

Jayce sucked in a breath through his teeth. His sudden stop caused Viktor to bump into him. 

The mangled limbs and stressed tendons of a revenant stretched across the trunk, secured in place with soiled rope. There wasn't a single joint that wasn't misarticulated or torn, belying a careful, artful patience behind the malice. In contrast, the head was completely decapitated. 

Red paint splashed a message across the torso and down over the trunk: 

IF IT CANNOT BLEED IT CANNOT LIVE

The saturated red and the harsh shadows cast by the flashlights almost succeeded in obscuring the scraps of a purple dress that hung off the body. Almost. 

“Anthy,” someone whispered, horrorstruck. “Oh my god.” 

Jayce staggered back, groping blindly to grab onto Viktor’s arm. “That’s… that’s a child. I met her. She’s…” 

“What is the meaning of this?” Viktor muttered. 

Glancing around, no one knew. 

“I can fix her,” Viktor said. “A body is just a body. This is well within the scope of my abilities.”

A gasp rippled through the crowd. “Her hand! Her arm!” Several pointed. 

The revenant’s right arm had vanished up to the elbow. No, not vanished. It was disappearing into the bark of the tree, the gingko’s crackly bark breaking apart and overtaking Anthy’s broken limbs. 

“It’s… assimilating her?” Edaphoecotropism , a helpful part of his brain told him. “Oh, absolutely not.” 

Carefully, he pushed Jayce aside and broke through the front of the crowd, clambering up the gnarled roots that spilled across the flagstones. He dragged his fingers along the wood as he went. 

The arcaniformes in the clinic had listened to him. They’d listen to him again. He’d make them. 

“Stop this,” he ordered, plunging his will and his consciousness deep into the tree. Immediately, he met resistance. It wasn’t a head-to-head fight—he couldn’t detect another presence. Instead, it was like battling against the sea. 

Anthy’s elbow disappeared, both her ankles following. The bark crept over the stub of her neck, inching around the splayed joints of her fingers. The ropes were already gone. 

“I said stop this!” Viktor said. He reached the trunk of the tree and slammed his hands beneath the girl’s broken form. “You will give her back! I must fix her!” 

The roiling form of the gingko lapped eagerly at his palms. 

Viktor reached deep into his core, unlatching every safeguard he could find. Power thrummed. Yes, this was what he was meant for. This, exactly this, nothing else. Focus. Just focus. 

“She is not yours,” he heard himself say. “You will give her back. I can save her. She will live.” 

His hands sunk into the tree. So be it. 

Light danced. Viktor couldn’t tell if it was real or only in his imagination.

And yet the gingko, the titan arcaniforme, persisted. Anthy’s waist was gone. Half her face eaten. The Machine Herald’s body went numb in sympathy, patches of dead nerves springing up to match. 

Viktor wrenched his hands free, scrambling at the bark clinging to Anthy’s legs, prying hopelessly at the stubborn growth. “You are not hearing me! She is not dead! You stupid, brainless tree!”

“Viktor!” Jayce was to his left, gripping the trunk for balance. His fingers searched for purchase in digging Anthy free, but then he paused, changed tact. “Viktor, you need to stop!”

“I can fix her!” he protested. 

“You’re destroying yourself!” Jayce ripped Viktor’s arms away from the tree. He was strong. So strong. Or was Viktor…

His shape had thinned, magic and metal and flesh burned away to fuel his efforts. Strands of light peeled from him like smoke. His wounds had widened, sparking and charred like overwrought filaments. Matter dripped onto the tree roots. 

“I don't care ,” Viktor said. It was more of a plea than a statement. 

But when he next looked up at the tree, the broken body was gone, leaving nothing behind but a memory burned into his mind. 

—

At the heart of Terrace Hall sat the war room. Well, the sign above the door had read “Meeting Room” at one point in time, but someone had taken spray paint to the plaque and redubbed it the “WAR Room”, and no one had yet scrubbed it clean. 

Given that night's events, Viktor appreciated the added dramatism. It only seemed appropriate.

The war room took up two stories. The first floor housed a long table that ran the length of the room with smaller tables to either side. Random books, belongings, and even boardgames were scattered here and there, betraying the room's frequent use as a common room. Coats draped forgotten over chairs. A disused hoverboard leaned in the corner. 

The second floor consisted of a wrap-around balcony that looked down onto the first floor, turning the room into an amphitheater of sorts. Rather than chairs and tables, the balcony was cluttered with plush seats, couches, and stools. 

This was all well and good, but Viktor could've done without the audience. While it wasn't a full house, the second floor was half filled with citizens of the Entresol, the Terrace, and the township of New Zaun, which he'd been told colonized the west shore of the Pilt after the Sump flooded. He could even pick out a few Pilties among the crowd.

“This is how we do things,” Ekko had said. “The doors stay open. Besides, after your stunt in the courtyard, everyone from here to the ports will know you're here. News travels.”

Ekko led the meeting, flanked by a human woman and a vastaya man who each wore a pauldron uniform to his—a bear and a snarling lizard, respectively.

Only a few other clans were immediately identifiable. A collection of merchants, a huddle of revenants. Vi sat to Ekko's right, unaffiliated save for the Enforcer's jacket flung carelessly over her shoulder, the badge half-hidden by the way it folded.

“Right,” Ekko said, addressing the room, “let's start out with a few things that aren't up for discussion. We aren't here to speculate on shit we don't know about yet. What happened was a tragedy—” 

“It was an attack!” someone shouted from the balcony. 

“Yes, granted. It was an attack. Because of that, we are locking down Terrace Hall at night for the foreseeable future, and we'll have the Firelights double their neighborhood patrols until we have a better handle on things.” 

More shouts: “What about an investigation?” “This was a targeted act of hate, and—!” “Stretching our fuckin’ resources—!” “—Just a damn doll after all.”

“We're coordinating with Piltover Enforcers to look into this,” Ekko said. 

This only stirred the crowd more. “That'll take a dog's age,” someone heckled. 

Vi slammed a fist on the table. “Hey! Boots on the ground don't move as fast as your damn mouths. Any help we get from across the bridge will be a fucking miracle, but we take those.” 

“What Liaison Officer Kiramman means,” Ekko said, “is that we need to focus on what we can accomplish right now. There will be a service, of course. Dulce has already volunteered to organize it.”

He gave a formal nod to the representative revenant at the table. Dulce held himself proudly, an intricate arrangement of silk scarves spilling across his shoulders to mimic hair. He answered Ekko with a graceful raise of his hand. 

“In the meantime, we help each other. We care for anyone who needs it. We stand strong, together.” 

One of the merchants leaned back in her chair. “Are we not going to address the rustbucket in the room?” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder to where Viktor stood in attendance, lurking in the shadow of the balconies. 

Of course, this moment had been inevitable. It was why Ekko had asked Viktor to be there in the first place. 

Viktor had been prepared to come clean with his identity, but once all eyes in the room turned to him, his courage failed him. It was such a childish thing, to shrink from the spotlight. What’s worse, he didn’t have Jayce to hide behind today—-they’d decided to keep his presence a secret for now, being the more historically significant figure. One card on the table at a time. 

Haltingly, he stepped into the light, hunching his shoulders to make himself smaller. He’d spent the few hours between the incident in the courtyard and this meeting healing his wounds with the arcaniformes, but the damage was still plainly visible. He suspected the plants could sense his bitter thoughts and responded with pettiness in kind. 

He waited for realization to set in once the sun from the windows fell across his mask. Someone here knew him. Someone would condemn him. 

“You speak, right?” the merchant asked. 

“I do, yes.” 

No reaction. “And so…. you are?”

All the pain he’d caused, and yet the universe allowed him the privilege of being forgotten. It was more than he deserved.

“He’s new!” Orianna leaned over the balcony railing. “He’s only just awoken, so he doesn’t have a name yet, but I will vouch for him.” She caught Viktor’s gaze and flashed him a thumbs-up. 

“You vouch for every nut-and-bolt revenant that wanders through here,” someone called. 

“I vouch for him with my life!” Orianna insisted. 

“For whatever that’s worth,” came another scathing remark.

“Order!” Ekko said. 

“I will vouch for him as well.” Dulce stood from his seat, addressing the room and pulling the focus from Viktor. 

“Of course you will,” the merchant woman said. “All you porcelains are a hive mind.” 

“I would be careful making remarks like that,” Dulce shot across the table, “considering the disgusting crime that is not even a day old, the very crime that has called this council to order. Someone might get the wrong idea about your intentions, Parly.” 

“I’m just asking for some transparency in all this. He’s clearly not your everyday rev, and he had magic spitting out of him at the seams. Was he a mage in his past life or what?” 

“That’s his discovery to make,” Dulce said evenly. He turned to Viktor, lowering his voice. “You’ll have to forgive her; she has a bit of Bilge in her blood.” 

“What’s that?” Parly snapped.

“Nothing at all, esteemed Guild Leader. I was only assuring our newest community member of my support for his wellbeing.” 

“Opinions aside,” Ekko said, “we’re not here to vote on our new friend’s right to be here. Everyone has a right to be here until they prove otherwise. I move to conclude this emergency meeting, unless someone else at this table has something to say about the issue at hand .” 

No one did. 

“Great. Then this council will reconvene for its scheduled bi-monthly meeting in eight days. You’ve got a problem with shit, you come to me. Dismissed!” 

And then everyone was moving, bustling, discussing logistics and lunch plans, policy and paperwork, relaxing into the seats on the second floor or sweeping away through the large double doors on the first. 

Dulce shared a glance with Viktor when he passed. “Thank you.”

“For what? Should I not be thanking you?”

“For Anthy,” he said. “For trying.” 

And as the room gradually emptied, Viktor stood stock still, with each and every revenant passing him by with a nod, a gesture, a brush of fingers over his cloak. He couldn’t put a name to what he felt at that moment. Somehow, he doubted this failing had anything to do with the limitations of his new body.

—

Thirty-two years and no one had bothered to put locks on the outflow dam to the east of the Fissures. It was just as easy to break into as it had been when Viktor was still a child, then a student, then a grown man. 

He bonked his head on the roof of the keyhole-shaped opening. Someone behind him laughed. 

“Sorry,” Orianna said. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You followed me,” Viktor said. 

“Hm! Yes. That one I did mean to do.” 

Viktor moved aside as Orianna sat and dangled her legs over the edge. Below them, almost too close for comfort, the newly risen banks of the Pilt formed a swamp. Blots of duckweed and reeds grew over what had once been the roofs of homes. Dragonflies whizzed through the air.

Viktor sat on the ledge formed by one side of the keyhole. “I assume there is something you wish to ask me.” 

“My dad used to tell me stories about you.” Orianna kicked her feet back and forth, keeping her toes perfectly pointed like a swimmer. 

“About me,” Viktor echoed.

“He said you saved my life.” 

The connection came immediately, a final puzzle piece aparating into place. The girl in the absinthe-green glass coffin. It was the barest snatch of a borrowed memory, witnessed in the midst of a negotiation nestled within a mounting conflict. 

Orianna turned back to look at him. Yes, there were whispers of that girl still there, in the brows and especially the nose. But she’d modified the shape of her face to seem older. There was less baby fat, and brass etchings added sharp lines. The mold of her metal hair was wholly new. 

“Your father was Dr. Reveck.”

“Hm.” This time it wasn’t a tic but instead a true, thoughtful hum. “I’d prefer if you’d keep that between us, though. And I don’t have a surname. I just thought you deserved to know who I am since I know who you are.” 

“What did your father tell you exactly?”

“He said that you were smart and ambitious, and that you made the mistake of going topside.” 

“I made a lot of mistakes.” 

“I was thinking about it,” Orianna said, “and we might be the only two revenants who remember being human.” 

“Could we be considered true revenants then?”

Orianna flicked a pebble into the water below. “Sure. The arcaniformes like us, we don’t need to eat or sleep, and everyone sees us as, well, you know.” 

“I got called a rustbucket today. That was a first.” 

“You don’t exactly follow the design conventions. I mean, you really went wild with your whole superhuman aesthetic. Some people might say it’s even a bit, I don’t know, narcissistic?” 

It was a blessing that the Herald’s mask lacked the ability to pout. “I like it. Aesthetically. I do not enjoy its legacy.”

“That was one thing Father made sure I knew. I probably know more about the Battle of the Hexgate than Callista does. She’s the only one besides you that I’ve told about where I come from.” A beat. “Sorry.” Orianna drew her knees up to her chest. “I’m dancing around what I wanted to say.” 

Viktor waited patiently. 

A deep breath and then, “I don’t deserve to be alive.” 

Before Viktor could find something to say, she continued. “I’ve had thirty years of being myself to understand this. A lot of people suffered and died so that I could exist. You were one of those, kind of.”

“You did not ask for that,” Viktor said. He’d knelt, arranging himself cross-legged. 

“And you didn’t mean to hurt anyone either,” Orianna said. “And I know this because my father told me so, and because I’ve seen how you act around the revenants. You’re a good person. And maybe we should both be dead, but we’re not, and now I feel like the worst thing I could do is waste what I have just because I don’t deserve it.” 

“I have no intention of wasting what life I have been given.” 

Orianna laughed lightly. “I’m not trying to lecture you. I just had this hope that maybe you would understand.” 

“Because we are both on stolen time?”

“My father wouldn’t let me die, either. He talked a lot about how I had to survive, but it wasn’t survival. It was just maintenance . I didn’t get to choose.” 

“I see. It is a semantic problem.”

“But there is a difference.” 

A gust blew across the water, refracting sunlight off the rainbow film of oil that clung to the surface. 

“I spent most of my life waiting to die,” Viktor said. “It wasn’t a tragedy, merely a matter of fact, and I didn’t lay down and accept it. Not always. But I would forget that the people around me hadn’t come to terms with it, didn’t know that I was a dead man walking. Eh, a dead man limping, perhaps.” 

“Hm! Semantics.” 

“Jayce, he…”

“He really loves you.” 

Another gust of wind blew in, causing the vines to rustle. 

Viktor sighed. “Yes, he does.” 

“You don’t owe him reciprocation,” Orianna said. “That sounds mean, but I think it’s a good thing. It means more if you choose.” 

“I may have been choosing him for longer than even I know.” 

“Aaaaww!” Orianna said, teasing but genuine in her sentiment.

“Hush. I wanted to ask, is your father—”

“He died.” Orianna let one leg dangle back over the edge, resting her chin on the opposite knee. “When the Sump flooded, he couldn’t make it out in time. That’s one of the reasons for building the Bathus. I want to give him a proper burial, well, whatever’s left of him. I know he was a bit of a shit, but he was still my dad.” 

Viktor nodded. “You’re already well aware that I have my own reasons for aiding your project, but I will help you see your father into the ground.” 

“Thank you.” She stood and turned back towards the inner workings of the outflow dam. Viktor assumed that she wished to leave. He stood, too, but as soon as he rose, Orianna wrapped her arms around him in a hug. “Is it weird that you’re sort of my big brother?” 

“This is why medical donors stay anonymous, to avoid awkward attachments.” 

“Hm! That’s not a no.” 

“No,” Viktor said, rubbing the girl’s back, two of a kind stood together, “I suppose it isn't.”

Chapter Text

“Are you sure this was part of a knife?” Callista asked Jayce, holding up the black shard between her fingers. Under the glaring light of the table lamp, the shard looked more like a lump of charred wood, gnarled into a tight knot. 

They sat opposite each other, hunched over a worktable in the youngest Kiramman’s workshop beneath Terrace Hall. The space was little more than a cramped box that smelled of soil, mist, and—Jayce suppressed a shiver—cave. Not that anyone else would label it as such. Maybe he could convince Atlas to light a pan of machine grease on fire like a candle to flush out the smell. 

The workshop's windows looked out onto the bottom of the Entresol, level with the waterline. Jayce understood why Callista was so adamant on building her submersible here. Fragments of sheeted brass leaned against the wall, and a bulbous, metal skeleton occupied a majority of the floor space—that was all the progress that had been made thus far on the Bathus.

There were other bits of machinery too: a gutted water pump, boxes of gears and wires, and several unidentifiable, notched half-moons of forged metal the length of Jayce’s arm. 

The true purpose of the workshop was shunted off to one side, shelves of thin glass plates stacked near to the ceiling, illuminated by violet light. 

Atlas was currently in the process of reorganizing even more of his work into the cramped corner. “Why am I the only one doing any moving here?” he asked. 

Callista leaned back from the workbench that she and Jayce were parked, dangling a jewelers lens between her fingers. “Excuse you, we are working . Perhaps you missed it, but someone was murdered last night, and this little rock is our best clue for pinning down a perpetrator.” 

“You know,” Atlas said, “if you two are so concerned with cracking this case, why aren't you at the council meeting? Ori went.”

“We both know nothing actually gets done at those things. We've got work to do here. ”

“But does here have to be in my workshop?”

“Stop being such a pissant. People are in danger.” 

“And your amazing powers of deduction are going to be the thing to save them?”

“You could help, too. Use your ‘amazing powers’, whatever those are.”

Atlas dropped the crate he was carrying, creating a cacophony of metallic foley work. “God, you are just the fucking worst, you know that?” Barely a second later, he disappeared through a side door that led out to a canal dock, slamming it behind him. 

The sound echoed through the room. 

“What?” Callista said when Jayce cast her a look. Her tone carried the petulance of someone who knew they were in the wrong but weren’t ready to admit it. “He’s just wound up about his project not working out.”

Jayce raised a judgemental eyebrow. “You seem pretty wound up, too.” 

“That’s because I am! Anti-revenant sentiment isn’t anything new, but it’s never looked like this before.” She dropped the shard onto the table. A piece of it flaked off and she swore. “Ori’s had paint thrown on her before. It got into her joints and dried, and I had to help her clean it out. It took hours and a lot of sandpaper and steel wool. I just keep thinking, what if that hadn’t been paint? What if it was something caustic? What if they skipped that entirely and went right to bullets or, or… whatever this stupid rock is!” 

Jayce took a deep breath, his hands clenched together under the table. “No, I get it.”

“Crap.” Callista cringed. “I’m dying over hypotheticals and meanwhile your friend is actually hurt. Sorry.” 

“We’re all stressed.” A monumental understatement. What Jayce wouldn’t give for a roaring forge and glowing steel right then. As it was, if he gave his thoughts any quarter they’d overwhelm him and he would have to start punching the walls, which was nowhere near as productive. “I’m going to see if your brother is alright.” 

Callista blew a frustrated raspberry. “Knock yourself out. I’ll be here, interrogating the rock.” 

The docks that lined the canal had once been balconies. The ever industrious and inventive citizen of Zaun has connected them with wooden bridges and ladders, stringing laundry lines and electric wires through the air. 

Atlas sat in a window alcove, picking polish off his nails. 

Jayce cleared his throat in greeting, and when Atlas didn’t tell him to shove off, he leaned against the wall. The brace he’d received from the doctor wasn’t a perfect fit, so sturdy, vertical surfaces were his new best friend. 

“I just need a second to cool off,” Atlas said. 

“That’s smart,” Jayce said. “Callista said you were having problems with a project?”

“Of course I am, just look at it.” Atlas waved a limp hand towards the water lapping sluggishly at the balcony supports. Up close, Jayce could make out distinct oily globs in over five colours, a thick film of phlegm-yellow muck beneath it, and a current of gray, tar-like matter honing in on its territory.

“Right…” Jayce said, not following. 

“Jubilee is in less than a month. It’s the first one since the Second Sinking, and while Piltover will be partying like always, Zaun is going to hold its biggest funeral in the last two hundred years. I wanted to have the bluebird algae ready so that we could have at least one good thing.” 

“Bluebird algae,” Jayce said. “That’s what you’re growing on your shelves?” He’d stolen a peek at the truncated growbed set-up when he’d first arrived with Callista—the plates were labeled one through a hundred and twenty-one. Over a hundred iterations.  

“Well, it’s not bluebird until it works, but that’s what I’ve been calling it. Ekko gave me this project. He’s the one who started us using the arcaniformes to clean out the factory smog, said he got the idea from an old friend, but he never says who. I’m pretty sure he’s just being humble.” 

“So,” Jayce said, sliding down to sit at the base of the wall, “the algae is supposed to absorb the chemicals in the water.” 

“Yeah, metabolize what it needs to build more cell structures and expel the waste as harmless byproduct. In theory.” 

“Okay, so here’s what’s going to happen,” Jayce said. “I’m going to ask you all the obvious questions you already know the answers to, because I’m the idiot here, and you’re going to explain it to me like I’m stupid, which I am, and hopefully somewhere in there you’ll figure out what you’re missing.” 

Atlas scoffed. “You don’t have anything better to do?”

“You laugh, but Viktor and I got a lot done this way.” And Jayce could really use a distraction, an opportunity to feel useful. 

Atlas did a little head-shake-eyeroll that was such a pitch perfect imitation of Caitlyn it made Jayce’s heart squeeze. “Alright, bring on the stupid,” he said.

Jayce observed the canal. “There’s all sorts of plants already growing out of that water, so why is it so hard to get the algae to do it?”

“The reeds and water lilies grow in spite of the chems, not because of them. Duh.” 

“Okay, that was a softball. Then what’s the difference between the factory gasses and the canals that makes it so hard for arcaniformes to grow?”

“There’s too many different pollutants. I can get the bluebird to adapt to one or two chemical elements, usually if they have similar makeups, but then something else kills it. The arcaniformes are normally incredibly adaptable, but maybe I’m asking too much of it. It needs to be able to eat everything, spread everywhere.”

Jayce imagined it, the bright blue algae overtaking the waterways, the estuary, the river, the ports… clinging to the hulls of ships… coating foreign docks… dominating shores and cities, roadways and people, eating everything, everything —

“How far do the plants grow?” 

“Like, in trials?” 

“No,” Jayce said. “Not in trials. In the city. How far do the arcaniformes grow naturally?” 

“Their natural range seems to center on the Memorial Archive, actually, but the undercity makes more use of them than Piltover. They’re not invasive, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“How?” The question fell from Jayce’s mouth like a stone. “ How is the Arcane not invasive?” 

“Uh,” Atlas said, sensing that their thought exercise had taken a turn. “It just isn’t? Listen, I do biotech, not ecology.”

“And I did engineering, not ethics.” 

“Okay, your deficiency sounds worse than mine.” 

“If they wanted to spread, they would,” Jayce muttered. “Thirty years is too long. Maybe the natural range is a leftover command from the wild runes?”

Atlas leaned out from the alcove, watching how Jayce hunched into himself. “Arcaniformes are like plants. They don’t want anything beyond somewhere to root, feed, and go to seed. Just because they have a biological affinity for magic doesn’t mean they outcompete all other lifeforms.” 

“But you’re sure that it’s not spreading?” 

Atlas stood from the alcove, stretching. “If it means so much to you, I could go with you to the city limits and we can hunt for the bounds of its natural range. I’ve actually got this theory that the arcaniformes are similar to the flora of the First Lands, but that’s been hard to look into. There isn’t a lot of widely available documentation coming out of the islands.” 

The acrid tang of the canal had crawled into Jayce’s throat, threatening to mix with his stomach acid and turn him inside out. The scent of water on stone. Insect chittering. A metallic scrape. 

He raked a hand through his hair, grasping a clumsy fistful until his scalp sang with pain. 

“Or it might not be about a magic boundary range,” Atlas said, hooking his ankle over the bottom rung of a ladder that led topside. He watched Jayce out of the corner of his eye. “It could be that the arcaniformes are hyper-specialized, or there’s a keystone species we haven’t identified.” 

A beat. Then Atlas burst out laughing. Jayce stared at him like he was a creature that had just wrenched itself from the Void. 

“It is ecology! Stars alive, I’m such a goddamn idiot!”

“You—” Jayce’s voice was a croak, and he cleared his throat. “You figured it out?” That’s right, they’d been talking science. 

“Probably,” Atlas said. “Maybe. I don’t know. But I’ve been trying to force bluebird to do everything I need it to, but it can’t. At least, not on its own. I need a system .” He snapped his fingers as he thought. “Three or four complimentary species, each with their own niche. That might work. It won’t look as pretty, but…” 

Atlas traced the winding walls of the canal with his eyes, mapping the spurts of plant growth, the pipes, the tree roots. 

“I guess I got so wrapped up in what bluebird meant, it kept me from seeing the big picture.”

“Tunnel vision,” Jayce said. “It happens.” 

Atlas assessed Jayce with a cool eyed stare—another Kiramman legacy feature. “So, we’re going to go map the bounds of the arcaniformes’ natural range now. How good are you walking on that leg?”

Jayce frowned. “If I could find a crutch, I guess I could use the practice.” 

“That works for me.” Atlas all but kicked in the door to his workshop. 

Callista fell over herself in surprise. She was in the middle of scribbling notes and tacking them to a ratty corkboard, using gardener’s twine to mark connections. Jayce wondered idly if he should start placing bets on which of Cait’s traits would emerge from her children next.

“What are you—?” Atlas said. “No, actually? I don’t care. We’re going on a field trip.” 

“What?” Callista squawked. “I know we've hit a wall with the stone, but I think I'm onto something here. And I pulled a dossier of your old schematics from the archive,” she told Jayce. “I was hoping you could walk me through the resonance stabilizers you used for compact energy generation. At least, I think that's what it's called.”

Jayce swallowed, mouth dry. “I'm not really up for it right now.”

Atlas hadn't wasted any time and was rooting through his shoved-aside belongings to pull out a canvas bag, journal, pencils, and an ostentatiously large pair of scissors. “You can come too, Cal.” 

He slid across the room and they exchanged hushed words. Jayce only caught “help out”, “break”, “not far”, and “Mum's friend”. 

Callista capitulated, giving her brother an annoyed shove. “Fine. I'll get field snacks from the kitchen. Meet me in the foyer in five.” 

“Yes ma'am, cap'n cap'n!” 

To someone without siblings, Jayce was surprised by how quickly they bounced back. 

Callista packed away her conspiracy board as Atlas led Jayce to the stairwell that ascended into Terrace Hall. 

Something hit Jayce in the back of the head. “Ow!” 

Callista had shot a hair tie at him, her hand still held in a finger gun pose. She used it to gesture to her own ponytail and then at him. “For you. You need to do something about that rat's nest.”

—

As the merry band traversed the Promenade and along the edge of the transformed factory district, Jayce was reminded how much of an art good medical equipment was. 

The brace he'd borrowed was sturdy and rust-free, which alone was an upgrade from his previous one, but it fit strangely, pulling at his ankle. He had to concentrate on not taking too large of steps or else the knee joint would lock slightly, the bottom strut scraping against his shin. And his ankle still hurt. 

The crutch they'd dug out of a supply closet was similarly imperfect. Besides being clunky, ugly, and conspicuous, it didn't reach all the way to the ground with the way Jayce walked naturally. He had to lean forward awkwardly as they traveled. 

It was frustrating, sure, but Jayce kept it to himself. It made sense. If a piece of artifice was meant to supplement something as complex as motion, it would need to be tailor-made, specific like every other part of the body. He regretted how annoyed he'd been when Viktor kept sending back the drafts Jayce had drawn up for Viktor's crutch so long ago. 

He was so occupied with sketching mental blueprints for his own upgrades that he nearly missed it when the road under his feet changed to gravel. Actually, he only missed it for a second. Then the foot of his crutch lost traction and he nearly spilled face-first into the dirt. 

Fuck. This was awful . Jayce grit his teeth as he picked himself up. Maybe the doctor had been wrong—it wasn't a malunion, and his bone was just taking its time. He'd wake up in a week and everything would be back to normal. Like magic.

“Are you okay?” Callista asked, offering her hand. 

Jayce didn't take it, grinding his crutch into the gravel to better anchor it as he pulled himself upright. “I'm fine.”

“This is it,” Atlas said, spreading his arm to greet the grassy field that spilled out to the south of Old Zaun. The eastern shore was just visible over the gentle roll of the hills, and the western slither of the Pilt extended into the distance, the cluttered buildings and shipping port of New Zaun like a vivid, gunked up paint palette. 

While Atlas trudged ahead into the field, Jayce turned around to face the cityscape that towered behind them. From the overlook at the Memorial Archive, he’d been able to study the twin city-states like a map. From the outskirts gazing up, the grand edifice of Piltover climbed so high that its spires all but scraped the sun. 

Jayce didn’t think of himself as egotistical, but a twinge of bitterness found him nonetheless. The world had continued. Piltover had continued. It didn’t need him or Hextech. He’d dedicated his entire life to improving the city, and now he was staring at the solid, shining, steel-and-gold proof that he’d barely mattered at all. In a world where Viktor hadn’t interrupted him, would everyone else have been better off?

“How's the elastic treating you?” Callista asked, sidling up to him. She had a folder of schematics held in one hand, a finger marking her place. 

“I feel like a show pony,” Jayce said. He just barely had enough hair to tie back, and it stuck out in a pathetic tuft. “I guess that suits me, though. Did they put that in your history books, how I was just another pretty face that the council liked to trot out at parties?” 

Callista clapped the folder shut. “Pff, of course not. That sort of stuff doesn’t make for good Piltover propaganda.” 

“God. Do I want to know?”

“It’s not so bad. Harder to make you into the stuff of legends when you were in the papers and on calendars and stuff.” 

Jayce squinted. “Calendars?” 

“Feel free to jump in with any corrections, but you’re a scientist who wanted to bring magic to the masses, created Hextech, created the Hexgates, wanted good things. You gave politics a spin and did alright. You elevated House Talis to greater heights. And you were instrumental in the defense of Piltover during the Battle of the Hexgate, where you disappeared. You were martyred, sort of, got a few statues, a handful of roads named after you, a wing in my secondary school’s library thanks to your mum’s donation.”

“That’s… all true. Maybe a bit generous. And Viktor?”

“He’s your partner. He’s the logician and you’re the visionary. He doesn’t show up in a lot of pictures or press, so there’s a couple conspiracies about him, but none of them are interesting. He wanted to use Hextech to help Zaun, took it too far too fast. The Arcane seized control of his mind and drove him to evil. Does that track?”

“No, not all of it,” Jayce said, eyes fixed on the gleaming copper dome of the Memorial Archive, “but it’s… kinder than I thought it would be. We both meddled with things we shouldn’t have, and really, I was the first to do something I couldn’t take back. He wasn’t evil, but he did want to help Zaun. It was always about helping people for him.” 

Callista watched Atlas tromping through the grass, occasionally bending down to inspect the greenery and staking tiny coloured flags into the ground. 

“You’re Jayce Talis,” she said, “but everyone just calls Viktor ‘The Herald’. He’s a cautionary tale about not reaching too high.” 

“And what’s the lesson of my story?”

“To not trust blindly?”

Jayce’s nostrils flared. “Bullshit.” He had always trusted Viktor with his eyes wide open and never, never , had he regretted it. 

Callista flashed a sympathetic smile. “It’s actually rather predictable the way he’s portrayed across the river. I mean, you know that Piltover and Zaun are always tense with each other. Terrace Hall barely survives as a middle ground. Piltover wants to see Zaunites as simultaneously weak and scary, thus The Herald is a frail man who gave into his worst urges using powers he had no right to.” 

Jayce gripped his crutch until his knuckles went white. “That’s—”

“Bullshit, I know.”

“Viktor was— is! He’s brilliant! I was the one who unleashed the Arcane. I pushed us too far.” He laughed ruefully, running a hand down the right side of his face. The rat’s nest reappeared. “My name gets remembered, and he’s just, what? A boogeyman?” 

“I’m sorry,” Callista said limply. 

“You want to know something that’s definitely not in your textbooks?” Jayce asked. “I’m not a Talis by blood.” 

“Huh?”

“My mom had me before she married my father, and they never had another heir. Not that that stuff matters as much with minor houses, but I’m not really Piltovan. We came from a mountain valley in central Valoran.” 

“Well, you’re certainly Piltovan now.”

Jayce exhaled a laugh. “I don’t have much of a choice in that, do I?” The spires of the city across the river winked sunlight in answer.

Atlas trotted over. “I think I’ve nailed it down. Come take a look.” 

He led them to where he’d staked a series of little flags into the ground, connecting them with twine to form a series of lines running roughly west to east. 

“It’s all vascular plants out here,” he said. “We’ve got three species, one monocot that mimics grass and two dicots. One is a caltrop, the other is this clover.” He used the flat of his scissor blade to lift a dark purple, five-leafed clover leaf from the tangle of growth. “The clover is engineered—it acts as a souped-up nitrogen fixer. New Zaun uses it for farming. The caltrop is wild.” 

Atlas marched around the marked lines, pointing. “This line shows where the caltrop ends. The clover ends here, and the grass over here. There’s nothing environmentally that dictates why the population would drop off so suddenly, so there probably is a magical constraint.” 

“Does this help your project?” Jayce asked. 

“No,” Atlas said, packing his scissors away, “but I’ll leave the markers here. We can come check them again in a month to see if they’ve moved, or you can visit earlier if you’re so worried about the arcaniformes spreading.” 

“Oh,” Jayce said. “Thank you.” 

“It doesn’t hurt to be cautious. Cal and I have never lived in a world without them, so sometimes I forget they’re relatively new and unstudied. It’s just more fun to push things forward instead of being stuck in the past.” 

“I heard that!” Callista said. 

“Hmm? What’s that?” 

“You keep disparaging my field of study and I’ll stick you in the past!”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” 

Callista squared up like she intended to pummel her brother into his patch of carefully arranged flags, but then she pulled up short. “Something’s burning.” 

The boys joined her in glancing around, and Jayce’s eyes fixed on a wisp of gray smoke curling into the sky not too far away. 

Callista followed his gaze and squinted. “Who else would be out here?” 

The Kiramman siblings easily outran Jayce as the three of them jogged over the rise of a hill and down the other side. Neither looked back for him, and he didn’t completely blame them. 

Embers floated on the air. Charred, black scuff marks marred the dry grass. At the center of the razed earth, barely concealed between the two crumbling walls of a disused factory, stood a kid with olive skin and a short braid. 

“That’s Damian,” Atlas said. 

“The Noxian kid staying at Terrace?” Callista asked. 

“I think so.” 

Damian had his back to the group. He flexed his fingers and a gout of flame spurted from his palms, spreading in front of him in a motion that reminded Jayce of molten metal filling a mold. 

“Hey!” he called. “That’s a neat trick you’ve got there, but would you mind not setting the field on fire?”

Damian spun like he was spring loaded. His arms pulled defensively to his chest, his ears and face reddening. “What the hell?”

“You have fire magic,” Callista breathed. Then a light flicked on in her brain. “Wait, are you the one who burned your house down? You told Ekko it was Noxians.” 

Damian glared at her. He yanked down his shirt sleeves to cover the wrapped bandages that encircled his forearms. “Mind your own business.” 

“You shouldn’t lie about something like that. It’ll cause a lot of problems down the line.” 

“I wasn’t lying! Noxian spies broke into my house, tried to kidnap me, hurt Dad—” 

“But you’re the one who set everything on fire.” 

“What, you think those stupid, ugly barbarians can’t burn a house down by themselves? That’s all Noxus knows how to do.” 

Atlas rested a hand on his hip. “Aren’t you Noxian?” 

Damian glowered, sparks rippling at his feet. “I’m from Piltover. Blackgate is in Piltover . My dad is the only reason your dumb city hasn’t slid into the river like its lame twin.”

Callista grit her teeth. “You got something to say about the undercity, shrimp?” 

“Don’t pretend like you’re a real Zaunite,” Damian sneered. His voice took on a mocking lilt. “Everyone knows the Kiramman royals like to slum it with the sumprats before scurrying back to their palace across the bridge.”

“Okay, let’s just…” Jayce limped between the two youths, each growing progressively more feral by the minute. “Let’s stop before we do something we regret. No one needs to fight.” 

“What if I want to fight?” The ground at Damian’s feet was already blackened, but it began to steam with heat, lines of fire creeping from under the soles of his boots. 

Jayce gave the kid a dubious look, balanced his bad leg carefully, and did the only thing that felt natural: he swatted Damian’s ankle with the side of his crutch. 

“Ow!” Damian’s voice cracked in the middle, and his face went even redder. 

“I told you to cut it out,” Jayce said. 

To someone Damian’s age, there was something uniquely embarrassing about being chastised by a cripple with faster reflexes than him. A tuft of long grass blazed in earnest. The thin lines of fire continued to trace outwards. 

Atlas took a step forward. “He said—”

“I’m trying!” Damian snapped. He balled his fists. The lines only glowed brighter, expanding faster. Breathing fast, his eyes wild, the fire exploded to life. “I’m sorry!” He scrambled behind one of the factory walls, running as fast as he could back towards Zaun.

Callista darted after him. “Get back here!”

“Shit,” Atlas said. He threw his bag aside and stripped off his coat, using it to smother the nearest burning patch. “Oh, I am absolutely ratting him out to Ekko after this.” 

Jayce did his best to help snuff the flames, but the effort involved a lot of moving around, avoiding fire, and stomping. It was slow going. 

“Haven’t had rain in a few weeks,” Atlas muttered, the sentence ending in a cough. He covered his mouth with his elbow to breathe through his shirt sleeve. “This is bad.” 

At first, Jayce thought he felt the wind picking up, and he almost panicked—there was nothing worse for a fire than strong winds. But then he realized there was nothing buffeting him except around his legs. The air was perfectly still. 

The field, however, was moving like the sea. 

Dewy, golden grass rushed in as a tide, swirling over the flames, overwhelming the fire and turning it to smolder. Creeper vines and clover followed. Tiny purple flowers bloomed. And then, once only the barest hints of smoke remained, the growth twisted itself into the shape of a girl. She glanced about, almost lost, before focusing on the two boys. 

“He wasn’t very nice,” she said, her voice like the rustle of leaves. Then the growth fell apart and she was gone. 

Callista reappeared leaning over one of the low factory walls, thoroughly out of breath. “I couldn’t catch him. You two put out the fire?” 

Atlas just stared mutely at the tangle of plants. 

Jayce cleared his throat. “We might’ve had a little help.” 

—

“Well, that certainly was not my intention,” Viktor said when Jayce told him the theory they’d crafted on the trip back to Terrace. 

“Did you even know you could do that?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Viktor said, plucking a glass slide from the top shelf and handing it to Atlas—as the tallest of them by a mile, he’d been recruited to help the Kiramman siblings reorder the workshop now that both of them had breakthroughs to work on. “I admit, the coincidences are striking, but they could just be that, mere coincidence. Like Atlas said, there is no precedent for a revenant’s consciousness fusing with the arcaniformes, and we don’t know what Anthy looked like in life.” 

“Are you sure?” Callista asked, looking up from her draft paper. “You’re the one who…” She made a random, swooping magic gesture with her pencil. “So wouldn’t you know what they all looked like?”

“Learning their faces was not my concern.” 

She winced. “Harsh.” 

“Perhaps it was lost to history, but my philosophy rendered physical characteristics irrelevant.” 

“Which is why you made yourself six–foot tall and change.” 

Orianna tittered from her spot looking over Callista’s shoulder. “I told him something similar.” 

“It is for intimidation,” Viktor said stubbornly. 

The girls made the mistake of exchanging glances and promptly dissolved into stifled giggles.

Atlas held specimen plate number seventy-three to the light, squinting to assess the growth structure. “The thing with the gingko, you know, the arcaniformes subsuming a dead revenant? It makes sense. Not many revs have expired in the time since they came back, but once they’re buried their grave is absolutely swamped with vegetation a day later. The grass ghost is new, though. We’ll have to wait and see if she shows up again.”

“I will try to keep my influence to a minimum from now on,” Viktor said. “At least until we understand it better. No one else need be trapped in an existence they didn’t choose.” 

Where before Jayce would’ve laid a hand on Viktor’s shoulder, the most natural place for his touch to settle now was at Viktor’s back. “So, that was our day, but how was yours? How was the council meeting?”

“Informal,” Viktor said. “And loud. Orianna took me to see the revenant community in the Entresol. It is… it is about as large as I expected. Vander’s body was not there.”

Jayce opened his mouth to ask who in the world Vander was, but instead what came out was: “You went all the way down to the Entresol? Viktor, someone tried to kill you last night!” 

“Don’t worry, you will always be my first.” 

Caught off guard, all Jayce could do was sputter.

“And,” Viktor added, “if I recall, only one of you managed to get the job done.” 

Callista fell again into hysterics, Orianna covered her mouth to hide a non-existent grin, and Atlas only groaned. “Ugh, gross.” 

“It was a brief visit to the Entresol,” Viktor said. “There was no threat to my being. I know that you rarely visited the undercity in our time, but it is my home even decades later. I can take care of myself.”

The fight went out of Jayce nigh immediately. “But you’re still…”

Viktor held a hand to his slowly-closing neck wound. “Orianna called it ‘goopy’.” 

Jayce sighed. “You’re goopy.” 

“And I am becoming less so by the second. I ought to be fretting over you with your delicate skin and fallible blood, but see how I am restraining myself.” 

“How fuckin’ noble.” Vi leaned against the door to the workshop. She wagged a finger between Viktor and Jayce. “Both of you, stop talking about gross shit in front of my kids. They’ll get ideas. Anyways, I’ve got news.” 

“Good news?” Atlas asked apprehensively. 

Vi tried to fight her smile and failed miserably. “Ah, yup. Your mum’s gonna be here in a few days to prep for Jubilee, little man.” Then she fixed Jayce with a gleeful stare. “And you. You better start brainstorming how you’ll explain yourself to the two most terrifying women in Runeterra.”

Chapter Text

[i]

Viktor wasn’t aware his head was liable to fall off until Callista screamed. “Oh, god! It’s leaning backwards!”

Huh. He was seeing slightly more of the ceiling than usual. He grabbed the base of his skull and pulled it forward, feeling at the gash across his neck. He could tell it was healing, just very slowly, too slowly even. 

“I can’t work like this,” Callista said, her pencil clattering to the ground as she clapped a hand over her mouth. “I might be sick. Atlas, fix him.” 

Atlas looked over from where he was doling drops of Resin onto plant samples with a pipette. His eyes went wide. “Oh. Oh, that is not normal. Was that knife made out of asbestos or something?”

“Revenants can eat asbestos no problem, actually,” Orianna said. They all looked at her—Viktor turning his head manually—and she ticked. “Hm! Not me! My neighbor tried it on a dare once. The Firelights quarantined him for a month, though, poor sap.” 

“And how do you propose you about ‘fixing’ me?” Viktor asked, still holding his head steady. He was fairly certain it wouldn’t detach, but Callista was still staring at him, petrified.

“We can graft arcaniforme bark over your wounds like an organic cast, but I know the infirmary is running low at the moment, so we’ll have to fetch some from the source. There’s a growth not far down the canals.” He stood. “Stretch break.”

“You go on ahead,” Callista said. “I’m going to find some ginger beer and drink it until I stop wanting to throw up.” Jayce stuck his head into the workshop just as she reached the door. Without hesitation, she grabbed his arm, spinning him around, and marched the other way. “Come on, ginger beer. Don’t look at him or you’ll die. We’re getting ginger beer.”

Jayce, showing no resistance, let himself be pulled away. “Sure, okay.” He called down the hall. “We’ll be right back!” 

Viktor wondered absently if behaviour like that would make Jayce an excellent father or a terrible one.

“Let’s go.” Atlas lifted a hatchet from its hook on the wall, and they exited via the canal door. 

Viktor tended to walk along the Promenade unless Orianna brought him down to the salvaged parts of the Entresol, and hiking along the canal boardwalks made something inside him ache. These were the roads he knew, the storefronts he’d visited now half-sunk in murk, the back alleys he’d avoided now tangled with roots and detritus. 

Of course, Zaun had settled back around its new circumstances: market stalls replaced with boats full of produce, children leaping across ditches instead of shimmying through pipes. 

The growth Atlas pointed them to was a stand of straight-trunked trees with forked branches piercing just past the Promenade. Long vertical stripes of new and old growth ringed the bark, and Atlas struck at the wood with his hatchet. It stuck, barely. 

“These are the arcaniformes we've engineered to grow mostly the mineral dermis structure you revenants call skin,” he said. 

Viktor ran a finger over the bark. It had a soft, scratchy texture, peeling in spots like magnified butterfly scales, shining pale gold and brown. “I was wondering,” he said. “Speaking taxonomically, the suffix -forme is typically applied to orders of animals, is it not? Arcaniformes are plants.” 

“Yes, well, under a microscope they lack a rigid cell wall. And they have both pectin and collagen. They’re, like, the platonic ideal between a plant and animal cell with half their inner components made up of metallic elements. And they are not picky about which metallic elements.”

This news sent Viktor's thoughts into a tailspin, assessing implications, extrapolating hypotheticals, and weighing consequences at a rapid-fire pace, all of which culminated in a single, incredibly scientific conclusion: Oops.

“Okay, here goes nothing.” Atlas picked away the first curl of bark above the notch he’d cut. Then, gradually, he lifted it away. The bark peeled inch by inch, ascending the trunk until about two meters up where it broke away when Atlas tugged too suddenly. 

“Let me,” Orianna said. 

Atlas cut another notch and she peeled a strip all the way to the first forked branches. It fluttered to the boardwalk in a graceful ribbon. She patted the tree trunk while Atlas wound the strip into a coil. “Thank you, friend.” 

“Do all revenants communicate with the arcaniformes?” Viktor asked. 

“It’s not really communication,” Orianna said. “We’re kind to each other, and we’ll do each other little favours.”

Viktor pressed his palm to the tree. Are you sapient? Can you hear me? No response. 

“I’ve heard rumours that people are seeing your field ghost,” Orianna told Atlas. “She’s wandering around like she’s lost and disappearing if anyone tries to talk to her.” 

Viktor spent the trek back to Terrace deep in thought. The ghost girl. Anthy, like the arcaniformes and the other revenants, was his doing and therefore his responsibility. All his creations seemed to evolve beyond his grasp, and yet there must be some way he could catch up, to reach out, to help. 

Once they returned to the workshop, Atlas had Viktor settle on a chair so that he could work. He scored the undersides of the bark first before misting them with Resin and applying them to the wounds. 

“Don’t move until I say so,” Atlas said. “Your body and the bark need a minute to get to know each other.”

As he coiled up the remainder of the bark, Orianna asked, “May I have some?” Her steadfast, chipper tone wavered for a moment, almost embarrassed. “I couldn't say how, but my soles have worn through.”

“Again?” Atlas asked. “You need to stop dancing barefoot. You're not made of titanium.”

“Yes, but with shoes it doesn't—” 

“Doesn't feel right, I know. Here.” Atlas rummaged through a stack of boxes underneath his desk, pulled out one papered a pastel olive, and laid it in Orianna's lap. “I had these made for you, was going to give them to you for Jubilee, but, I mean, if you need them now…” 

Orianna lifted the box top and gasped, her hands fluttering to her mouth. “Atlas! You made these for me?”

“ Had them made. I'm not a cobbler. I just have money.”

Orianna held up what could only be described as steel-toed ballet shoes, a completely improbable combination that suited her perfectly. 

“I have to try them on,” she declared. 

“No, you don't! Your feet still need grafts.”

She sprang out of the chair, clutching the shoes to her chest. “Then I have to show Callista. Thank you, Atlas. I'm— these are magnificent.” And she bent down, pecked Atlas on the forehead best she could, and hurried out of the room. 

“I just said you need—!” Atlas watched her go, leaning back in his chair with a low sigh. 

“You are quite the gentleman,” Viktor said. 

“Yeah, well,” Atlas said. “Orianna is more of a girl's girl anyway. I just can't help myself.”

“Eh, I've known a couple gentlemen in my day. You're all like this. I'm afraid the only cure would be to rip out your heart entirely.” 

Atlas let his head tip over the back of the chair, his hair dangling. “Are you offering your services?”

Dead silence. 

He sat up. “What, am I not allowed to joke about that?” 

“Maybe once you work on your delivery.”

[ii]

The concentric rings, the way it spun, the runes—it looked too much like the Hexcore, but Jayce bit his tongue. Of course it looked similar. Not only were they attempting to harness the same power source, but the girls had iterated on his and Viktor’s work from three decades ago. Whatever survived to be stored in the Archive, anyways. 

“And what did you call this contraption?” he asked, lifting his welding mask. Orianna had given her best effort to welding the seams together, but she still had a long way to go—which meant that Jayce had a lot of lessons left to teach. 

“The Armillary,” Orianna said. She wore no mask, which Jayce had to keep reminding himself was fine, actually. Her eyes were inorganic, carved into her face. “Hexite crystals have become sort-of-a-little-completely illegal since your time, but the problem with the runestone is that it already has a command carved into it. So these runes on the inner four rings act to translate that command back into pure energy, and the outside rings give it new commands from there. We attach it to the Bathus and we’ve got ourselves an engine and a steering wheel.” 

Jayce walked around the equator of the Armillary. It stood nearly to his thigh depending on which way the rings aligned. The inner rings were covered by a sphere of reinforced glass, while the outer rings slid along its surface. A hatch opened in the glass, awaiting a power source. 

“And you control it… how?”

“With this!” Orianna slipped on a brown leather glove with a Hextech disc attached to the dorsal plane. 

“That’s Viktor’s.”

“Hm!” Orianna curled her fingers to show guilt and surprise. “Aw, dang. Callista said you wouldn’t recognize it. She got it out of the Archive. She’s really not supposed to, but it wasn’t being used for display, so she didn’t think anyone would miss it.”

“It’s from the prototype Hexclaw,” Jayce said. “Here, turn it over.”

Orianna flipped her hand palm-side up. 

Jayce pointed to where the leather had been hemmed at the wrist using copper wire. “We used an old pair of my gloves, but they didn’t fit Viktor so we sewed it up in a panic before our presentation.” 

“Is it alright that we reuse it?” 

Jayce took a moment to answer. In truth, he didn’t like any of the echoes of his old work surfacing in this new project. They felt like harbingers of repeated history. But this was different. The world had changed. He and Viktor had changed. And besides…

“We’re already using the runestone,” he said. 

Orianna used her gloved hand to sign a gentle smile across her face. “Speak of the devil.” 

Entering quietly, Callista clutched tight the ring box she used to house the runestone. “Are you ready?”

“Just a few more joins,” Jayce said. 

Viktor stood behind Callista like a vanguard. Jayce could imagine him walking in lockstep with the girl all the way from her office in the Memorial Archive to this very room. 

Orianna handed Callista a pair of goggles, and she and Jayce set back to work. Each flare of the blowtorch was like another tick of the clock, counting down until there was no more work to be done, no more adjustments to make or seams to check. 

Finally, Jayce removed his mask and sat back. “Okay. That’s it.” Only one thing left. It took him a moment to stand, having to work against the borrowed brace and its stiffness, but he couldn’t help but appreciate it, the last, futile stall. 

“Here.” Callista proffered the box. “Viktor said this was yours, so you ought to be the one to put it into place.” 

The box slipped into his hands, the velvet snagging against his calluses. He opened it. The blue crystal sparkled brilliantly. He picked it up. The carved channel of the rune pressed into his palm. 

He faced Orianna. “Take care of it, okay?”

“I will,” she said. 

He beckoned her forward, and after a second’s hesitation she complied, unsure. His arm outstretched, fist facing downwards. Orianna understood. She cupped her palms and the runestone fell, winking in the light, from Jayce’s grip. 

He exhaled. Just like that, it was out of his hands. The future of this world. How lucky he was to be the one to give it away.

[iii]

Jayce had put off fashioning a proper brace for his leg for a long time. Too long a time, Viktor thought. And he knew the piece that he currently wore had to hurt. 

“I'm taking measurements,” Viktor said, unprompted. 

Jayce looked up from where he was meditating over a cup of coffee. It was just them in the workshop, though surely that wouldn’t last long.

“Sure,” Jayce said, absently. 

Viktor retrieved a measuring tape and notebook and knelt at Jayce's feet. “Show me.” 

“Wait, what?” The coffee hadn't yet roused him, but this sudden douse of confusion certainly had. “Show you what?” 

“Your leg. The left one. I presume you still have it on you. Once we have measurements, we can start putting together a brace for you. Orianna has had materials sitting in the corner for days.” 

“I can do it myself,” Jayce said. 

“But clearly you have not. It is unlike you to put off work, especially fabrication.” 

“Any more objective statements you'd like to make about me?” 

Viktor studied him. “No, I believe I am done with my statements. Leg, please.” 

He worked upwards, sole, heel, and ankle measurements first. Despite being far from the broken bone, Jayce's ankle bothered him the most out of all his joints, likely a consequence of excess strain. 

Tape slithered, wrapped, pinched. Pencil made sharp, ticking scratches. 

“I don't need it,” Jayce said when Viktor moved to his knee. The hexclaw held the tape in place while Viktor wrote.

“The way you sigh at the mere sight of stairs says otherwise.” 

“I'm still healing.” 

Viktor hesitated before he spoke again. “Maybe so. But healing is a complicated process, and I'd like us to give your body every opportunity to do so properly.”

“You're right,” Jayce said. “Of course you're right.” 

Viktor waited for the unsaid “but” to appear, to prolong the argument. It never came. He removed the tape from Jayce's knee.

“I do not remember a time in my life where moving through the world was easy for me. Had fate not intervened, I would've gone cradle to grave.”

“I'm sorry,” Jayce said. 

“For?” 

“I don't know why this is so hard. You've been through so much worse for much longer, and I'm just… freezing up. Over something so small.” 

Viktor laid a hand on Jayce's knee. “As I was saying, I do not remember what it is like to walk ably, so I don't know exactly what it is you're feeling right now, this sudden shift. I suffered many smaller losses as my condition worsened, and each—” Pride held his tongue, but Jayce was looking at him with such soft, lost eyes that he forged on. “Each change hurt. Each was a new grief. When you made me my crutch… you remember? After I discovered I needed more support than the cane…” 

“Yeah?” Jayce prompted. 

His expression was so open. Viktor did his best to roll his eyes from behind the Herald’s mask. Just the same as back then. The day Jayce Talis did not crave praise and validation was the day that each star winked out one by one. 

“That day, I had some very nasty thoughts about you,” Viktor said, and Jayce deflated. “You were so eager to show me your work, so proud. You wouldn't stop smiling, and I wanted to punch that stupid look off your face. I didn't want the crutch. I didn't want to need it, or to have the pain in my back or the shortness of breath. I didn't want to supply you my problems so you could happily turn them into projects.” 

Jayce opened his mouth to speak, but Viktor held up a hand to stop him. 

“I appreciated the crutch, Jayce. What I mean to say—you are going through your own grief. And that is as normal as it is complicated. Comparing one’s suffering to that of others is a stupid exercise, trust me. The only way my pain should factor into yours is that, because I have experience in this area, I can use it to help you.” 

“I just wish I could fix it.” 

“That is what the brace is for, yes.” 

Viktor returned to measuring, sliding the tape under Jayce's knee, then his thigh. To manage this, he had to lean well and far into his partner's personal space, so he heard clearly when Jayce whispered, “Glad I could give you a project to work on.” 

Perhaps invention was just another word for affection. 

[iv]

Viktor never thought he’d be the type to have a favourite child, but he found himself gravitating to the moonflower arcaniformes whenever he felt drained. Which was often. His wounds no longer sloughed open in ghastly tears, but work was still being done underneath. It was a familiar and unwelcome feeling to be ruled by the needs of his body. 

The swath of moonflowers reached from the dock outside the workshop all the way up the brick to the Promenade level, twining around guardrails and gates. Whenever he found himself topside, he would lean on the railing and let the vines twine around his fingers. 

When he slept, he pried open a rusty window to let the tendrils creep into the workshop, sat against a wall, and let them spill down his shoulders like water. 

This is how Ekko found him on a particular morning. 

“Hold up,” Ekko said. “Have you been living here?”

Viktor focused, awareness returning. Arrowhead leaves had grown over his mask, and he brushed them aside. “Previously, I slept while floating midair. This is relatively mundane in comparison.” 

“Yeah, okay, good morning. Where’s Jayce?”

Viktor motioned to where his partner slept on a mattress they’d dragged under a desk. 

“What are—” Ekko sighed. “We have dorms upstairs.” 

“We like our privacy.” 

Ekko crossed his arms. “That set-up cannot be good for his back. Listen, I have a spare room right now that you two could use. I live barely a street over from Terrace.” 

“I am perfectly fine right here.”

“Sure, but is he going to leave without you?” Ekko jerked his thumb at the man under the desk.

Viktor did not need to think about it long, which is how they ended up in Ekko’s spare room, which he insisted was meant for storage. Though, if so, it was the strangest storage room Viktor had ever been asked to sleep in. 

The room had three canal-facing windows, but only one was clear enough to let in light. The space was crammed top to bottom with boxes, paintings, random weapons including multiple firearms, carvings, maps stapled to the walls, flags, three clocks showing different times, talismans, dead flowers, and an absurd assembly of owl-shaped curios that glared at their new visitors from the far wall. One of them wore a tiny hat as if it were celebrating its birthday. 

Somewhere in amongst everything must’ve been furniture, if the shapes of the piles was anything to go by, but it had long since been subsumed. The only thing spared from the kitsch was a round bed draped in what was either a silk canopy or a mosquito net. 

“You’re a collector?” Jayce asked. 

“Uh, yeah,” Ekko said. “Y’know, it’s just a couple souvenirs.” 

“I did not expect you to find time to visit the Freljord,” Viktor said, holding up a bone talisman carved in the shape of a ram. He turned it over to inspect the underside. “The anatomy is very true to life.” 

Ekko plucked it out of his hand. “That one is more of a joke. Just— I’ll just put that one back.” 

“There’s only the one bed.” Jayce pointed out. 

“Revenants don’t really—”

“I sleep sitting up,” Viktor said. “On the ground.” 

“Oh. Right,” Jayce said, looking around. “We’ll have to clear some space.” 

“You can move whatever wherever,” Ekko said. “There’s not exactly a system. And you can come and go through the backdoor since it connects to a walkway that leads up to the Promenade.”

Ever in demand, Ekko couldn't stay long, and he took his leave shortly after.

“Either the last person who lived here passed away…” Jayce said. 

“Or he sleeps with people in this room,” Viktor said. “Perhaps in exchange for trinkets.” 

Jayce glanced around. For a moment Viktor thought that he was considering the implication of the hoard's sheer size, but then he picked his way to the window and wrenched it open. Flecks of old paint fell to the ground. 

“We can carve out an alcove here if we move that dresser aside. You let the morning glories in through the window, right?”

“I'll have to see what grows nearby, but yes.”

Their first night in the room, Jayce retired in the late afternoon. He hadn't meant to. “I just need a power nap,” he'd said. The next time Viktor saw him was well after midnight. He was passed out fully clothed, brace and shoes still on, sprawled over the circular bed. Utterly dead to the world. He barely stirred when Viktor set about delicately removing his shoes and undoing the clasps on the brace.  

The second night, they returned within the same hour. A thin, subtle awkwardness set in between them. They'd shared much smaller spaces before, ate, slept, dressed, talked and studied in them, but never a living space. Never what was ostensibly a home. 

Viktor didn't give this discomfort a voice, ignoring it in hopes it died a silent death. His alcove was already infested with moonflowers. They hadn't grown there originally, but Viktor had coaxed them to climb the cables between buildings until they wormed their way through the window. He couldn't command the arcaniformes, he found, but they responded to him, listened, and sometimes chose to help.

So he sat wordlessly in his alcove and sank into his trance, the half-slumber. 

When the morning sun shone, he discovered that Jayce had shifted in his sleep, the entirety of his wide frame balanced on the edge of the bed facing Viktor, covers drawn and bunched under his chin. 

The third night. Viktor arrived first, settled himself into the tangle of moonflowers that were now spilling over themselves, overgrowing the overgrowth of bric-a-brac. He'd have to give them a talking to about boundaries.

Jayce sat on the edge of the bed. “You could join me.” 

He didn’t have to. He didn’t need to.

“I could,” Viktor said. 

The moonflower vines were already climbing the edges of the sheets and finding purchase in the pillows long before Viktor sat himself next to Jayce. 

They took their time falling asleep. 

Jayce used his thumb to trace the contours of the Herald’s mask, following the flow of curves, the elegant dips, his fingers trailing ghost-like over the cleaved halves of Viktor’s face. His gaze softened, perched on the edge of something akin to weakness. 

“Jayce,” Viktor said, a soft breath of wind. “Do not say it.”

“Say what?”

“You know what I mean. The obvious thing.” 

“Okay.” Jayce did not remove his hands. “But you know that I want to.” 

“I do. I know.”

“But you don’t want me to say it.” 

“Correct.” 

“Even though you already know what—”

“My request stands.” 

A long silence filled only with breathing. Jayce withdrew his hands, mouth pressed to a thin line.

“You are trying not to say it,” Viktor said, beguiled. “This is effortful for you.” 

Jayce huffed. “And it comes so naturally to you?”

“It is not a matter of… I wouldn’t say… Jayce, you…” 

Another moment where words failed. 

Jayce fought a smile. “Are you trying not to say it?”

“I just don’t want it to be like this,” Viktor said. “It isn’t right. I’m not right.” 

“Vik…”

“It matters to me. It matters to me what face I wear. I think about what you see right now and I… Just. Please do not say it.”

“But you know what I mean,” Jayce said, shuffling forward so he could press his forehead to Viktor’s, “when I do this.”

Viktor leaned in, the tiniest kiss of pressure. “I do. And you understand what I mean, too.” 

“I do.” 

“Good.” A sigh. “That’s good.” 

No other words were shared that night. 

[v]

This section of the Entresol's commercial district hadn't flooded quite as badly as the rest, but stepping off the boardwalks still put you in knee-deep water. Jayce nearly tripped over a wayward frog, but Vi caught his arm, sparring him a dip in the muck. 

“You sure you're starting the night sober, Golden Boy?” she asked, laughing before continuing on with what she'd been saying. “And anyways, it meant a lot, everyone coming together to build the retaining wall. Come hell or fucking high water, this place is never gonna die.” 

“I'll drink to that,” Ekko said, bringing up the rear. 

As promised, the street surrounding The Last Drop was solid, paved stone and dirt with brick and iron holding back the swamp. The bar's facade showed upkeep, and light—both neon tubes and filaments—shone from within. A young teen perched on a stepladder, painting the windows with ocean waves in preparation for Jubilee. 

“Working late?” Ekko asked them. 

The teen stuck their tongue out at the half-finished white cap crest. “Ugh, yeah. Wish this was hourly.” 

“I'll talk to Claude, see if he can't scrounge up a tip for you.” 

Vi was first inside the bar, swooping to the back and grabbing a fat, amber bottle and three glasses between her fingers. The bartender barked protest, and Vi only jutted her hip out. “Hands are full. You'll have to dig for it.” 

“I'm taking the big bills, Kiramman,” the bartender muttered, prying the money from Vi's pocket. 

“Sure, treat yourself, whatever.” 

Ekko found a table in the back, taking the middle seat while Jayce slid in on the left, leaning his cane against the bench. 

“Truth or drink,” Vi said, slamming the bottle on the table. “Guest gets the privilege of asking first “ 

“Is this a game you normally play?” Jayce asked. 

Ekko chuckled. “Nah, but Piltover's Finest here wants to interrogate you.” 

“The alcohol is a bribe,” Vi said, grinning. “I'm crooked as fuck. And the One-Man Parliament is gonna play good cop.” She jostled Ekko's shoulder, causing the beads strung through his twists to clatter. 

Ekko grinned. “I never turn down an opportunity to drink on the Kiramman's dime.”

“And I've got the first question,” Jayce said. 

“Make it a good one,” Vi said, sloshing liquid into the three glasses with overconfident flicks of her wrist. She ran a thumb through the spilled droplets and licked it clean. 

“Right, so, Vi.”

She perked up.

“You and Cait. How did that happen?” 

Vi shot him a puzzled look. “Bitch, you were there.” 

“Uh, I'm pretty sure I wasn't.” 

“It was in the middle of everything, you know, Piltover and Zaun, Silco, my sister, the Hexgate, that stuff.” 

“So in the middle of all that—”

Vi nodded, pleased as the cat that stole the cream. “Yup.” 

“I mean, you? Fine. But Cait's another story.” 

Vi shrugged. “Danger makes people horny.”

“Okay,” Ekko cut in, “my turn. Where did you go after you disappeared from the Hexgate?” 

“Nowhere,” Jayce said, swirling his glass absently. 

“You didn't go anywhere or see anything? ”

“We had a few moments in this ethereal, spacey mindscape, but that's it. One blink later and we're here.” 

“Damn, waste of a question.” 

“Speaking of, actually. Vi said that you were the only one on that roof when we disappeared. Did you see what happened? Viktor said something about a device—I think it threw off his concentration.” 

“His concentration,” Ekko repeated, laughing to himself. “I spent all these years thinking I annihilated you both. Just… boom. Gone. Shit was always bad, but I hadn't killed anyone before that. The device, though, that was my Z-drive. I powered it with a second, separate instance of the Arcane.” 

“A what.”

“You heard him,” Vi said. “Arcane Two, the sequel. Tagline: fuck, there's another one. You thought you Pilties were the only ones who could build it?”

“I… I didn't think anyone else would even try.”

“Rest assured,” Ekko said, “it also exploded.” 

“My go,” Vi said, steepling her fingers over her glass and fixing Jayce with a stare. “So, Viktor—” 

Jayce drank immediately. 

A beat passed. Then Vi howled with laughter. “You fucker!” 

“First blood,” Ekko agreed.

Jayce only wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the tips of his ears turning a subtle pink.

“Oh, I am going to get you wasted,” Vi said. “You wanna play, Talis? Let's play.” 

“Or you could ask him any other question,” Ekko said. 

“He's still got young kidneys. He'll be fine.” 

“If you say so.” To Jayce: “Were you hooking up with Councillor Medarda?”

“Only once,” Jayce said. 

Vi's mouth quirked. “You'll answer that one?” 

“Well,” he said, searching for a justification, “at the time, we were, you know, and she's—”

“Hot,” Vi and Ekko said in unison. 

“Smoking,” Vi continued. 

“Still is,” Ekko said. 

“I've thought about it.” 

“I'm telling the wife you said that.” 

“She's thought about it, too! We're very open with each other. You can't rat on me for shit, boy scout.” 

Ekko jutted his chin. “Jayce, you next. Shoot.”

“I'm sensing a theme,” he said. “So, Ekko. Do you have anyone significant in your life right now?” 

“Ha, you nailed him with that one,” Vi said as Ekko drank, poured himself another, and sat back again. “It's an open secret, but he doesn't talk about it.” 

“Sore subject?” 

“Nah, don't go easy on him,” Vi said. “He's a total lightweight. He'll crack if you keep pressuring him. Speaking of.” She filled Jayce's glass again. “Viktor.”

Jayce drank obediently. 

Vi smiled. “That wasn't a question.”

Jayce blinked. “What? No. You're going to make me drink again?” He could usually hold his liquor, but the stuff Vi had snagged was strong. He did some mental calculations of how many drinks until he wouldn't be able to walk home. Ah, shit. How many drinks until he wouldn't be able to walk home with the brace and the cane . 

Vi snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Hey. Or you could let me finish my question. It might be boring as hell.” 

“Alright, go.” 

Vi refilled his glass again. “Is the weird robot god body kinda hot or what?”

Jayce drank.

Chapter Text

[vi]

On a mid-afternoon where rain spattered the world outside, Jayce walked into the workshop, blinked, stared, and, once Viktor turned to look at him head on, nearly doubled over with laughter. “What the hell is on your face?” 

In the dead center of the Herald's mask, below the glowing eye slits, was tacked a piece of paper. On it, someone had drawn a smiley face. 

“Orianna says that I need practice emoting,” Viktor said simply. “I disagree, but nonetheless she wishes that you understand I am currently… content.”

“Happy!” Orianna chirped. She was practicing her control of the Armillary, moving it slowly about the room and rotating its rings. “Are you allergic to the word ‘happy’?” 

“Happy may be a stretch. I might be happy, without the little pictogram, but with the pictogram I am merely content.” 

“He hums when he's happy,” Jayce supplied. “Or when he's focused. That's basically the same thing for him.”

Orianna tilted her head. “Hm! I've never heard him hum.”

“Can't imagine why,” Viktor said.

“Hey!”

Without ceremony, Viktor lifted from his chair, proceeded across the room, and affixed a note to Orianna's nose. A crudely drawn frowny face glared up from the paper. 

“There. Now we match.

[vii]

A day after the Bathus team hit a snag with locomotive input discrepancies, Atlas found Viktor in the Terrace garden beds tending to the vegetation.

“I'm not sure if right now is the best time to take up a new hobby,” he said. 

Viktor shrugged, gently turning over a purpled leaf. “Mh, no. But I miss beets.” 

Atlas pulled a face. “Of all things?” 

“You would be surprised what foods you crave when you no longer have a mouth.” 

“Pining after beets,” Atlas said, shaking his head. “Callista left for the archive this morning, Ori has chores in the Entresol, and Jayce refuses to get out of bed at a normal hour, so I wanted your company. But beets?”

“Pickled fissure smelt more to your tastes?” 

“The ones with the little eyes?”

“They pop between your teeth.” Atlas cringed and Viktor continued. “Hmm, blood pudding? Stewed tripe? Jammy onions?” 

“Oh, so you are still human in there. Yes, onions are a thing people eat. Glad we've figured that out.” 

Viktor stood with a huff. “Pilties.” 

“Careful with that attitude,” Atlas said. “We’re going across the bridge to visit one of House Kiramman's beneficiaries. She works on autonomous locomotion, stabilizers, and pathing balance, so we can pick her brain about the Bathus.” 

Viktor nodded. “And fried sheep brain, too, add that to the list.” 

“Maybe you don’t deserve to have a mouth.”

The beneficiary worked out of one of Piltover Academy's satellite campuses—a low stone building to the north, adjacent to several fields trampled to bare dirt. Various machines sat dormant behind fences like herds of mismatched cattle. Tread tracks and mechanical footprints marred the soil. 

Atlas led Viktor through the front doors, barely glancing at anyone inside until they reached a door marked with the Kiramman crest. 

“Dodrosk!” He rapped on the door. “Good morning! I know you're in there!” 

The woman who opened the door had dark skin and curls to match, her hair shorn on the underside to make way for bronze implants below her ears. She was dressed in what must be the Academy's current uniform, still maroon but with more earth tones than grays. The Kiramman crest appeared again as a brooch sitting at her throat. 

She spoke primly, “Ah, young mister Atlas. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“I brought you that tea you like from the shop near the Rising Howl.” 

“So you need something. Who's your friend?”

Atlas swept aside to make introductions. Viktor had to admit the young man had charm to him, like Jayce if his deferance were replaced with audacity  “Darner, this is Viktor. Viktor, Mrs. Darner Dodrosk.” 

Darner assessed her new guest. “One of those revenants who likes being dramatic with their modifications, I see. I can respect it. Come in.” 

She led the way inside. As she did, Viktor couldn't help but notice the wire that poked from beneath her skirt. No, not quite a wire. It had segments, and it swayed and flicked with her movements: a mechanical tail. 

Darner noticed him looking. “I expect Mr. Kiramman has informed you as to the nature of my work?”

“Mechanical locomotion,” Viktor confirmed. 

“Not all admit it, but at the root of every academic's chosen study is something personal. For me, an ear infection as a child developed into faulty vestibulars.” She motioned to the implants at the base of her skull, then pulled her skirt aside to show a longer length of tail. “These keep me steady and prevent vertigo.” 

Viktor recognized immediately that this was a canned speech she'd recited many times before. 

“Mum calls Darner one of her luckiest finds,” Atlas said.

Darner let her skirt fall back into place. “You're too kind. Find a seat and I'll put a kettle on.” 

The workshop was small—evidently, most work took place outside. Ball sockets and canisters of oil lined the walls, hung from mismatched hooks and shelves. Various devices sat in an array of states. Some were gutted, others in progress. One was covered in a cloth as if it had passed away.

Darner patted the counter where she'd set water to boil. “Tea then. Pay up.” 

Atlas produced a large, navy tin decorated with filigree. “Voila.” 

“Put aside that prototype?” Darner asked Viktor over her shoulder. “The one that looks like it's pleading for the sweet release of death.” 

Viktor hadn't thought a gyroscope could look depressed before, but he lifted it gingerly and moved it onto a pile of scrap parts to clear space. 

“Here.” A new tin, this one with the image of a lizard stamped on top, landed in front of him. 

“Another for the list,” Viktor said to no one in particular, removing the lid. Inside sat half a dozen sandwich cookies with amber filling and flaked salt, more than a few dashed near to crumbs. “These are fermented lizard egg cookies. You're from the undercity.” 

Darner laughed. “Yes! Take as many as you’d like. No one from Piltover dares touch them, so they're a bit old and stale.”

“Regrettably, I cannot help you with that.” 

She winced “I always forget that about you revs. Sorry.” 

“Don't be. I feel very much at home.” There was nothing more Zaunite than the urge to feed any and every random chempunk that wandered across your threshold. 

Atlas explained their problems with the Bathus over tea. Darner listened patiently, moving from the table only to shuffle through a folder of notes on her desk. 

“This sounds similar to something I was working on a year ago. You might remember that dock cleaning contract? They went with dive suits over mechanical means, ultimately—labour is cheaper than automation in the short term. My current project reuses a lot of the concepts, but I'd have to take a look at your build in-person to be of any use.” 

“Great,” Atlas said, jumping from his seat. “Then let's go.” 

Darner took a delicate sip of tea. “I'm afraid that's not possible. I have a meeting in two days for safety accreditation, and I need to secure production space and supply lines and— I am not a business person, you know this. With your mother away, this all falls to me. My time right now is precious, young Kiramman, and the schedule is tight. You understand?”

“Then let us borrow your notes,” Atlas said. “I'll miss having your expertise in-person, but you always have great documentation.” 

“You're sweet, but I only have the one good copy. And my drafts are chicken scratch.” 

“But our project is critical and time sensitive. I'll ask mum to make some excuses for you, move the timeline around.”

“Atlas,” Darner said firmly, “you know that my door is always open to any member of your family, but my answer to your request is no. This project is very important to me.” 

Atlas bit the inside of his cheek, thinking. “Right. I apologize for pushing you so hard.” 

Darner's eyes softened. “You're passionate. There's nothing wrong with that.” 

“We won't keep you any longer,” Viktor broke in.

Once they were excused to the hall, the door closed behind them, Atlas let out a long sigh. 

“I did glean some insight,” Viktor said. “We will work with what we can.”

“It's fine,” Atlas said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and already walking off. “I'll come back tonight and borrow them.”

“Beg pardon?” 

“She said she had two days. I'll return the documents before then.” 

“You are planning to break in,” Viktor said flatly. 

“Of course not. Mum keeps multiple sets of spare keys for all our properties. It's not breaking in if I own the place. We own those papers, too, and the ink used to write them. Legally.”

“That does not mean—” Viktor cut himself off. “No. I will not begin to humour your argument. I forbid you from doing any such thing.” 

“This project is to save your life.”

Viktor's tone turned icy. “I've been dying acutely since the age of seven. I can stand to die a few days more.”

Nothing about Piltover had changed. It's principles, it's attitudes, it's morals. All remained exactly the same, fed to their children hand to mouth. No matter how fond Jayce was of the Kirammans, they were still a lineage that reached back hundreds of years to the city's founding. A century would not budge a merchant clan one millimeter. No matter crisis. No matter peril. No matter new blood. Thirty years was nothing to the city of gold. 

“I wasn’t lying about mum being able to shift things around once she gets back,” Atlas said. “It’s just business.”

“Just business,” Viktor parroted in disbelief. 

“I know commerce is the lifeblood of Piltover, but it’s just power trading hands. It’s bullshit. We’re doing something much more important. How can you of all people not see that?”

“Business to someone like you and business to someone like her are two very different things.” 

Viktor stepped up to Atlas, his height towering over him and casting a shadow over the young man’s face. 

Atlas, to his credit, stood his ground. “Do you know her?” he asked. 

“I do not need to. Neither do you. I am merely asking you to do a simple, decent thing and step away.” 

They both stood locked there in the hallway, distant footsteps traveling down unseen halls, murmurs of conversation, the hiss of a pneumatic. 

“Okay,” Atlas said, holding up his hands in surrender. “I'll leave it.”

“Good.” And Viktor stalked from the building, not bothering to check if Atlas followed or not. 

[viii]

The curve of cheekbones appeared with three brief scratches of Jayce’s pencil. Light. Precise. He sketched the same way he drew blueprints, and the drawings surfaced quickly and disappeared even quicker. The eraser crashed into the strokes, nearly ripping the paper in frustration. Jayce scowled to himself. 

That wasn’t it either. Shit. This couldn’t be happening. 

Callista had been right about there being precious few photographs of Viktor in the archives. He’d neglected to show up for any of the Academy’s picture days, and any photos for press had him turned away from the camera, blurred in the background, or absent altogether.

Jayce wasn’t the best artist when it came to human subjects, but he should be able to do this. He should remember. He needed a record of Viktor’s face. 

Last night, he’d had a dream that Viktor had risen again from the grave, this time as an uncanny facsimile of his old self, the features familiar but disturbed. The worst part was that Jayce hadn’t been able to describe exactly what was wrong. He could only feel in his core that it was off.

The Viktor that existed now was still Viktor. Undoubtedly. Wholly. But his entire physical history had been wiped away with the Machine Herald’s birth, and Jayce despaired at losing even a single bit of his partner.

Shame and anger flooded him as he tried again and again. He’d seen Viktor every day for almost a decade. He could picture him so clearly, but every time his pencil met paper the proportions distorted, the details failed, the image corrupted. 

A shadow fell across his notebook. “You quite alright?” Callista asked. 

Jayce had tucked himself in the far end of one of the War Room’s balconies. The room was mostly empty except for a group of tweens playing a tabletop game on the floor below. 

“Fine,” Jayce said, shutting the book. “I’m fine.” 

“Okay, that’s good,” Callista said. She had her arms crossed and was peering anxiously out the windows. “We’ve got a bit of a situation.” 

Jayce stood. “Did something happen with the Bathus? The Armillary?”

“No, nothing like that. The Firelights have a bunch of people out looking for Damian right now, and they asked me to check around Blackgate. The kid ran off yesterday after Ekko found him and gave him a talk about his fire magic. Apparently, he said he was training? Ekko wanted to give him space after their argument, but he’s still not back.” 

“I’ll come with you.” A straightforward task would be a balm for his spiralling thoughts. 

“Great,” Callista said, slotting her arm through his. “You haven’t been back to Piltover much since you first arrived, right? We can play a game of ‘How Many Streets are Named After You’ while we walk.” 

Seven. Jayce had seven streets named after him between the bridge and Blackgate—if Callista was to be believed, that is. Some were stretches in his opinion, but according to her he’d amassed quite a few new nicknames in his martyrdom, bold honourifics that made Jayce’s insides curdle with embarrassment. Seven streets, two parks, and a fountain.

The walk was one of the longest he’d taken since fitting his new brace, and he was surprised to find that he was getting a handle on how to walk with the cane. His pace was still slow, but he could let his thoughts wander slightly, drifting back to Viktor’s enigmatic features. 

His thoughts snapped back into focus as soon as they arrived in Blackgate. The neighborhood was three by two blocks of houses located adjacent to the Memorial Archive, where the battle must’ve done the most damage. The architecture was Piltovan, certainly, but stone trumped metal. Grey granites and slate formed sturdy archways and thin windows. Otherwise, it was a perfectly average Piltover street with peddlers, restaurants, noisy neighbors, stray cats, and coin passing hand to hand.

“We should check the almshouse first,” Callista said. “That’s where Damian’s father is staying now that he’s out of hospital.” 

As they approached the almshouse, a staunch, low edifice in between the rowhouses, the sun reflected off a bronze crest embedded in the stonework—the Talis hammer. 

“Is that number eight?” Jayce asked. “Or does it not count since it’s not a street?”

“Ah, not this one,” Callista said hesitantly. “Not exactly. Uh, I should say…”

They rounded the bend and Jayce glimpsed a garden through the branches of the hedgerows: wisteria arbours, a chess table, a tree swing. His eyes stopped when they fell upon a piece of dark, carved marble. They remained fixed even as he and Callista turned through the gate, diverged from the main drive, wandered over gravel and grass, never erring until Jayce stood in front of the humble statue of his mother, her face and shoulders defined by rough strikes of a chisel.

“Why is this…?” His breathing thinned. 

The plinth below bore her name, a few sentiments, and dates. Two dates. 

“I remember when she and mum were in talks about building this place,” Callista said, voice gentle. “I was little then, but whenever I came home from school, Mrs. Talis would still be there, going over logistics, trying to wrap her head around charity politics. She got so mad every time something as simple as laying bricks needed three different permits— Oh! And once she made me this hot chocolate that knocked my socks off.”

Jayce’s words were faint. “I used to have that every weekend as a kid.”

“When she first proposed the almshouse, she said she knew what it was like to arrive in Piltover and not have anyone to greet you. She never had very kind things to say about Noxus, but this house… I think it says a lot for her.”

Jayce hadn’t let himself think about his mother before now, hadn’t dared to wonder, because deep down he already knew. His ma. A constant, warm beacon of support. The strongest person he knew. He squeezed his eyes shut, his body bowing into itself involuntarily. 

“I know I'll never truly understand,” Callista said, “but I miss her too. She was the closest thing I had to a grandmother.” 

And Jayce believed her. He could imagine nothing less. 

“How did… how did she…”

Callista ran a hand over the statue’s shoulder. “Her heart gave out. It was peaceful. I— I wasn’t there when she went, but I said goodbye beforehand.” 

Jayce wracked his stupid, useless, pockmarked memory for the last time he’d bid his mother goodbye. Had it been a casual wave of the hand while heading out the door? Had she insisted on a kiss on the cheek like she always did? Had he brushed her off, too busy to waste even a few seconds? 

“I’ll give you a moment,” Callista said. “I’ll just be inside speaking with Amos.” 

Jayce didn’t register her leaving. He was simply alone. He slumped against the plinth, the perfect, right angle digging into his back. 

And it crashed over him then, for the first time, that this was his life now. And, for the first time, he regretted having stayed with Viktor. 

His eyes were dry by the time he crossed the threshold of his mother's legacy, his expression schooled, but he knew his face was still red.

The inside of the almshouse bustled pleasantly, folks moving from room to room, chatting in a dining room, carrying belongings to the second floor, cleaning the windows, chasing a poro underfoot. 

Jayce's emotions threatened to spill over again. Of course she would've wanted this. First her husband then her son had left her. His ma never could abide an empty house; of course she built this. 

He spotted Callista in a sitting room off the main hall. She spoke with an older gentleman in a wheelchair. His hair grayed, but his skin was the same warm olive tone as Damian's, if wrinkled significantly. 

The room was clearly well loved. The shelves were crammed full with an eclectic variety of books, the couch seats worn, and the walls decorated with framed pencil drawings. 

Jayce blinked. 

Rather than join Callista, he approached one of the frames. His chest tightened. They were his : his rough drafts from school, his engineering assignments, his moonshot proposals for Hextech he hadn't bothered to share. It was every scrap of him his mother could find, pinned carefully and framed behind glass. 

He wandered the wall in silence until he came to one frame placed between a pair of windows. 

Viktor. It was Viktor. Somehow, impossibly, a profile sketch of Viktor's face shared a page with failed runic sequences, the graphite wisps of his hair bleeding across the symbols. 

And Jayce remembered that day. He remembered leaning back in his chair, drawing, waiting to see how long it took for Viktor to notice him. He never did. His focus was too sharp. Or he'd ignored Jayce on purpose to send a message, which was more probable in all honesty. 

“You make a half decent artist, Mr. Talis.” 

Jayce broke from his trance to find the older gentleman at his side.

When he didn't say anything, the man chuckled. “Yes, I know who you are, boy.” 

Callista hurried over, just as surprised as Jayce. “I, uh, I didn't get a chance to introduce you yet—” 

The man held his hand up to Jayce. “Amos Stelei. I hear you've met my son.”

Jayce shook hesitantly. “Have we met before?” 

“No, but I daresay I'm more familiar with your work than even you are. I was a warmason for one of General Medarda's warbands, planted here in Piltover long before any action went to ground. I saw the Hexgates go up and come back down. Are you familiar with warmasonry?” 

“Only the basics,” Jayce said. “You're spies.”

“Not spies, Mr. Talis,” Amos said. If he was shocked by Jayce's sudden return from the dead, he didn't show it. “We gather information about settlements and restructure them once they become empire land, make sure they’re productive Noxian outposts.”

“Disappointed that your expertise wasn’t needed here?” Jayce asked. 

“My expertise is always needed,” Amos said. “But the battle was no great loss for me. I stayed in Piltover when I found out the general had fallen, met a nice lady, settled down. But how about you, lad? Did someone have you stuck under the True Ice this whole time?” His laugh rumbled up from deep in his belly.

Callista laughed along nervously. “I suppose you must’ve seen stranger marching with the warband.”

“I’ve lived stranger, girl. Never thought my kid would be one of those oddities, but there’s all kinds of rumours swirling about magic settling in Piltover, deep in the rock.” 

“I’ll come let you know as soon as someone finds Damian,” Callista said. 

“If you can catch him, tell him his old man wants to see him.” Then Amos turned to Jayce: “You can take that if you want.”

“Sorry?” 

“The drawing. They’re all yours, aren’t they? That’s what Ximena said.” 

Jayce glanced behind him at the empty sitting room, the occasional passerby traversing the hall. “There has to be a rule against that.”

“Bah!” Amos said. “Give it here.” 

Jayce took the frame off the wall and passed it to Amos, who unclasped the backboard and removed the paper. He flapped the paper in Jayce’s direction, forcing Jayce to pluck it away lest it crease.

“There,” Amos declared. “Now the Enforcers can haul me in for all I care. You’re doing me a favour getting that smug prick out of here. I feel like he’s taunting me every time I lose a hand of cards.”

Smug? Jayce took a closer look at the drawing, at the subtle lift he’d pencilled at the edge of Viktor’s mouth. So he had been ignoring Jayce on purpose. How could he have forgotten?

Somehow he doubted this would be his mother’s last gift to him.

[ix]

Orianna’s mastery of the Armillary grew by the day. She’d been built with the slim, small proportions of a dancer, and she embraced the role fully, her steps following precise patterns, her every pivot a pirouette. One could almost mistake the Armillary for a dancer itself. Weaving around Orianna’s every step, it sang the warbling notes of active Hextech. 

Viktor met her on the roof of Terrace. He greeted her with polite applause. 

She spun around, the Armillary swooping past her feet, and gave a low bow. “Any notes?” she asked.

“I was never much for dancing,” Viktor said. 

“I could teach you.” 

Objectively, Viktor's body was suited to graceful movements in a way both similar and different from Orianna's. He had designed it that way. The Machine Herald exuded effortless power, the epitome of physical perfection, but the longer that Viktor inhabited this form the more disconnected he felt. So little of it was specific to him . The idea of using it to dance was absurd. 

“Perhaps another time.” 

“I do have a new trick to show you,” Orianna said. The Armillary shot forward in a wide arc. At the peak of the arc, it gave a chime and emitted a dull pulse of energy, causing the leaves scattered about to lift. 

Viktor snapped a gingko nut off the nearby tree and tossed it in range. It froze a foot off the ground. “Zero gravity,” he said fondly. 

“I want the energy field to push and pull, but I haven't been able to figure that out yet. I may need to inscribe a new ring.”

“One step at a time. Steady progress demonstrates your effort more than speed.”

Orianna ticked in appreciation and recalled the Armillary to her side. “Ready to go?”

“If we must.” Viktor couldn’t put a finger on why this errand made him so hesitant. He was planning to shed this form soon—hopefully soon—so what did it matter how he looked? 

“No pressure,” Orianna said. “We’re only looking for a few changes of clothes to swap between. Your little sis will take care of everything.” 

In this, Viktor was glad to have a younger sibling to lean on. He’d never given much thought to clothing. It was utilitarian. He’d never had a choice in what to wear as a child, and as a student and scientist he’d let the Academy pick for him, dressing either in the uniform or outfits he stealthily copied from his coworkers. And whatever Jayce foisted upon him at holidays. He would wear the same clothes every day if he could get away with it.

When Orianna had first proposed a shopping trip, citing the unfortunate state of Viktor’s current clothing, he’d told her to pick for him. 

Jayce cut in. “Vik, you know that’s not going to work. You hate anything you don’t pick out yourself.”

“Not true.” 

“Take him with you,” Jayce told Orianna, “or it’s going to be like rolling a boulder up a hill.”

And so Orianna took Viktor with her.

There wasn’t a hard division for where the revenant neighborhood began and ended. Instead, it bled into the surrounding buildings, the moss and liverwort calcifying to the sides of brick walls, shelf fungi circling the street lamps, spores drifting unfiltered on the air. Having no need for food, there were no restaurants. Having no fear of cold, the windows stayed open. 

Viktor stuck close to Orianna’s side as they navigated the street traffic, tugging the hood of his cloak further over his mask, but he couldn’t help but peek out at passerby. It was breathtaking to see the homogeneity he’d forced upon these people be sanded away into a grand spectrum of variation. 

He categorized the modifications into tiers. 

The first consisted of mild, removable features such as body paint, welded jewelry, masks and other cosmetics. There wasn’t a single revenant in sight without at least a few of these, if not something from a further tier.

The second tier would be grafted elements: either arcaniformes sprouting from their person and coexisting as part of the body, or something mechanical like his Hexclaw. Some of the masks he spotted seemed permanently affixed with internal mechanisms that allowed expression. He watched two revenants in conversation, one with a porcelain mask that translated their hand signs into smiles and lifts of their brow. 

The third tier accounted for the most drastic changes he saw. Some of these must have been results of some accident—replaced limbs, patched portions of a face and neck—but others could’ve been purposeful, like a subtly extended neck. 

Since visiting the borough with Orianna semi-frequently, Viktor had come to understand how he might be mistaken for any other evolved Sump-dweller. Still, he didn’t visit this part of the Entresol without her. He was her guest. He didn’t belong here alone.

The revenant who manned the first store Orianna brought him to had certainly modified themself purposefully. The delicate shapes of thin-winged sparrows swooped across their shoulders and clavicle, carved with shallow strokes into their very form. They wore a low cut dress to show them off. Rather than mimicking a human face, they’d carved a single vertical eye in between their two smooth, suggested ones.

“Orianna,” they greeted, “you’ve been so busy I’ve barely seen spring or spanner of you for weeks.” 

“Good afternoon, Caedmon,” Orianna said. “I’m not here for me today. My brother needs more options.”

“My…” Caedmon said, leaning against their register counter and sizing up Viktor. “Aren’t you a tall drink?” 

“He’s spoken for,” Orianna chirped, already breezing to the back of the store, “and shy.”

Though he was loath to admit it, Viktor did feel shy. Or something akin to it. Hesitant. Unmoored. What the hell was wrong with him? 

The shopping experience quickly devolved into a tense negotiation with Orianna, eventually Caedmon once they inserted themself, and his own reservations. 

“We can go look somewhere else,” Orianna suggested. 

Caedmon now lounged on the counter. “I won’t be offended.” 

“No,” Viktor snapped. “Here is fine. It will be the same everywhere else.” 

There was something uniquely humiliating about not being able to articulate what he wanted for himself. He’d never encountered this problem before. But the longer he observed his form in the shop’s mirror—barely tall enough to show his chin—the further the divide between the Machine Herald and how Viktor understood himself stretched. Despite seeing out of its eyes, his body felt like a puppet he was forced to pilot. The fact that others saw him, saw this, and understood this to be him —it made his insides itch. 

And that wasn’t even addressing the memories associated with it, the intention behind it, the selfish, misguided quest for perfection.

Trying to ornament this form felt moronic, pointless, without first fixing its fundamental qualities. The only reason he endured this exercise was Orianna’s enthusiasm.

“How about,” Caedmon said, vaulting off the counter, “we do variations on what you’re already wearing now. You walked in it all the way here, yeah? You’re at least a little comfortable with it?”

Viktor sagged in defeat. “That may be amenable.” 

“Direction! I love it.” They and Orianna scuttled away to procure pieces. 

In the end, Viktor ended up with three more cloaks and a collection of loose fitting garments for underneath. Though he didn’t speak it aloud, the cloak with the wide hood and twin slits up the front was his preferred choice. 

“Does the scarf come off?” Caedmon asked, tugging at the tails of fabric connected to Viktor’s back. 

Technically, they did, but he replied, “No. Those stay.”

“At least you can tuck them away.” 

Outside, a chorus of shouts rose up. Something clattered to the ground, and Caedmon yelled over Viktor’s shoulder. “That’s my display, you ass! You better put that back up!” They quit the shop, marching into the bright sunlight of the canal boardwalk. 

When they didn’t return, Orianna looked to Viktor. “Should we—?”

Another cacophony and more shouts. 

The two emerged just in time to watch an Enforcer shouldering Caedmon to the side. “You’re not part of this, rusty.” 

“I don’t give a shit about you,” Caedmon said, stumbling over their fallen display. “I was asking these three to fix—”

“Step off.” This came from one of three Firelights assembled on the boardwalk. “I think we’ve made it clear you’re not needed or wanted here.” They stepped up to the Enforcer, ignoring Caedmon. 

“We’re doing our jobs.” A second Enforcer approached. “We were ordered to patrol this neighborhood. Hopefully we can set a good example for what doing your job looks like.” 

“Like I said. You’re not needed. You’re not wanted.” 

“Kiramman says otherwise. It’s not our fault you punks can’t handle your own. Admit it, this was a long time coming.” 

Orianna whispered to Viktor with a bitter, exasperated tone, “Any reason for a fight.”

The Firelight stuck his face up to the Enforcer’s mask. “I don’t care what that suck-up Kiramman says. You’re just here for looks, so do your looking pretty somewhere out of the way.” 

“Hey,” the Enforcer said, the taunt hissing through the filter of his mask, “if you want to make something happen, I’m not the one who’s gonna put hands on you.” 

“Not on paper. Not by the time the report reaches the station.” The Firelight jerked forward, not enough to touch but enough to startle the Enforcer into stepping back. His bootheel trod on Caedmon’s leg, and they cried out. 

 Viktor went to say something, but Orianna put a hand on his arm. “Not you. I’ll take care of this.” 

With a flick of her gloved hand, the Armillary shot out from where she’d stashed it under a table. It pulsed, emitting a shockwave. The wave’s circumference spread over the Firelights and the Enforcers, then it snapped back in. Bodies, random bits of trash, and even globs of canal water smashed together messily over the Armillary’s surface, leaving all parties dazed and disoriented. 

Orianna stepped gingerly from under the shop’s awning. “That’s not quite what I meant to do.” Then she puffed out her chest and put on an authoritative voice. “Still. If you all have a problem, then you can remove your coats and badges and duke it out in the canal for all I care. People are being hurt for the sake of your pride.”

One of the Firelights glared up at Orianna. “Oh, it’s the toy princess. Another doll cozy with the Kirammans.” 

“What the hell is this thing?” an Enforcer asked, prying themself away from the Armillary and the tangle of bodies. 

Caedmon stood, shooing Orianna and Viktor back into the shop. “You two should leave. I’ve got a backdoor through the storeroom.” 

Orianna hesitated before she nodded and dropped her entire coin purse into their hand. “Right. Thanks, Caedmon.” She shoved Viktor towards the back and they made their way onto an alleyway, shuffling hastily towards the nearest lift topside. The Armillary floated behind like a loyal dog.

“Not that they did not deserve it,” Viktor said, “but was that truly necessary?”

“I was trying to startle them by making them float, not that. ”

“Orianna—” 

“I wasn't going to let you do it, if that's what you're getting at. I know that it's essentially impossible for anyone to recognize you, but you make too many scenes and pieces will get put together.” 

“Instead, the attention has been placed on you.”

“They'll get over it.” 

They zigzagged around two more corners before slowing their pace. 

“Would I be mistaken to assume you already have some notoriety in Zaun?” 

“I was technically one of the first revenants to wake up,” Orianna said, tugging at the hem of her glove. “As far as anyone knows. Living alone after the Second Sinking made me squirelly, so as soon as the other revs popped up I joinef them.”

They reached the lift and, after a quick glance over their shoulders, casually slid into the queue. 

“How long were you alone for?” Viktor asked. 

“Hm. I didn't exactly count the days.” She fell silent for a while as the lift arrived and the queue moved forward. Then she laughed, waving whatever thoughts she'd had away. “Pff. But now I have Callista and Atlas, all my  neighbors, the folks at Terrace.” She leaned her head smugly into Viktor's personal space. “And you.” 

He moved her head away the same way one would slide a coin across a counter. “Whether I like it or not, I take it?”

“Yeah,” Orianna said, like it was obvious, “that's how it works.”

He made a show of being repulsed by her sentiment, and she had to drag him onto the lift before the doors closed, both taking satisfaction in acting like they'd had decades of being raised side by side to grow sick and tired of each other. Perhaps, though, this was just how it worked. 

[x] 

Jayce reached the rooftop just in time to see a plume of smoke spill from Viktor’s mask, wisping away into the night air. 

“Are you… smoking?” he asked. 

“I am.” Viktor dusted off a spot beside him. 

After some negotiating of his limbs and a suppressed groan, Jayce sat. “Why?” 

“I always wanted to. My mother smoked, and my father too, before the money got tight and he gave her his share. I recall them always opening windows so I wouldn’t breathe any in, even in the middle of winter. It reminds me of them, and well, I suppose I just want what I could never have.” 

Jayce gave him a sideways look as Viktor took another hit, inhaling from a hidden vent just below his mask. 

“It can’t do anything to me,” Viktor assured him. “I’m told it smells nice, though.” He breathed out, and as he did, he turned his face slowly to the side, letting the thinnest dregs of smoke break apart over Jayce’s nose. 

“It’s alright,” Jayce said.

“Try it.” He proffered the joint from between two slender fingers. 

Jayce hesitated, but then he accepted the offer, bringing it to his mouth. It wasn’t like he’d never smoked before. 

It took less than a second for him to start coughing like his throat was on fire. “What is that?” he wheezed. 

“Incense,” Viktor said, the ghost of a laugh in his voice. “I told you, it can’t do anything to me.” 

“Such an ass,” Jayce muttered, and this time Viktor did laugh. “I was hoping for something medicinal, I guess.”

“Because your leg hurts.”

“It always hurts.” 

“Because you never sit,” Viktor scolded.

“I don't need to.”

“You do. If it hurts, then yes, you do. The pain is not there for you to overcome.” 

Viktor inhaled another mouthful of smoke and blew it towards the sky. 

“My mom died,” Jayce said. 

The last wisps of smoke floated tepid around Viktor’s mask, his breath still. Their mutual silence allowed the sounds of the undercity to filter upwards: friendly arguments, strange animal song, a generator puttering, boots tromping across a boardwalk, life going on.

“Well, shit,” Viktor concluded. 

“Yeah.”

“I—”

“Yeah, I know.” 

“Jayce…”

“She lived a good life. I just wasn’t there for the end of it.”

The night air settled thick between them. 

“You should’ve—”

“Don’t,” Jayce said, voice harsh, ragged. “Don’t make me have to agree with you.”

Viktor tossed the incense into the canal below, watching the flickering ember tumble until it extinguished in the oily muck. He stood, leaned against the curlicue railing. He could’ve said something. He could’ve left. But instead he remained, standing silent vigil until Jayce, too, rose. It took some effort. Viktor let him manage it alone. 

Then they descended from the rooftop together.

Chapter Text

The morning that Mel and Cait were scheduled to arrive dawned through a misty haze that swamped the Lanes, and, despite all the time to prepare, Jayce still had no idea what he was going to say. Genuinely, what the hell could he say? He should pass the buck to Vi and have her appease her wife and brief Mel. Then at least they could skip the confused stuttering and skip straight to yelling at him. 

But he hadn’t been able to get ahold of Vi for the past few days, and, if not for the fallout of a random street spat between Firelights and Enforcers to keep her busy, he would think she’d been avoiding him. 

“You are wearing a groove into Ekko’s floor,” Viktor noted. 

Jayce was pacing like a chained dog. He had, in a way, carved a trench between the random vases, boxes, and statuettes, toeing them out of the way as he went. 

“I’m going on a walk,” Jayce said. “I need to think.”

“We ought to speak with someone about getting you access to a forge,” Viktor said as Jayce opened the door. “It seems a lack of fire and steel is hazardous for your health.” 

Jayce had memorized a path through the Entresol that involved only two sets of stairs—sixteen steps in total—which he kept included in the route purely as practice. 

He was getting used to the cane and the brace. Every part of it. The putting it on, taking it off, the maintenance, the effort, the exhaustion, the stretching, the weight, the sounds, the feel, the way everyone’s eye caught on it first before flicking to his face. Which was good. He’d prefer they see his leg first. He didn’t need anyone looking too closely and realizing The Man of Progress was walking among them, and those damn posters definitely never included a crippled limb. It made for an excellent disguise, like a shroud thrown over his head that overwrote the entirety of his identity.

This morning, he was just Jayce, a man with a badly healed leg, taking the best walk he could manage. 

Now, what was he going to say to Cait? He’d been spending time with her wife and children for over half a month now, and something about that felt like a betrayal, as if, despite every circumstance, he should’ve found her first. 

Maybe starting out with an apology was a safe bet. 

Fern fronds and meadow grass slapped him in the face and he spluttered, spores sticking to his mouth. 

The path was more overgrown than the last time he’d walked it, greenery overhanging the bridges and walkways. When he glanced behind him, a tangle of roots that he would’ve remembered stepping over was coiled on the planks like a snake. It was growing so fast he could see the striped bark move. 

“Um,” he said, “can I help you?” 

The plants didn’t answer. They didn’t tend to do that. 

But, turning back around, Jayce glimpsed a figure through the morning mist: short, golden hair, flowers budding from her arms and shoulders. She fixed Jayce with an opalescent gaze before nodding further down the path and disappearing. 

“Wait!” he called. “Are you Anthy?” 

He hurried around the corner only to find her waiting for him at the next junction. Behind him, the overgrowth continued to crowd out his way back. 

The slow chase went on how it began, Jayce keeping up a staggered pace with the girl always waiting for him just within sight, weaving across bridges and down alleyways so as to avoid the parts of the undercity that were waking up. 

Finally, the girl stopped. 

Jayce found himself in a humid cavern somewhere deep within Zaun. The wrought iron catwalk he limped across ended in an abrupt twist of snapped metal before the path dropped away into a ten foot drop. The water below swallowed light into a yawning abyss, but slime molds along the cavern ceiling glowed faintly like the veins of an organ. A outflow pipe dribbled a pathetic waterfall down the far wall. The sound echoed. 

“Are you,” Jayce asked again, leaning on the moss-covered railing to catch his breath. “Are you Anthy? The revenant girl?”

The figure perched on the broken end of the catwalk. “Amaranthine.” 

“Is that your name?” 

“Yup. Amaranthine.” 

Jayce approached, and she didn’t flee or disappear. “You wanted me to follow you here. Do you… would you be willing to talk to me?”

She turned, her eyes catching the glow of the molds like two wide pearls. Her hair rustled. No, her whole form rustled, leaves and stems and blades of grass shifting and reforming. “That’s why you’re here. Come look.” 

She hurried past him, nabbing his hand in the process to drag him along. 

“Careful!” Jayce protested as his cane caught one of the gaps in the grated floor. “I don’t go as fast as you.”

“Then go faster,” Amaranthine said. 

“Can I ask—?”

“Here.” Amaranthine shoved Jayce towards a section of the cave wall. 

“ What’s here?”

Amarantine growled in frustration and the slime molds scurried down the wall, growing in rivulets around the porous, eroded rock. The light illuminated a patch of vegetation that, now that Jayce could see properly, eventually ringed the entire underground lake. 

“Wow,” Jayce said, swallowing down his fear. “That’s a handy trick.” 

“They like me,” Amaranthine said. “Now look already.” 

It took Jayce a second to understand—his brain was suffering from three separate cases of whiplash, but that was an average laboratory debate with Viktor, so he recovered quick enough. The arcaniformes that grew up from the water were greying. Not just greying, they were oozing apart, leaf separating from stem, margin from vein. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“That’s what I’m asking you,” Amaranthine said. “It feels awful.” 

“Does it hurt you?”

“No, because I don’t touch it. But it’s hurting.” 

“Alright,” Jayce said, sitting on the metal grate because he had to remember to sit. “You have to answer a couple questions for me before I can help you.” 

Amaranthine crossed her leafy arms. “Fine.” 

“First, are you a part of the arcaniformes?”

“What do you mean?” Amaranthine hopped—or she looked like she hopped, but really the plants and leaves animated the motion, simulating weight and wobble—onto the railing and sat. “I can’t be a part of it if it’s just one big thing.” 

Jayce didn’t even know where to begin with that one. “Okay, uh, second. Why didn’t you get Viktor? Why me?”

Amaranthine pulled a face. “Is Viktor that tall guy with the stupid little horns? He’s scary.” 

“So I’m not as scary as Viktor,” Jayce said. “I can live with that.” 

“You look like my dad, kinda.”

Jayce blinked. “So you remember your old life? Before you were a revenant?” And before she died for a second time a week ago.

“Iunno.”

“You don’t know.” 

“Iunno! But I need you to fix that—” She pointed a waving finger at the surface of the lake. “—because it’s hurting and loud and it’s all stopping and not stopping. It’s so big and I don’t know where to go. And deep, deep down, there’s this knot.” 

“When you say ‘knot’—”

“Like you know when you run real fast and your side gets stuck in a knot. It’s really deep down there, and it’s just waiting.” 

Jayce gathered his thoughts. “What I’m understanding from this—” He held up a hand as Amaranthine went to interrupt again. “We’re not going to get anywhere if you don’t let me talk.”

She pouted. “Ugh.”

“What I understand is that you can tell what the arcaniformes are thinking. Or feeling. And that’s confusing, so it’s hard to tell what’s really going on, but you can tell that something is wrong.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Great. Glad we could get on the same page. And I’m going to try to help you, but it means I’ll have to tell some other people about this, including Viktor. Is that okay?”

“I guess so.”

“Thank you. And last question, are you okay how you are right now? You’re very… leafy. Do you feel safe? Healthy, I guess? Normal?”

“I haven’t really thought about it. I’m super busy.”

“With what?” Jayce asked, but then Amaranthine was gone. He spent a moment sitting by himself in the warm air of the cave, feeling familiar shivers creep up his spine, and considered if he had just hallucinated an entire conversation with a girl made of plants. That wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for him. Faces in the plants, faces in the fire in the water in the walls.

No. No, focus. He already had a faulty leg; he didn’t need a faulty mind to go with it. 

And that vegetation down by the water, the worst of it, really was concerning. As he watched, a leaf peeled away and melted into the water. Like Viktor’s wounds. 

The sun had chased away the mist by the time Jayce found his way back into the Lanes. Panic leapt up his throat. Cait. Mel. They were coming back today. They were coming back now . 

—

Viktor pulled the hood of his cloak tight around his mask, but it refused to budge. He’d transplanted a handful of moonflowers to each of his shoulders, scooped by the hood like a starlet’s corkscrew curls. Hopefully they’d speed his recovery, fortify his energy reserves, but they did little good when he shaded both them and his face from the sun. A necessary sacrifice at this moment. 

The airship docks to the west of Piltover were bright, sparse, and luxuriously empty. A place for the elites and politicians to roost away from the common folk. Viktor only got past the guards because Callista waved him in. 

“Is Jayce here?” he’d asked her. 

Callista frowned. She wore a crisp blue suit with lace decorating the edges of her shirt. “I assumed he’d arrive with you, if you two arrived at all.”

“He left early this morning,” Viktor said, thinking to himself. “Where the hell has he gone?”

“He wasn't by the workshop,” Atlas offered. He was much less put together than Callista, his hair askew like he'd fallen asleep at his desk, been shaken awake half an hour ago, and dragged right to this very spot.

The airship that docked along the platform was non-descript; it was the soldiers and staff aboard that wore the Medarda colours. 

“I should go,” Viktor said, turning as the gangplank lowered. 

“Here!” And it’s Jayce, walking up the steps at the same pace he would with two good legs, red-faced, breathing hard. “I’m here. Where’s Vi?”

Callista gestured to the airship where her mother was rushing up the gangway to meet the figures waiting at the railing. 

“There’s my woman!” Vi laughed, scooping Caitlyn Kiramman into her arms, holding her under the butt so that Caitlyn sat precariously on Vi’s forearms. 

Caitlyn’s eyes went wide, lips parting in surprise. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a simple but elegant bun, and perhaps it was her makeup, but she looked incredible for her age. Her blue felt travelling jacket fluttered as Vi spun them around.

“Public!” she admonished. “Darling, we’re public facing!” 

Vi only grinned and yelled over her shoulder, “You all heard the lady! Look away so I can kiss my wife!” 

Several members of the ship’s staff averted their gaze, but the soldiers were unfazed. Vi pulled Caitlyn down for a kiss anyways. 

“I missed you, too,” Caitlyn said once they broke apart and her feet returned to the deck. “How long have I been gone that you're this excited?” 

“Too long.”

Caitlyn smiled fondly. “There’s still business for me to take care of, but afterwards…” 

“Afterwards?” Vi prompted. 

“I believe I can find space to pencil in some quality time.” 

“Score.” 

“I thought I heard saccharine debauchery.” And there was Mel Medarda. As rigid and sharp as a spear, her golden markings glinting harshly in the new sun. 

Her hair was shorn startlingly short, but her eyelids were still an ashy, kohl black. Like her mother before her, she travelled in armour, though hers was a leather set that emphasized flexibility and agility as much as strength and status. The breastplate was a work of art—gold detailing in blocky, Noxian motifs tessellated from the Medarda four-pointed star. A black half-cape with red inner lining draped from the fur mantle on her shoulder, and her silver-heeled boots clicked as she walked. 

“Always a pleasure, Vi,” she said. 

Mel's presence jolted Vi from her trance of marital bliss. “Oh, Mel. Hey. So there's something you should know. You should both know, actually.” 

Mel had already glimpsed dockside, and her gaze steeled. “Do tell.” 

Viktor pulled his hood down as far as it would go, crushing vines in the process. 

Jayce stood stock still, an animal instinct freezing him to the spot. Apparently he hadn't been prepared for the cold fury that emanated from Mel in waves. 

She slipped past Cait and Vi, staring daggers at him. “You.”

Jayce pointed a nervous finger at himself questioningly before realizing that, yes, obviously she meant him. She was all but stalking towards him, malice in every step.

“What did you do ?” Atlas hissed, backing away and taking Callista with him. 

“I don't know!” Jayce hissed in turn. “I died?”

“And the dead should stay buried,” Mel grit out. “How dare you show your face in Piltover.”

Vi went to stop her, but Caitlyn pulled her back, whispering to her wife with wide, confused eyes. Their conversation became a furious, panicked back and forth as Caitlyn’s face twisted through emotion after emotion. 

“Mel,” Jayce said, “I know that you have a lot of reasons to be mad at me—”

“Quiet!” Her shout rent the air. “I will not listen to your stolen tongue, shadow.” 

As ordered, Jayce quieted. “Mel, I promise, I can explain.”

“Illusion,” Mel accused, her eyes flaring bright with magic. She stalked down the gangway towards him, hand outstretched, lips threatening a snarl. 

Jayce hesitated. “I’m— I’m real, Mel.”

“This is nothing but trickery.”

“Mel, I swear, it’s me,” Jayce said. “I’ll prove it. What’s… what’s something only we ever talked about?” 

“Jayce told everyone everything,” Mel spat. “And I… I never told him anything truly important.” 

“What?” Hurt blossomed across Jayce’s features as Mel descended the final step. Viktor moved to intercept, but Jayce pushed past him. “You don’t mean that.”

“I’ve seen this before, deceiver. There is no version of him you can pull from the ground that will break me. No matter how many pale copies you resurrect only to flay, burn, and rip apart, you cannot wound me any deeper than his empty grave already has. I’m done with your games.” 

“Listen to me—” 

Mel lashed out with her magic. There was no show to it. No flippancy. Only a single, ruthless thread that arced for Jayce’s head, truer than lightning, faster than sight. 

The Herald’s hexclaw caught it on the wrist and deflected the shot into the sky. 

“Stop this.” Viktor’s voice was a deep, sonorous warning. “I do not wish to fight you.”

“No one wants to fight!” Jayce said. 

Mel frowned delicately. “Are you… real?” In two swift gestures, she summoned more threads of light to lash around Viktor’s arms and anchor him to the floor. 

Viktor pulled against her magic, digging deeper when he saw Mel’s focus flick back to Jayce, scrutinizing, analyzing. The stone beneath his feet cracked. 

“Listen to him,” he begged. “He is real. He is the real Jayce, your Jayce. Do not harm him.”

In answer, Mel raised her hand once more, magic sparking.

Viktor’s own magic roared through his veins, welling up from every cell, atrophying what it needed in order to burn bright, strong, fast. The threads snapped. He lunged forward. 

Another thread snagged his elbow, slammed him to the ground. Prone, on his stomach. A disc of energy formed over his shoulder blades, crushing him flat against the stone.

“No!” This was Callista’s voice. She stood to the side, being held back by a fearful Atlas. 

“Stop!” Lovely, stupid Jayce placed himself between Mel and the fallen Viktor. Even though he was the target of Mel’s ire. Even though he was so blessedly mortal. The stress, exhaustion, and sudden movement caused him to take a knee, but when he looked up at Mel his gaze held. “Please. I’m sorry that I left you to deal with everything. I’m sorry that I let someone use my image to mess with you. I’m sorry that I don’t have anything better to say for myself, but I need you to trust me. Mel, you need to.” 

Mel studied him, the barest flicker of hesitation pinching her face. “What…” She pushed aside the hair that fell across Jayce’s forehead, revealing Viktor’s fingerprints to the sunlight. 

“It was the Arcane,” Jayce said. “It brought us back.” 

Mel didn’t say anything.

“Did you… did you really never tell me anything?”

Mel’s expression softened imperceptibly. “He thinks himself so important.”

“He’s telling the truth!” Callista called. “It’s him.”

Atlas shot her a scared look, and then, after a moment of fretting, shouted, “I think so too! And so does Ekko, for what that’s worth.”

Mel fixed her eyes back on Jayce. “The Arcane did this. It saved you, brought you here.”

“Not on purpose,” Jayce said, “but I swear it’s the truth.”

“You swear.”

“On my life, on my name, on my family—whatever matters to you these days.” 

“Do not lie to me,” Mel said, but it sounded almost like she was the one begging this time.

“Never. I’d never lie to you.”

Mel’s dignified voice warbled. “Oh, just stab me in the ribs already if that’s what you’re here to do.” And she fell on Jayce like a panther onto her cub, enveloping him and wrapping her arms over his back. 

“I’m not,” Jayce said, muffled by her fur mantle. “I promise I’m not. It’s really me, Mel. I’m here.”

“Jayce?” Caitlyn’s shout was a strained, disbelieving sound. Vi only gave her a nod and she was off, running down the gangway and collapsing next to Mel. “Jayce. Oh my god. You… you’re… oh my god.” 

“Hey, sprout,” he managed through the lump in his throat. 

Caitlyn’s only response was to burst into tears. 

“I’ve met the wife and kids,” he said, mostly because he felt he should keep talking. “You did good for yourself. You did really good, Cait. I’m proud of you. I guess, am I allowed to be proud of you when you’re twenty years older than me now?”

She gave him as withering a look as she could through her watery eyes. “As if I wasn’t more mature than you from the very start.”

Jayce laughed despite himself. “You married Vi !” 

“Oh hell,” Caitlyn said. “Anything she’s told you about us is a blatant lie.”

The magic disc still pressing on his back, Viktor’s view was constricted to a thin sliver, half of which was floor. Callista’s boots arrived to fill the other half. 

“You alright down there?” she asked, crouching. 

“I am merely becoming acquainted with the stonework,” Viktor said. “I take it from the crying that they are no longer trying to kill him.”

“He may end up smothered, perhaps, but no. No intentional killing as far as I can see.”

“Once a ladies’ man…” Viktor grumbled. 

Atlas cleared his throat. “Pardon me, but Mum? Aunt Mel? Viktor is in danger of losing his third dimension.” 

Mel detangled herself. “Viktor?” She stood, composing herself frighteningly fast, and strode across the dock to examine the flattened Machine Herald. 

“I know I was never your favourite,” Viktor said, “but I bear no ill intent.”

“I don’t have favourites.” 

“He’s not a threat,” Jayce said. “You can let him go.”

Mel observed the Herald with eyes sharp enough to vivisect. “He is most certainly a threat. Danger has little to do with intent, and—” The disc lowered, crushing Viktor further. “He broke through my spell.”

Viktor was grateful that his ability to speak no longer depended on being able to draw breath. “So, you do not trust anything you cannot overpower?” 

“Do you trust anything you cannot control?” Mel spun her magic so that Viktor wrenched upright, still bound. 

“I will not waste time convincing you of something you do not wish to believe.”

“And yet we have plenty of time to waste. You are my guest. Come.” And the magic dissolved. Viktor dropped inelegantly to the ground, barely able to catch himself. 

“Wait,” Jayce said. He and Caitlyn still hadn’t separated, but now they stood, Jayce with his arm over her shoulder. “We’re going somewhere?”

“Viktor and I are going to talk,” Mel told him. “You’re welcome to come along, but I prefer our conversation stay private.” 

The question of whether Jayce would follow after Viktor was maybe the most ridiculous thing to come out of this entire encounter. 

—

“Sit.” Mel managed to make the command sound like a polite question while still carrying the coercive weight of authority. She was not the sort of woman who need raise her voice.

Viktor sat, but he took his time. 

Their journey to the Medarda’s estate had been electric with tension. Mel didn’t need to keep her magic hovering over Viktor’s shoulder for him to know that she could take him to the ground again any time she wanted. From the minute she arrived, she led and everyone else followed. 

She’d isolated the two of them in a sitting room that overlooked the sprawl of Piltover below. In the next room over, the Kiramman siblings and Jayce were getting Caitlyn up to speed, but their proximity offered limited relief. Viktor understood that this was a tête-à-tête. 

“Viktor,” Mel addressed him. 

“Councillor Medarda.” 

Mel walked languidly across the room, running her finger along a shelf of music records. “I’m afraid that I relinquished my position on the council. My loyalties are to Noxus now. You may refer to me as Ambassador Medarda, if you insist on being so formal.” 

“Mh. I assume if I called you Mel, you would slice my head off.” 

Mel’s upper lip curled in distaste. “Really. You ought to know me better than that.” 

“I am not Jayce. I don’t know you.” 

Selecting a record, Mel placed it carefully on the turntable and dropped the needle. A quiet, willful harmony filled the room. 

“But you’re Viktor,” she said. “You are, aren’t you?” 

“I have not had reason to think otherwise.” 

“Because the Viktor that I remember was one of the most principled, stubborn scientists I’d ever met. Averse to violence to a fault, nearly spitting in my face when I suggested that Hextech might be weaponized. But what I see before me is the man who joined my mother on her warpath.” 

“You wish for me to repent?”

“I’m asking you to explain yourself. Convince me that you really are one of the two academy students I caught breaking into Heimerdinger’s lab that night, because you, this, what happened thirty years ago, none of that is Viktor.” 

A humourless laugh crept from under the Herald’s mask. “If I have admitted to not knowing you, then the least you could do is let go of the charade that you know me.”

“I don’t think I will.” 

Viktor said nothing, simply hunched to rest his elbows on his knees. 

“Why march with my mother?” Mel asked. Rather than sit opposite Viktor, she stood behind the backrest of the settee. 

“It was a means to an end.” When this time Mel fell silent, he elaborated. “The… attack on the commune, it put me on the backfoot. I needed help to reach the Hexgates.”

“The revenants?” 

“Evidence for why you need trial runs before implementing solutions on a mass scale.”

“Robbing human beings of their free will doesn’t seem like a solution that Viktor would ever consider.”

Viktor turned to look her in the eye. “They were already dead.”

“They died when Jayce killed you?” When Viktor reacted with surprise, she nodded. “I spent quite a while tracking down the soldiers in my mother’s warband and interviewing them. They remain some of the only living witnesses to your ascension.” 

Viktor digested this information, then spoke, “No, I believe that the revenants died as soon as I healed them. I thought I healed them, improved them, and I did in a way. Their physical forms improved. But I cannot manipulate anything without also making it a part of myself, of something larger than any one being. That is how the Arcane operates. It assimilates before it modifies. I understand that now.”

“And you—”

“I did not know this when I first began. How could I?” 

“Very well,” Mel said, wandering again across the room. “Then why heal them at all?”

“You cannot be serious,” Viktor said. “What sort of question is that?”

“A logical one, ghost. You said it yourself. When experimenting with unknown, volatile magic, I assume that there are some steps between discovery and application to human subjects. You made quite a jump.”

Viktor stood. He was taller than Mel by several heads, but the floor in the room was tiered, and she stood a level above him. “Then I’d ask you to look pure suffering in the eye and do nothing to ease it.”

Mel exhaled through her nose. “I would visit that body, your body, when it was being changed for the first time. Jayce guarded it like a loyal dog, which—” And here she raised her voice, throwing it towards the far door. “—seems to be a habit of his.” 

The door jittered slightly. 

Mel made a face that was half a smile and half a grimace. “Dear god, that man. He barely left the lab to eat and never to sleep. He slept in that chair.” 

“You’re asking why I would leave him.” 

“Do you wish to tell me?”

“No.” 

“You seem fairly welded to each other now.”

“And?”

“Why stay with him?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” The words jumped from him, hotter and angrier than he’d meant. But, damn it all, Mel Medarda was asking to be yelled at. “I’m given life, I’m given power, I’m given affection, none of which I was meant to have, so what— what —tell me what else I ought to do. I build, I heal, I protect. Are you not satisfied?”

“Are you?” 

Viktor laughed despite himself. It came out dark, weighted. “You purport to know me. I am not the sort of man who can be satisfied.”

“I see. Guilt drives you?”

“You would know,” Viktor spat. “Any enemy that lasts long enough to be a thorn in your side isn’t stupid. They are being purposeful, using Jayce’s image to haunt you.” 

Mel sighed. It verged on exhaustion. “I played no small part in how everything unravelled. The both of you, no matter what dream you pursued, you could only do great things. I wanted Hextech. I hardly remember now, but perhaps I wanted some renown.”

“You have certainly done well for yourself in that respect, Ambassador.” 

“And I intend to continue,” she said, “ doing well , as you say. What do you intend, Viktor?”

“I’m Viktor now, am I?”

“Unless you’d rather a new name to go along with your new form.”

“No,” he said, and he took a step towards Mel, ascending the small set of stairs that separated the tiers. 

Inexplicably, he felt his tongue loosening the longer the conversation wore on. Speaking with Jayce sometimes was like sculpting clay—Viktor would poke, cut, carve, and Jayce would smooth around his every word. So kind. So warm and forgiving. But Mel met him knife for knife, and that resistance got his mind moving in different directions. 

“Though, you may be right that I am no longer the person you knew. My mind is my own, but it exists inside of this body, and I built this body for a specific purpose. I… there were many actions I had to take that were not actions I would take.”

“That is not an inhuman trait,” Mel said. As Viktor approached, she walked to the open doors and onto the balcony in such a way that made it clear she was guiding him, not retreating. “To change oneself as is necessary.” 

“I felt it was necessary,” Viktor said, stepping outside with her. “I called it evolution.” 

“And evolution is only spurred by our need to survive. Is that why you’ve donned a mask? To differentiate yourselves?”

“It is possible.”

“Or maybe it’s a shield to hide behind.”

“Also… possible.”

“I wear my mother’s mask when I descend to the battlefields,” Mel said. “I never wanted a hand in war, but playing politician didn’t exactly keep my hands free of blood. It just became—”

“Abstracted,” Viktor said. 

“Power begets abstraction,” she agreed, gazing out at the gleaming rooftops of Piltover, the family crests woven into the crowns of copper domes. “I know this, and I know its dangers. Yet every time I’m called to fight, I still wear her mask.”

“You’re not a violent person.” 

“Don’t tell me that,” Mel said, waving aside his remark. Her eyes were dark, hollowed by many hard years that Viktor could only imagine. “I try telling that to myself but it never sticks.”

Viktor watched her for long enough that she noticed, raised an eyebrow. 

“Apologies,” he said, “I am envious is all. I’ve found that this body is incapable of grief.”

“Intentionally so?”

“Not entirely.” Viktor teased a moonflower tendril from his hood, letting it curl lazily around his fingers, slowly turning a bud as it blossomed. “This form was meant to accomplish a very specific goal, and everything irrelevant to that goal is conspicuously absent. So I cannot grieve. I cannot cry.”

“That does sound efficient.” 

“And yet.” 

The moonflower slipped from his hand and twirled to the garden below. Viktor hadn’t noticed he’d crushed the stem. Mentally, he apologized. 

“I think we may be tormenting Jayce,” Mel said, “having moved so far out of eavesdropping distance.” 

“For all he knows you’ve tossed me over the railing.” 

“Oh, but you put up a valiant effort to resist.”

“You flatter me. I am sure my death was swift.” 

Mel laughed, a bright sound that she quickly reined in. “You never answered my question. What do you intend to do, Viktor?”

“I won’t live long in this form—it isn’t as efficient as you think. Jayce and I, we are attempting to find a way for me to remake myself again, but—” 

Mel waited a moment before saying, “You don’t have to finish that thought.” 

Viktor pushed away from the balcony rail. “But the consequences of my choices are still playing out even now. I owe too much to be thinking about myself.”

“Careful,” Mel said, turning back inside. “You’ll break his heart.”

Viktor followed. “And then you really will kill me.” 

“Oh, yes. Undoubtedly.” 

Chapter Text

“Jayce,” Caitlyn said, beckoning him. “Stop acting so paranoid. Mel won’t do anything drastic.” 

Jayce glanced over to where the Kiramman family was gathered around a dining table, but he didn’t move. Not until he heard Mel say his name and raise her voice. Then he jerked away from the door with a sheepish expression. 

“Caught you, didn’t she?” Caitlyn said. 

Admonished, Jayce joined them around the table. The black stone surface was overtaken by the contents of a steamer trunk Caitlyn had brought up to room, imports from Noxus. Callista balanced a dark gray knife in one hand, flipping it over and back and using the serrated edge to saw the air. Atlas, meanwhile, had retreated into a tome the size of his own chest, the cover bound in red leather and titled in a foreign script. His free hand splayed open a pocket dictionary to translate Ionian into Piltover’s Shuriman dialect. 

Vi had been called to one side of the room to speak with an Enforcer, and Caitlyn kept throwing them partial glances, impatient. 

“Always on duty?” Jayce asked, pulling up a chair beside Cait.

“It’s good that she keeps busy,” Caitlyn said, “with how often I’m called away. Speaking of which, you seemed surprised at the match I made.” 

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t be there for the wedding.” 

“The wedding? God, no. Father insisted on a traditional affair. Vi was a saint for playing along, but that suit nearly strangled her. You wish you were there for the reception, the second one.”

“Where the party moved to Zaun, I’m guessing?”

“They have a tradition of the couple sharing their first meal together with whoever they consider family, to join the two households together. It was sweet.” 

“I plan to have a Zaunite wedding,” Callista said, sheathing her knife and affixing it to her belt. “No matter who I marry.”

Atlas looked up from his books. “Not a chance, eldest daughter. Mum wants you in a white dress and veil.”

“If only for a few pictures,” Caitlyn said. 

“Please don’t make me sit for a portrait,” Callista whined. “I’ll pass away.”

As mother and daughter negotiated, Jayce's attention fixed back on the closed door. It made perfect sense that Mel would want to assess if Viktor was a threat or not; the last form of him she'd seen was the marionette that they'd murdered in the council chamber. Come to think of it, was that body now a revenant walking around the Entresol? Or had it not made it into the ground with the rest of them? 

Caitlyn poked his shoulder. “You and I are going on a walk,” she told him. “Come on, before you burn a hole in that door.” 

Jayce huffed. “Right, sure.” That might be for the best.

He levered himself to stand using the back of his chair, wobbling a bit as he grabbed his cane. But he was getting better at the whole standing up and sitting down thing.

Caitlyn's eyes flickered briefly with… embarrassment? “Ah, I forgot. Sorry. We don't have to.” 

It took Jayce a moment before he understood. “I wouldn't have said yes if I wasn't okay with it. Walking doesn't hurt, seriously.” 

The white lie got Caitlyn moving again, even if the two-second exchange stuck in the back of Jayce's mind like a piece of dried tar. Was he going to have to put up with this from everyone? 

They passed Vi and the officer at the door, both with grim expressions.

“Anything the matter?” Caitlyn asked. 

Vi bit her lip. “I'll tell you later.”

Caitlyn and Jayce left them to their conversation. 

For a while, the only noise was their quiet footsteps and the click of Jayce's cane on the tile. Viktor's had always kept a precise rhythm, exact to the millisecond like a metronome. Jayce’s gait was still very much freeform. 

The Medarda residence in Piltover was surprisingly large, and that is saying something considering Piltover tastes. Rather than a penthouse apartment, Mel had brought them to a sprawling townhouse with seemingly endless halls. 

Caitlyn navigated it effortlessly, steering Jayce to the right and down a collonade that looked out onto a rock garden.

“I'm glad that you and Mel are working together,” Jayce said. “You seem close now.”

“Mmm, we have similar interests. Our families get on well, though we've only managed to holiday the one time.” 

“What's her family like?” 

Caitlyn chuckled. “Look at you, so nosy. But I'll spare you having to ask her yourself. She's got four little ones, though they're hardly little anymore seeing as one has given her a grandchild.” 

“Four?” Jayce sputtered. And grandchild?

“The three eldest are from her husband's previous marriage. If I remember correctly, there was a bit of an uproar about her match, something about the next Medarda heir being outnumbered in their own household. But Mel said she liked his kids maybe even more than she liked him, said it was like inheriting a miniature army.” 

Hearing about the happy life that Mel had put together, the life she utterly deserved, made Jayce's heart swell, but it also unmoored something in him. He was so far behind, so disconnected from the most important people in his life. Catching up felt impossible.

The same part of him that missed his mother with an animal ferocity asked him to imagine a world where he'd heeded Viktor's final wish, where he’d returned to his life as he was meant to live it, where the runestone in his wrist served as a reminder of his broken promise. He could've helped Piltover and Zaun rebuild. He could've determined his own legacy. He’d have been there for funerals, for engagements and marriages, for the birth of his friends’ children and for every one of their birthdays after that. 

He imagined: 

Ekko helping him off the roof of the Hexgate, them getting along as best they could, two of Heimerdinger’s former pupils speculating on the future of the city and bringing those speculations to fruition.

Caitlyn shyly holding up her hand to show an engagement ring, Jayce scooping her up in a bone-crushing hug. 

Mel getting married, resplendent as a goddess and happier than she'd ever been, Jayce giving a speech at her reception, clapping her husband on the back in congratulations. 

Vi holding a chubby-cheeked Callista, her mothers taking a nap while Jayce played with her.

His mother's health slowly declining the way that everyone's did, Jayce caring for her every step of the way. 

And through every scene of this imagined life, a void loomed large in the background, dark and ragged like the silhouette torn through the Hexcore frame in their old lab, a black hole that bent the world around it.

In all timelines.

In all fucking timelines. 

Was that a burden? A privilege? A responsibility? A curse? A call to arms? A desperate plea? Was it destiny? Was it choice? Did it even matter if he chose the same every time? 

Jayce's heart beat like a trapped animal in his chest, gnawing at his ribs with guilt. A wave of nausea rolled over him. His rock solid confidence in his choice was beginning to erode, and it made him sick. 

Caitlyn’s face pinched in concern. “Jayce, are you quite alright?” 

He blinked quickly, turning away. “It's just a lot.” He could barely remember what Cait had been talking about a second ago. “I’m really, um, happy. For all of you.” He clapped a clawed hand over his mouth, fingers pressing at his jaw and cheekbones.

“No, you are not,” Caitlyn said. “This isn’t what happy looks like.”

Jayce shrugged. Gods only knew why he was able to do that but not get a hold of himself. 

He didn’t want this world where he was no longer a part of his loved ones’ lives. And he didn’t want the hypothetical world where he stayed, thirty years passed, and no one emerged from the runestone’s non-existent spell. 

He wanted the impossible world where he spent those years with Viktor. He wanted Viktor beside him at the funerals and the weddings and the birthdays and every day he could get, the normal days, the boring ones, the hard and painful ones. 

Caitlyn hugged him. She was exactly the same size and stature as Jayce remembered, but she’d developed a brittleness. His arms wrapped around her like a reflex. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he said. 

“You said that before.”

“Yeah, but right now I’m just really, really sorry.” 

“It’s not fair,” Caitlyn said. She made no move to detach herself, seemingly comfortable having this discussion right where they were. “It’s not fair at all. That’s what I’d always think in those first few years after you died. We were at war, I know, but I could’ve made different decisions, planned better, not fallen for that shit decoy or let a spy into my bed. I could’ve been with you, done something.”

“Cait,” Jayce said, pulling away to hold her by the shoulders, “what happened wasn’t your fault.” 

“Ha, it’s easy to say that. I declared martial law, overrode the council. The last time we spoke—”

“The last time we spoke, you were going along with all my ideas.”

“That’s not how I remember it.”

“Well, it’s been a while for you.”

Caitlyn gave a sharp shake of her head, her trademark confidence returning. “I don’t need your consolation. I’ve long come to terms with my failings, and there’s no doubt I was in command at the Battle of the Hexgate. Piltover was my city, you were my citizen. But now you’re back, and you’re still family to me, and I will do whatever I can to make sure you’re safe and happy. You missed so much, but you don’t have to miss anymore.” 

Jayce slumped in simultaneous defeat and relief. “That’s about all I could ever ask for.”

—

It felt callous, but Jayce spent most of that day avoiding Viktor. And Mel. Avoiding everyone, really, except for Atlas, and that was only because Atlas put him to work pulling books from the Medarda library to investigate the Amaranthine problem. 

“I’ve never heard of a chemtech that does this,” he muttered, paging through a tome the thickness of his arm before slamming it shut, “selectively melting matter. It doesn’t touch minerals or plant cells unless they;re part of an arcaniforme, but it could be that a chemical reaction is creating some new element that we can’t isolate. Did Amaranthine tell you anything actually useful?”

Jayce looked up from his own reading. It didn’t have anything to do with the problem at hand, but since he wasn’t especially versed in chemistry or biology, he was doing his best to study up. The more thought he devoted to organic metabolites and molecule structures, the less he had to think about his life in general.

“She said something about a knot,” he offered. “Deep down in the earth.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Atlas groaned in frustration. “Tell Viktor that the next time he creates a god child of plants he needs to make them speak in Piltovan and not riddles.”

“Maybe she’s talking about the core at the base of the Hexgate?” Though, Viktor had removed the anomaly and taken it with him to the roof.

“I hope not,” Atlas said. “They buried everything below the Archive in concrete.”

“Not that, then. Could be that the sump swamp melted into a pocket of heavy metals. What did the undercity mines even produce, anyways?” 

“That’s a Callista question. But we could likely rule out anything carcinogenic, considering, I mean, I think we would know.” 

Jayce flipped the pages of his book aimlessly. “We’re getting off track. It would be too big a coincidence for this chemical to be occurring accidentally in the canals but also be used to attack Viktor. They melted in the exact same way.” The memory still made him shudder. 

“You’ll have to show me the spot where Amaranthine brought you,” Atlas said. “I can take some samples, and it’ll be an opportunity to test out some modifications I’ve been making to the bluebird algae.” He mimed the shape of an explosion with his hands, which, in the context of plants, was mildly concerning.

A knock at the door. Less than a breath later it opened, clattering against the metal cart loaded with a dinner service brought by an hour ago, the food cold and forgotten. 

Mel glanced at the discarded dinner. “Too much work on your plates to make room for anything else, I see.”

Atlas’ stomach gave a shrill gurgle, reminded of its purpose. He blushed slightly. “Maybe I just like my food cold,” he said, wandering over to the cart and picking up a piece of chicken and a handful of grapes. 

Mel smiled at him as he passed. Then her attention shifted. “Jayce. I’ve barely seen you all day. I missed you quite a bit. Viktor too.” 

Jayce couldn’t help but frown. “You’re… spending time together?” 

“He wants a better understanding of his abilities and general existence, and I have a lifetime of experience dealing in aspects of the arcane. There’s a lot to talk about.” 

It was clear that Mel wanted to speak with Jayce as well, but before they could have a chance, the door flew open again. This time, the dinner cart tipped over, scattering fruits and spattering a green sauce across the toe of Mel's boot.

Callista marched in, eyes stormy. “Atlas! And you know what, Jayce, you too. Tell them this is bullshit.” 

Atlas looked to his mothers as they followed Callista into the room. “It's bullshit,” he told them, popped a grape in his mouth, then asked Callista, “What's bullshit?”

“They're shipping the Noxian mage kids off to the empire.”

“Cal,” Vi said, but she stopped when her daughter glared at her. She told Caitlyn, “I knew we shouldn't have said anything.” 

“Like I wouldn't have found out anyways,” Callista said. “Really. How could you?” 

“Knock it off,” Atlas said. “It's not like Mum didn't try.”

“And now we're going to have to follow through on it. They're not even Noxian.”

Atlas swallowed and crossed his arms. “You won't have anything to do with it, Cal. You're not on the council yet, Mum is, and at this rate you'll be banned from the room before you even get a chance.”

“Bite me.”

“Fuckin’ eloquent.” 

“Repatriating the children to Noxus is for the best,” Mel said, inserting herself into the family row the same way one might slide a lid over a grease fire. “We can't force them to rescind their citizenship and accept allegiance to Noxus, but—”

“You can banish them from Piltover,” Callista said. 

Mel nodded gently in the face of the girl's ire. “And offer them substantial support and incentive for immigrating to Noxus under my family's protection and tutelage. Piltover embarrassed the empire once, and our city is still licking its wounds from that fight. We are in no position to refuse.”

“The empire wouldn't really invade,” Atlas said, half a question.

“The age of mechanized magic may have come and gone, but there is still much in Piltover that can fuel the engines of war. And, should word get out about the return of two particular scientists, Hextech may be back on the table.” To Jayce, she said, “You've only made the situation more precarious it seems.”

“I'm alright to stay dead, if that helps,” he said. 

“How kind,” Mel said. “Regardless, the young mages may be safer in Noxus. Magic appears to be under fire on both sides of the Pilt. How many attacks was it now?” 

Panic flashed briefly across Vi's face as Callista rounded on her. 

“More attacks?” Callista asked. “More, Mom? How many?” 

Mel made an apologetic expression as Vi hesitated. 

“Seven,” Vi admitted. “Not all fatal, but most of them against revenants. And that Stelei boy is still missing in action.” Callista opened her mouth, but Vi held up a hand. “Wait until you know the whole thing before you start yelling again, okay? Because it's worse. The council wants to reinstate Enforcer jurisdiction in Zaun.”

Callista's anger had surpassed her ability to speak, and she simply stood there boiling in rage. 

“Look,” Vi said, “I'm pissed too. I gave them an inch and now they're taking the mile, but it's lives on the line.”

“The council doesn't give a shit about lives.”

“Young lady!” Caitlyn said. 

“Not you, Mum. Just. When has an increased Enforcer presence ever solved the problem? There has to be something more we can do.”

No one had an answer for her. She looked to Jayce, and he gave her an uncomfortable, pitying look. “I'm no politician.” 

Callista sneered at that. “Coward.” She strode from the room, calling back over her shoulder, “If I'm not home tonight, I'm staying at Terrace. And I'm telling Ekko about the Enforcers!”

In the silence that followed, Vi slumped in a chair next to Jayce, leaning over to half-whisper, “Man, don't ever have kids.” 

Atlas scoffed in protest. “I'm right here!”

—

Jayce didn’t get another chance to speak with Mel until the next day when he accompanied Viktor back across the river. 

“I need a better grasp of my abilities if I’m to remake this body,” he told Jayce as they crossed the bridge. “Without the anomaly to translate my will, it seems I’m… less adept than I’d like. Councilor— that is, Ambassador Medarda, has offered her expertise.”

While Jayce would’ve gone with him regardless, Viktor had sought him out, approaching him with just a hint of embarrassment. Jayce got the sense that he didn’t want to deal with Mel on his own again, especially not while she taught him. There was something uniquely vulnerable about being a pupil. 

This is how Jayce ended up spending the day parked under a magnolia tree in the Medarda’s garden, scribbling into a notebook while Mel drilled arcane concepts into Viktor’s head. 

He tried his best to keep an eye on them, to make sure Viktor was comfortable, but Jayce was just starting to understand how the engineers of this new age had integrated the arcaniformes into their designs, and it all but swept him away. Organic, chemical reactions generated light and emitted heat. Muscle-like plant ligaments acted in place of pneumatics, contracting and relaxing in accordance with electrical signals. Broad-leafed fronds synthesized solar energy into Resin batteries, ready to be used to power untold machines. Metal exoskeletons self-repaired. Roots and stalks distilled medicine. Inventions came alive, literally alive.

There was no doing away with trusty clockwork and ergonomics, but the rest of it was new and exciting and, most importantly, it gave him something to focus on. 

Every so often, a sharp sound had him yank his head out of his sketches and look over. Mel and Viktor were both arguers. Jayce was more of a debater—a necessary distinction, because every time their voices grew tense, he expected a fight to break out. But no, they were communicating, apparently.

“Like I said,” Viktor said, “there is no way to be precise with your intentions without a language system: runes, letters, symbols, signed gestures, something.”

“You lack confidence, that’s all,” Mel said.

“I— pff.” The stammer had an uncanny, metal timber to it. “I am perfectly confident in my assessment that I could take any Hextech runic sequence and apply it here.” 

“If it helps you to be pedantic and obstinate, I have no qualms against it, but do you remember any of the runic sequences off the top of your head?” She held up a hand. “Don’t. Don’t answer that. My point is, you are the runes now. Inscriptions like those are how we teach inanimate materials how to speak with the arcane, but it’s slow and limited.” 

“No need to hold back; that’s only my life’s work you are dismissing.” 

And they would continue on like that until Mel could cajole Viktor into meditating or practicing. After a while, Viktor needed to pause and lay down in a bed of bronze-coloured, arcaniforme dahlias to recoup his energy, and Mel walked up the gentle, mossy hill to sit with Jayce. 

“He must’ve been quite the terror in school,” she said. 

Jayce stuck a piece of scrap into his notebook to mark the page. “I don’t think he went half the time from what he told me.”

“Not many Zaunite children do,” Mel said. “Too many still need to contribute to their family’s earnings, but I’m not here to talk about the undercity’s educational infrastructure. Would you like me to broach this delicately or honestly?”

Jayce gave her a sideways look. “Were you ever actually a delicate person?”

“That’s the spirit,” Mel said, staring him dead in the eye. “So, you and Viktor: are you fucking?”

“Gods above, Mel!”

“You make a good pair.”

Mouth parted in shock, face scarlet, it took Jayce several long seconds of thought to conjure up a coherent response. “Thirty years and that’s what you ask me?”

“It is when I notice you’ve been moping about like someone’s melted your favourite pair of pliers in the forge.” 

“I— you can’t just— honestly, what the hell.”

“Let not the lady protest too much.” 

“We’re fine, if that’s what you’re getting at. As fine as we can be.”

“So then, are you…?”

“We’re not,” Jayce said firmly, trying to will the flush from his cheeks. He was a grown man. “We’re not really anything right now. I— what gave you the idea we would be, you know, doing that?” 

“Because I know you, and because Vi mentioned something about you two being feelsy with each other. You’ve always cared for him very deeply. It wouldn’t come as a surprise.”

Jayce looked out across the garden to where Viktor lay among the dahlias, the flowerheads inclining towards him as if to whisper secrets. Then he looked back to Mel, the sunlight dancing across her smile lines. Mel, who was always his landing place in the old days, a source of strength and comfort. 

“He’s like my one universal constant,” Jayce breathed, letting his back fall against the magnolia. 

“That’s an interesting way to put it,” Mel said, “seeing as he’s changed so much.” 

“He’s still Viktor.” 

“For that, I am glad.” 

“Me too. More than anything.”

“And yet you’re moping.”

Jayce closed his eyes, felt the rough bark against his back, the spongy moss beneath him, the irritated tug of sore muscles in his leg. He sighed. “I’ve realized lately, I think this is it for me. He’s it for me. It’s Viktor. It’s always going to be Viktor.”

Mel placed a soft hand on Jayce’s knee. “And that upsets you?”

“It shouldn’t.”

Mel hummed thoughtfully. “My understanding is that you’ve always been a visionary. You love nothing more than to gaze out at the vast expanse of possibility and dream, and truth is the death of possibility, in a way. Once you make a decision, all your other choices are lost to you. And when the heart decides…” 

“‘S not just my heart,” Jayce muttered. 

A fond laugh leapt from Mel’s throat, and she tugged at Jayce, inviting him to lean against her. Which he did. “You precious man. I will say this: ages ago, I watched you two become who you are. You grew into each other. Speaking from my own experience, partnership is not one decision but years of small, forgettable ones.You can grieve all the choices you didn’t make, but you still need to honour those that you did.”

Sometime in the middle of Mel’s speech, Jayce’s eyes had opened, half-lidded, to find Viktor again. All of their decisions had brought them to precisely this moment, and wasn’t it amazing that he was able to watch Viktor at rest, safe and alive and beautiful? The weight in Jayce’s chest didn’t lift, but it warmed. 

Mel ran her fingers through Jayce’s hair. “I would’ve married you, Jayce Talis.”

It was Jayce’s turn to laugh. “Really?” 

“But I don’t see that having worked out. You’d have to take my family name, naturally, and it doesn’t quite suit you.” 

Jayce thought about it and pulled a face. “Ooh, you’re right, that does not sound good. That’s too bad.” He gave a tiny smirk. “For you.” 

Mel swatted him. “You haven’t met my husband! Contrary to popular belief, there are better men than you out there.”

“Cait said he came as a package deal.” 

At that, Mel’s demeanor softened. “He did.”

“Can you tell me about them? Your kids?”

Mel’s hesitation lasted barely a second. “Alright. We’ll go in order then. Concordia is the eldest…” 

And as Jayce listened to Mel talk about her family, he felt no sorrow at all.

Chapter Text

Three days before it snowed, Viktor took his first solo trip into the revenant’s Entresol neighborhood. 

Orianna sent him to fetch some schematics and components that she’s forgotten at her apartment, though Viktor suspected this was on purpose. As if it wouldn’t have been quicker to do it herself. As if it were truly impossible to remove herself from beneath the Bathus where she and Jayce and Callista were fiddling about in the undercarriage. 

Still, he indulged her. He seemed to do that with alarming frequency as of late. 

Orianna shared a living space with two other revenants, both of whom Viktor greeted awkwardly. At least they helped him find the cloth bag and notebook that Orianna had left behind, fishing them from among the clutter of frilly clothes and sparkling, glass mobiles in her room.

And as Viktor retraced his steps back to Terrace Hall, he observed how the revenants prepared for Jubilee. 

Rather than stock bars with bottles and kegs, they sought out pleasant textures and sounds. Musicians practiced sea shanty tunes from their windows. Wooden chimes clattered from the eaves. Metal braziers cast radii of heat across the boardwalk. Mechanical contraptions blew wind. 

Viktor passed more than a few windowsills transformed into altars to various spirits and demigods. Janna figured prominently. Masks of the Kindred sported horns and snouts, fins and feathers depending on the mother culture. There were even a few shrines to the Bearded Lady praying for prosperity at sea. 

A stall near the canal corner sold clay effigies of the spirits, shiny glazed lambs and wolves, azure multi-winged birds, a huddled figure with a star for a face. 

The vendor noticed Viktor slow as he passed, and they perked up. “Anything I can help you with?” The love of their craft extended to their own body, the ceramic adornments dangling from the metal crown of their head so numerous they looked almost as alien as Viktor.

Viktor tapped a finger to each of the effigies. “Lamb, Wolf, Janna…” He picked up the star-faced figure. 

“Herald.”

The figurine slipped from Viktor’s fingers, twirling to the table where it cracked in thirds to reveal the hollow inside. 

“Beg pardon?”

The vendor startled. “Wha— hey! You’re paying for that!”

“You worship —?”

“Where are you going? Stop—”

A figure swept into Viktor’s periphery and placed a pair of coins on the vendor’s table. “You’ll have to excuse him,” the figure said. “Our friend here is new to the land of the living.” 

It took Viktor a moment to place them: Dulce, the speaker at the meeting who represented the revenant community. Today, he’d wrapped long, pale yellow scarves around his head along with a beaded net that glittered in the sun. 

The vendor muttered something, still glaring at Viktor, but they collected the coins. 

“Such a pretty piece,” Dulce said. He collected each of the ceramic shards—two halves of the body and the head—one by one into his hands. “Seems a waste to leave it, no matter the damage.” And with that, he continued on his way.

“Wait a moment.” Viktor hastened to follow him down the boardwalk. “Do you people genuinely revere that… that person?”

Dulce cocked his head to the side. “The Herald?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose that is the danger,” Dulce said, picking up the ceramic, star-shaped head, “of making objects such as these. Most folk assume that we think of him as our creator, a god-figure, but none of us remember a thing about him. Do you?”

“I— no.” It was the safest answer. 

“Neither does Piltover or Zaun. It’s just a story now, and we make those up however we like. You're offended by the depiction?” 

They reached a criss-cross of plank bridges over the canals and had to sidestep the oncoming foot traffic, both human and revenant, adults and children. 

“I do not understand,” Viktor said. “Why make little statues? Why place him next to Janna or any of the other spirits?” 

“You might want to ask the sculptor,” Dulce said. “I can’t speak for them, but I think it’s the same reason why Zaunites embrace the brash and the crude sides of life: defiance.” 

At this, Viktor laughed. “The Herald was not a rebel.” 

“Ah, no,” Dulce admitted. “But he was a Zaunite, and he wanted to help his people so badly that he broke the world. Piltover wants to make it about the breaking. Zaun spits on that. We like a little breaking.” 

They arrived at what had once been one of the main roads running through the Lanes. Now, it was a thoroughfare for boat traffic: flat barges loaded with goods, small transport ferries, skiffs with canopies propped overhead to make shade. 

“How are you settling into your new life?” Dulce asked. “I heard Orianna has adopted you.” 

Viktor lifted the bag of schematics and parts. “She has me running errands.”

“Glad to hear you’re making yourself useful.” Dulce paused, gazed out over the canal. “Don’t tell her so, but I was worried about her for a while.” 

“Was it— is there something to be worried about?”

“No, no. It’s only that, well, Zaunites are already liberal with who they consider family, and you might’ve noticed that us revenants are even more so.” 

“Seeing as you lack a… biological alternative,” Viktor said. “It makes sense.”

“But Orianna never found a household, no siblings or cousins or relatives of any kind. Not to say she doesn’t have friends. She’s always been a warm presence in the community, but I got the sense that she held others at arm’s length, so I’m grateful that she’s grown so fond of you.” 

It wasn’t by chance that Orianna was drawn to him. He had a history with Singed, her father, and perhaps that was the very thing that kept her from opening up to the others. That same breed of guilt that gnawed at Viktor clung to Orianna as well. No matter if she could acknowledge it with a straight face, it still lingered, still kept her from feeling like she deserved to belong. 

“Can I ask you…” Viktor trailed off, watching how the broken pieces of his effigy glinted in Dulce’s hands. “This might be an odd question.” 

“Try me.”

“Are you happy?”

Dulce took a moment to answer, watching the boats pass as he thought. He was clearly a shrewd, caring man, and so he searched for the question behind Viktor’s question. 

“I’m as happy as any other person in the twin cities. You know, we move through the world differently, but we have good days and bad the same way we always did.”

“You don’t ever think about who you were before?”

Dulce chuckled. “Who has the time?” Then he sobered. “Well, I did, at first. When you emerge from the grave as a whole new person, it’s— you want something to hold on to. To reference, maybe. But you won’t ever get more than scraps and flashes of memory.” 

“I see.” 

“But that feeling fades with time. That other person is gone. I know it’s scary, but the best thing you can do now is honour them by living this life as your own self.”

Shame dripped cold Viktor’s spine. This encouragement was not meant for him, not really. 

“Here,” Dulce said. He placed the shards of ceramic in Viktor’s hand. “You may not know exactly who you are yet, but you strike me as the sort of person who knows how to put things back together. I’ll entrust this little guy to you.” 

“I don’t…”

“Orianna will like him.” Dulce turned, walking away down the boardwalk. “Don’t keep her waiting.” 

Viktor stood there, hands cupped around the shards, feeling the smoothed glazed texture contrasted with the rough, scratchy insides, and he sighed. Why not? He knew already where in the workshop they kept the glue. 

—

A day and a half before it snowed, Orianna shooed Viktor away from where he was hovering over her shoulder, peering into the cockpit of the Bathus. 

“I’ve almost got it,” she insisted, three wires pinched in one hand and a soldering iron in the other. A drop of flux dribbled onto her thigh and she brushed it aside, the cooled bead skittering across the metal floor. “We won’t have to take the whole component out if I can just get around this corner. I’m not reinstalling that panel for the third time.”

So Viktor stepped back. Even though he could’ve done it himself, and even though he knew four different, better ways of fixing this problem, he let Orianna dig her own grave. Climbing back out would be instructive. 

He clambered out of the Bathus, the submersible taking shape piece by piece. Its hull still needed to be reinforced and treated with chems, and the locomotion was rudimentary, but it would be serviceable soon. 

Soon. Soon they’d salvage what was left of the doctor’s old laboratory. Soon Viktor would have the critical agent needed to remake his body. 

His sessions with Ambassador Medarda had given him a lot to think about. This regeneration would need to be the most purposeful one yet, especially if it was to be his last. Previously, there had always been an outside influence, the Arcane itself, guiding his choices. Its absence would be a double-edged sword—Viktor would have more autonomy but also need to endure more mental, physical, and spiritual strain. The sticky-sweet adrenaline boost of Shimmer would be more critical than ever. 

He cleared space at the workbench and sketched a rudimentary human form onto a sheet of draft paper. 

Mel meant well, but she had her understanding of magic and Viktor had his. Runes may be limited and inflexible once inscribed, but standardized Zaunish only had twenty seven letters excluding tone indicators, and yet it had translated every swear, curse, and slur on Runeterra into one unified language..

Language, code, math, formula. Limited but infinite. Even in his ascended state, this was how he'd understood the world. The only problem was that now, without the anomaly, his perception and influence were mortal, so back to paper and pencil it was. 

The tricky part wasn't the magic; it was, as always, the human body. 

Systems upon systems, organisms within the organism, redundancies, chemistries, fallacies. You pulled one pin and the whole mess fell apart. And yet, all of this needless complexity was more sustainable in the long-term than the form he occupied at present. 

There was no precedent for reforming an elevated lifeform back into a human being. He couldn’t research. He couldn’t test. He would have one shot.

After too long spent trying to wrap his head around it, he ended up assigning his anatomy arbitrary number values and fiddling aimlessly with basic arithmetic. 

The door to the workshop opened, boots and cane descended the small set of stairs, then ascended the ramp that led into the Bathus. A pause. 

“Need any help?” Jayce asked. 

The clank of metal as Orianna set down the soldering iron. “Hm! I, uh— no, I’m fine.”

Another pause. “You know, it may be easier if you—”

“Ah-tah-tah-tah! Shh! I said I’m fine, thank you!” 

The sound of Jayce clambering out of the Bathus and walking over to seat himself next to Viktor at the workbench. He lowered his voice. “Do you know she’s—”

“Yes.”

“And we’re just gonna—”

“She will figure it out.”

Jayce looked back over his shoulder. “How long do you think that’ll take?”

“Eh, five cogs on it being within fifteen minutes.” 

“You want to bet on—?” From the depths of the Bathus, Orianna cursed again. Jayce thought for a second. “Okay, five cogs on it being more than fifteen.”

“Betting against the poor girl? Shame on you. What a blessing to all the students at the Academy that you were too busy changing the world to be a TA.” 

“You said less so I had to say—! Never mind.” Jayce stopped himself, waving away the thought as if it were fumes from a botched reaction. He tapped his finger to Viktor’s notes. “What’s this you’re working on? It’s all… calculations?”

Viktor could’ve lied. He could’ve offered something vague, omitted the details, and Jayce probably would’ve let him. But no. Instead he came right out with it.

“I am trying to decide how long I would like to live.” 

Jayce made a choked sound. “I hope the answer is ‘as long as scientifically possible’.”

Viktor gave a rough sigh. “I knew you would say that.”

“What else am I supposed to say?” 

No answer, not yet. 

“Viktor,” Jayce prompted, indignant.

So Viktor turned, the Herald’s mask staring impassively down at his partner. “You drink, no?” 

“I— Yes,” Jayce admitted. He knew what Viktor was doing; they both did. If ever Viktor needed Jayce to agree with him on something, he’d force him through a series of small, obvious concessions before he arrived at his actual point, like building momentum towards a verbal steamroll. The technique had lost most of its oomph after the fourth time when Jayce caught onto the pattern, but Viktor still did it anyways. Old, comfortable habits and such.

Viktor continued, “And as a young man you played that idiotic Piltie sport you told me about, the one with the funny hats and the shoving.”

“Rugby.” 

“That one, yes.”

“I didn’t exactly like playing that.”

“Yet you played. And you enjoyed more than a few all-nighters with me in the lab.”

“Again, I’m not sure if ‘enjoyed’ is the right word.” 

“Eh. Point being, none of those activities are something your body necessarily appreciates. More than likely they shorten your lifespan, but you partake in them anyway for one reason or another.”

“I get it,” Jayce said, biting back his annoyance. “Not everything everyone does is good for their health, but people don’t think about it like that.”

“Sick people do. A lot.” 

“I just don’t like you talking about it so… flippantly. Like you don’t care.”

“This is not an easy decision for me either,” Viktor said, drumming his fingers over the papers, “hence the math. And it’s all estimates, anyways. Look at this, I’m rounding by fives for Janna’s sake.” 

Jayce snorted, an attempt to acknowledge the joke that sounded contemptuous instead. “Why is there even a decision to make here? Why isn’t the answer to live as long as possible?”

“Because bodies are finite. We can care for them as long as we like, but eventually they give. I will construct my body as best I can with what resources I have, but I suspect that it can either be durable or it can be able. Not both. It is equivalent exchange.” 

“And what’s wrong with durable?”

Viktor’s eyes dimmed as if he were squeezing them shut. Jayce was dodging, being purposefully obstinate. He knew what Viktor meant.

“The first time in my life I ever ran,” Viktor said, “was after the Hexcore repaired my leg.”

Jayce blinked. “What?”

“You read my old notes, no? The Hexcore, when I was experimenting, I tested its capabilities on my leg first. After the modification, I wanted to gauge its strength. I thought I’d last twenty minutes, but I walked for over an hour without tiring. And then…” Here his voice softened, stretched into something wistful. “And then there was this long strip of dock. You know, the public harbour where the pleasure craft and fishing boats moor? It was night and the whole damn thing was empty and I just… ran.” 

The workshop was perfectly silent for a single breath in, a breath out. 

“For the first time,” Jayce murmured, as if trying to wrap his head around the idea.

“Yes. It was… nice. To feel my lungs burn the way lungs are supposed to. The air was so cold it made my throat dry, and I got a stitch in my side. The soles of my feet were sore from slapping against the stone.”

“You were barefoot?” Jayce asked, the barest suggestion of a laugh in his voice. 

“I was. I don’t remember why.” But he remembered everything else, every sensation, with perfect clarity. And, though it shouldn’t be possible, as the Machine Herald possessed no larynx or trachea, Viktor’s voice broke in half with vulnerability. “Jayce, I just want to run again.” 

It was the first time he’d spoken it aloud, how much he coveted the ease with which others moved through the world. The ease that this artificial body had in spades. The ease which he couldn’t bear to lose, not entirely, not forever. 

Jayce held him then, and that didn’t seem right, on account of them being in the middle of an argument. Viktor let it happen. 

“Please don’t trade too much of yourself away,” Jayce said, his forehead pressed to Viktor’s shoulder. 

“How much is too much?” Viktor could feel Jayce’s sigh of frustration against his metal skin. “How many years would you give to erase this?” he asked, tracing a hand over Jayce’s braced leg. “To— to fix it?”

“Viktor—”

“There’s a number. You might not say it, but you know. There is a number.”

“Maybe there’s a range,” Jayce conceded. “A small range of very low numbers.”

“Mhmm,” Viktor hummed. He patted Jayce lightly on the back. “Let me go?”

Jayce hesitated, because of course he did. “Don’t really want to.” 

“You will let me go and you will listen to me.”

Jayce released him, but his hands lingered on Viktor’s forearms. “Is it really so selfish for me to want as much time with you as possible? You get to live that life too.”

Viktor steeled himself. His will could only weather the storm of Jayce’s affection for so long. He wouldn’t give; that wasn’t the danger. But the beautiful, soft, tormented look in his partner’s eyes would carve wounds into the muscle of his heart, more pain for him to carry, more seams at which to unravel. 

“I am my own person, Jayce,” he said, forceful. “Just because you care for me—”

“Viktor, I don’t just care—”

“I know. We agreed. I know.”

“I chose you over everything.”

And again he returns to this same place, this same refrain. “You could’ve left me.”

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t, and I didn’t.”

“So now I owe you my life.” He stated it as a challenge. “I owe you as long a life as I can give you, no matter what that looks like, provided I am there. For you.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“That is what I’m hearing.” 

“You’re all I have,” Jayce said. He said it so easily, dragged it limp from the depths of his chest like a cold, pale thing. “I chose this, I know, and I will always choose you. Always. You don’t owe me for that, but I’m asking… I guess what I’m asking for is mercy.” 

“Mercy,” Viktor repeated. “Do I truly cause you such pain?”

“Sometimes! Maybe! I just don’t want to watch you die again.”

“Ah.”

“But I will. I’ll watch. I’ll stay. I’ll do whatever you want no matter how much it hurts.” He sucked in a shaky breath. “But please. Don’t make me.”

Viktor was quiet for a long while after that. When he finally spoke, it was slow, intentional. “Jayce.”

“Yes?” He said it so quickly, so eagerly. 

It took every bit of Viktor’s strength to continue. “I am going to ask that you leave now."

“What—”

"Because if we continue," Viktor said, forcefully, flatly, "I will begin to yell and you will begin to pout, and neither of us need that right now."

"Viktor..."

“I do not have any kind words left for you right now!" he snapped. "I will find you when I'm ready to speak with you again. I will find you. You will wait." Because this was about him, his life, his being. It wasn't about Jayce, not matter how intertwined, how singular and collective their existence had become.

Jayce swallowed hard. “Okay.” He hovered, like he wanted to say more, remembered himself, and ultimately decided against it. The door shut behind him, the sound echoing against the elevated ceiling. 

Viktor didn’t know how long he spent staring at the far wall, his thoughts an indecipherable tumult, but his gaze gradually drifted to a pair of porcelain eyes peering at him over the unfinished hull of the Bathus. 

Once spotted, Orianna popped up like the world’s guiltiest gopher. “Hm! Sorry! I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t figure out how to leave.” 

Viktor shook his head. “Not your fault.”

“Um, I just wanted to say—”

“Please, withhold your input. I’m not in the mood to hear another opinion on how I should or shouldn’t live my life.”

“No, not that,” Orianna said. “I thought you should know that Jayce needs to pay up those five cogs. The part is installed. I figured it out.” 

Viktor’s head dropped into his hands, a humourless laugh escaping him. “I see. Thank you, Orianna.” 

He might owe Jayce his life, but at least Jayce owed him something in return. 

—

A quarter hour before it snowed, Viktor walked the quayside of the undercity harbour. The dock that he’d sprinted down all those years ago, on the Piltover side, had changed so thoroughly that it was barely the same place anymore. 

It didn’t matter; Viktor was similarly unrecognizable.

The air was unnaturally still that morning, a rare phenomenon for a port town. The wakes of passing ships lapped at the seawall in a steady rhythm. 

Viktor considered running down the quayside, letting the unnatural animal that was his body lope and stumble, his sharp metal angles slice the air, what passed for his hair stream out behind him along with his cloak. 

But there would be no point. His lungs wouldn’t heave. His joints wouldn’t ache. There would be nothing except the painless, sterile lack of energy that told him he was sunstarved. 

He hadn’t yet spoken to Jayce again since their argument. Perhaps that was what he would do with his morning. 

And it was with that thought, that reorientation back towards the city, that it began. There, on the cusp of early autumn with summer still warm in the air, snow fell softly over Zaun.

Chapter Text

A heartbeat after Jayce caught the first snowflake in his hand, frowning as it failed to melt, Amaranthine's scream rent the air. His blood went cold. He'd never heard anything like it in his life—a voice that small breaking from a pain so big. 

He stumbled, slammed against a metal railing. Foolishly, he'd stranded himself up a fire escape, Atlas having sent him searching above for the origin of the pipes that fed into the underground lake. It was the best task for him; Jayce got antsy being in that dark, damp space for too long. He hadn't gotten far, but now it felt like he'd put miles between him and the others. After all, maneuvering around the broken ducts and wrenching loose rust-caked ladders took some doing. And then it started to snow. 

“What's going on?!” he yelled down the side of the fissure wall. 

“I don't know!” Atlas was out of sight, still inside the cave. “She just—” 

Amaranthine screamed again, this time ending in a choked off sob of distress. 

Jayce's stomach twisted. He found himself bounding down the fire escape, palms burned raw where they slid against rusted metal, knee jolting with pain whenever he landed. The final leg of his descent sent him crashing to the metal gangway that led into the cavern tunnel, but he barely registered it. He scrambled upright. Ran. 

Amaranthine had curled into a ball on the ground, fists balled, the golden grass of her hair splayed out wildly like the twitching limbs of a dying insect. 

Atlas hovered over her, lost and horrified. He looked wordlessly to Jayce.

Jayce knelt, pained leg splayed at an awkward angle, and placed a hand on her back, trying to ground her, to bring her back around. 

“Amaranthine,” he said. 

She just sobbed, milky tears like dandelion sap beading from her floral eyes. 

He persisted. “Anthy. What's wrong? What hurts? You need to tell us.”

“It's bad,” she croaked. “It's-bad-it's-bad-it's-really-bad.”

“What's bad?”

“Everything-everyone-it-hurts-it hurts-so-bad.” 

“It's okay,” Jayce said, rubbing circles on her back. “It's going to be okay.”

“No! No, they need—” She grabbed for him wildly, finding the fabric of his pants and jacket, burying her face in his side. “They need help. It's all, it's all—” 

“Holy shit.” Atlas had stepped away, lingering at the mouth of the tunnel where the light of morning that had once poured in was now muted. Translucent. A flurry of white swirled over his shoes, scattering across the tunnel floor. 

Amaranthine shrieked and flung her arms around Jayce's middle as if trying to hide. 

“You're safe,” he said. “You're safe here.”

“No, no, no,” she insisted. 

Atlas squinted. “It's— I can barely see the way back to the Lanes, it's so thick.”

“It's not really snow,” Jayce said, still holding Amaranthine tight and smoothing down her erratic hair. 

“No,” Atlas said, reaching his hand out to catch a handful of flakes. His palm came away dusted white. “It's like dust. Particulate. From a building collapse maybe?”

“It's taking everything apart,” Amaranthine said around a hiccup. “They need help. We have to help—it hurts really bad.”

Jayce adjusted so that she sat on his hip, the tendrils and vines of her arms around his neck. “Help who?” 

“Everyone.” 

“Okay, okay.” He couldn't blame her for being incoherent. Her thoughts were disorganized on a good day—likely a combination of her mental age and being magically tethered to the arcaniformes’ overwhelming network. Fighting through the pain and fear to communicate as much as she was… it must've taken incredible effort. 

“You're very brave,” he told her. “Tell us what you need us to do.” 

“Back,” she said with a whine. “Back to the city. It's all coming apart. Need to stop, help, it's wrong.”

“You want to come with us?”

Amaranthine nodded. 

“Okay.” It took Jayce a second to figure out how to stand. Amaranthine was almost comically light, but she was latched onto him like a baby opossum and it unbalanced them. “Let's go.”

“You're not serious,” Atlas said. He jerked a thumb to the white pall outside. “You want to go out in that?” 

“She says that someone needs help,” Jayce said. 

As if on cue, a shout rang out somewhere unseen. Then a booming noise like something caving in.

“Janna's sake,” Atlas said. He dug through the supply bag he'd brought for their survey; the amount of compartments and pockets bordered on parody. “Here.” He held out a mask that covered the nose and mouth, two filters on either side. Once Jayce took it, he grabbed another and put it on, muffling his voice. “I use these with fungi or cryptogams, uh, stuff with spores. They're rated for particulate. And vapours, but I don't think this is chemtech.” 

Jayce struggled to don the mask while also supporting Amaranthine with one hand, but he managed. 

They hurried out of the tunnel and towards the heart of Zaun. 

Instantly, Amaranthine shrank away from the not-snow. Her leafy form curled into itself, compacting, and she pulled Jayce's coat over her head. 

As they rounded a corner, Atlas grabbed Jayce by the shoulder to get his attention. He gestured to a patch of roots embedded into the nearby wall. They were… smearing. Melting. Like the plants in the cave. Like Viktor that one terrible night.

“Move!” Sharp grass dug into the skin of Jayce's neck, Amaranthine tightening her grip like a startled kitten.

Jayce stumbled back as the tree above them crashed to the ground. Just like its roots, the trunk and branches were softening to mulch. In another minute, they might be a puddle.

From the other side of the fallen tree, Jayce caught Atlas’ terrified expression. They were clearly both thinking the same thing: just how far did the snowstorm reach?

— 

As Viktor finally arrived at the beginning of the Lanes, he found the word he was looking for: resonance. The sensation he felt, the sharp animal fear, the pain, the call—it was resonance. Not a compulsion, not a command, but the closest thing he could imagine to tangible empathy. A feeling that stuck in his chest like clotted blood. 

The revenants felt it too. Their shouts rang out the loudest among the denizens of the undercity. 

“Get inside!” he barked, shoving a trembling revenant through the doorway of a random shop. “Close the windows and doors. Stuff towels or whatever you can find into the cracks.”

His sharp movement caused the flap of his cloak to flutter free, dust to sneak in, and the horrible, itching tingle of dissolution to drip down his calves. He bundled the fabric tight around him. 

This wasn’t an entirely alien situation to him. Before he’d moved topside to attend the Academy, he’d enlisted as a volunteer in a civilian brigade that responded to chemspills and mining accidents. He wasn’t the most heroic set of hands, but they took anyone they could get, and being able to wash sobbing children or scatter chemical neutralizers went a long way.

But this was different. This wasn’t an acid spill or a shaft collapse. This was something nigh apocalyptic, swallowing up the entirety of the Lanes, sparring no one. 

Workers covered their mouths with scarves and sleeves to block the dust. Red-eyed mothers shepherded their children with quick, desperate motions. 

The sheer bewilderment Viktor read on many faces confused him until he realized that most of them hadn’t grown up with industrial disasters being a biannual occurrence. 

The revenants were faring the worst by far.

Not only were they coming apart at the molecular level, but Viktor could tell from the way they lurched and stumbled that the resonance was suffocating their minds. Whatever faint connection the Arcane had left them sang out. No instructions, no imperatives, but Viktor knew what he was being called to do. 

He rushed to a pair of them huddled under a shop awning. “That won’t help you; you need to get somewhere inside.” 

One of them had a river of unfused porcelain matter dripping from their temple to their arm and down their thigh, gumming up the joints. The other had blackened slop dappled across their shoulders, what must be the remains of arcaniforme grafts. They had their arm slung around their friend. 

“She can’t make it,” they told Viktor. “She’s all— it’s all—” Their partner shoved him like they wanted to break free, but they only tightened their grip. “No, stop, what is wrong with you?”

“Here,” Viktor said, undoing his cloak. What made for a good fit on him fell over the two like a great shadow. Instantly, he felt the gnawing of the snow on his skin, a burl of pain and wrongness where the fattest flakes landed. But he hooked his arm on the other side of the injured revenant, fighting against how she squirmed. “We’ll go together.”

In a burst of effort, they shot out from under the awning and towards the closest open door, Viktor stumbling and practically throwing them both in. He turned to head back outside. 

“Here!” The more stable of the two began to detangle themself from the cloak, their motions clumsy and stilted. 

“Shove it under the door once after I close it,” Viktor said. He couldn’t wait around. He slammed the door shut before any more snow could get in. 

He intended to stick to the alleys, to climb upwards. His hypothesis was that the snow gathered in low places—it was dust, after all. It would settle. The only unknown was how much damage it would wreak before then. 

A crack like thunder sounded overhead. His head whipped up. A tree, one of the gingko, was splitting in two. Bricks and boards and panes of glass of the houses built symbiotically into its trunk avalanched free. Viktor threw up his hands, tried to call on his magic, but what arcaniformes would help him now? They were all dying, helpless just like him. 

The boom of the collapse would’ve ruptured the eardrums he thankfully now lacked. When he could see again past the dust and debris, he found the bricks and stone held back by an invisible force. With a heave, they sloughed sideways into the canal. 

“You are… so lucky!” Orianna called, pausing as if to catch her breath, ticking almost violently. “I am not that good at this yet.”

The Armillary hummed at her hip, projecting a field that held the snow and rubble at bay. Though, the light sizzled where the snowflakes touched it, the magic unstable. 

Callista emerged from the fog next—these two, always so arm in arm. She'd tied a scarf over her nose and mouth so she resembled a bandit outlaw. Flakes caught in her hair. And the flakes… they were shifting in colour. 

The stark white atmosphere of dust had faded to a muted gray-brown, almost reddish. 

Callista ducked into the magic dome at the same time as Viktor and inhaled a lungful of clean air. She held up a notably large splinter of not-snow, completely unbothered while both Orianna and Viktor leaned away. “I know what this stuff is,” she said. “And what the deal with that knife was.”

“Wonderful news,” Viktor said. “However—” 

“Be smart later!” Orianna flicked her wrist and the Armillary yanked them backwards as another collapse churned the canal with more brick and mortar. 

“Right,” Callista said. “We're doing emergency response, right? The next street over is mostly residential. Let's go.”

As Viktor followed the two girls, everyone keeping their head on a swivel for signs of distress, he couldn't ignore the continued thrum of resonance, of deep seeded wrongness so strong it overwhelmed the storm around them. 

—

Jayce brushed snow off his coat to keep it from falling on Amaranthine. “I think I know what this is, but it doesn't make any sense.” 

“What part of this does make sense?” Atlas asked. 

Amaranthine tugged insistently on Jayce’s shirt, steering the trio down a sidestreet. 

“Fair, but I’m being serious. The only thing that can eat at magic like this—”

A blast of warm light painted the right wall of the alley, and Amaranthine jolted. “There. There-there-there. It hurts. It’s wrong.” 

They emerged into a circular plaza. Glass crunched under foot. The wheels of overturned carts spun idly. Wood snapped as fire licked up spokes and planks. The tree that had once dominated the plaza’s center was dripping with melted matter—apparently not an arcaniforme itself, but having hosted a wealth of them on its branches. The rest burned. Black smoke dyed the not-snow an ominous gray. 

Just barely visible through the smog were the limbs of fallen bodies, one revenant in the process of melting flat, two Firelights unmoving. An Enforcer’s helmet lay abandoned, its owner nowhere to be found. 

And in the middle of the scene was a jittering creature, limbs twitching, hands clawing at its own head. Fingers twisted through the long black hair that obscured one half of its face, blood matted in the rest. Clothes ragged. Skin pale. With every step, fire gouted from its hands and feet, flowing thick and molten into the flagstones. Volcanic. 

“That’s the kid,” Atlas said, voice barely breaking past his gas mask. 

Jayce clutched Amaranthine tighter, because he was right. That was the kid from the field outside Zaun. Somehow, that was Damian Stelei. 

—

“What are you doing?!” Callista’s shout bounced off the walls of the lane. 

Her shoulder slammed into the first Enforcer, knocking him away from the revenants huddled on the boardwalk. The second officer grabbed for her arm, but a pulse from the Armillary sent him staggering back. 

As the field of magic fell over them, the revenant on the ground stopped their violent spasming, but they still fought. A rifle butt cracked against their side, and they responded with a jab of a sharp, metallic elbow into the back of the Enforcer’s knee. 

“This is blatantly unlawful!” Callista said, still wrestling the officer. 

“They came at us!” the officer yelled. He tried to knock Callista away with the side of his pistol, but she nabbed his wrist, twisted. “The machines are going psycho and you expect us to—!?” The gun slipped from his fingers, Callista caught it, and, in one swift motion, struck him across the nose. 

Blood dripped. The officer glared at her. “You’ve just assaulted an officer.”

“And I’m sure my mom will give me a fucking gold star once she hears what a pissant you are.” 

Viktor took the opportunity to drag the abused revenant aside, but as he did, hooking them under the armpits, they thrashed. Without facial expressions, it was impossible for a layperson to know what they were feeling, but Viktor did. He felt it in his atoms, the pain too large for any one mind. A hand pressed against Viktor’s chin, levering him away.

“I am trying to help,” he said. 

The revenant kneed him in the chest. Unable to staunch the pain, they lashed out at anything they could. Viktor bit back the urge to do the same. 

The second officer rushed Callista, knocking her to the ground. 

“No!” Orianna cried. “Leave her alone!” The Armillary whirred, but there was no pulse of energy. She growled in frustration, but it seemed the device was reaching its limits—the shield, the strain, the save with the building and who knew how many others previous. She gave in. With a vicious snarl, she leapt at the man, letting the pain and fear overtake her.

The officer batted her away. “Stupid doll! You want a hole put through you?” 

And Orianna, lacking strength, used what resources she had. She reeled back and headbutted the officer as hard as she could. The brass curlicues of her hair came away bloodied, red mixing with smeared matter.

“Fuck!” 

A boot met her chest and she flew. Slipped through the magic dome. Plunged into the canal, leaving a hole in the not-snow floating on top. 

Vaguely, far away, Viktor heard gunshots. 

—

What had become of Damian rushed forward like a man possessed. Jayce went one way and Atlas went the other. 

Cane gone—lost, dropped, evaporated, he didn’t know—Jayce stumbled as fast as he could while using the wall for support. Heat washed over his back. 

Amaranthine whimpered and cried out in fear. “He’s-wrong-he’s-wrong-he’s-wrong.”

Jayce ducked around a corner. “ He’s what’s wrong?” 

“He shouldn’t be in here. He needs help.” 

A shout of panic and pain rang out. Across the courtyard, Damian had focused his ire on Atlas. The young Kiramman was huddled behind a burning market stall. The canvas roof blazed, shredding to patches that fell around him. 

Wrong or not, Damian was clearly a threat. “We need to stop him rampaging first,” Jayce said. Easier said than done. 

Something small flew out from behind the market stall. “Heads!” Atlas yelled, but the back half of the word was cut off by a detonation. Bright bluebird algae burst like a firework in the air. It rotted as soon as it contacted the haze of dust, but the black goop spattered the ground and suffocated some of the fire. Most importantly, it caught Damian’s attention. He roared as the algae died. Amaranthine, too, whined in sympathy. 

Atlas took the chance to sprint out from behind cover, skirting the side of the plaza to duck behind the tree. 

“Why do you have bombs?” Jayce yelled. 

“Not bombs!” Atlas shouted. “Instant chemical shower. For accidents. I told you I was testing—” 

Damian whipped around and sent a slab of fire crashing into Atlas’ hiding spot. 

Atlas grunted as he was forced to roll out of the way, tumbling across the cobbles. The strap on his bag caught fire and snapped apart from the sudden torque. Containers of seeds, vials of Resin, and more chemical shower contraptions spilled chaotically. One ruptured and splattered over Atlas’ left side, spun like a dying balloon and coated him in pond scum. 

Amaranthine bunched a fist in Jayce’s shirt. “I can help him.”

“Can you restrain him?” Jayce asked, thinking back to how Viktor had used the arcaniformes to snag their nighttime attacker.

She shook her head furiously. “Can’t. Not that. Everything is dying.”

“I’ve got you!” Atlas said, hands scrambling over his supplies. “Keep him distracted!”

Jayce lowered Amaranthine gently to the ground. “Don’t make any sudden moves,” he told her, shrugging off his coat for her to wear. 

She shrunk away as Damian locked eyes on Jayce. 

Jayce did his best to sidle around the plaza, casting furtive glances behind him, searching for cover, a weapon, a tool, anything. Keep the problem distracted while the kids did their magic shit. He could handle that. 

Damian’s face contorted in pain. Fire swirled from his feet like a whirlpool, and Jayce swore he felt the flagstones liquifying beneath him. The soles of his feet smarted. 

Another wave of fire had Jayce raising his arms to shield his face. Eyes squeezed shut on instinct. In the next breath, Damian’s burning hand clamped on Jayce’s forearm. Flesh popped. Jayce’s vision went white. 

—

Acid water swirled around Viktor, thick and murky and caustic even to his metal skin. He barely remembered diving into the canal. His only thought was for the fading, ghost-white body below him. 

Orianna sank like a stone. She fought the pull of gravity, the weight of her own heavy limbs, the pressure of the water. It amounted to nothing.

Viktor wasn’t doing much better, but his arms and legs were thinner and longer. 

He reached her. Wrapped an arm around her torso. Kicked toward the surface. 

And then, like a tremor travelling miles through the water, a guttural, animalistic howl echoed the length of him, spine to skull. Layered. Choiral. Distinct from the resonance but somehow familiar. And he knew instantly. He knew that the call had an owner, and he knew that the owner knew he was there. 

Orianna froze. She’d heard it too. 

But there wasn’t time for that. The chemicals in the canal water were eating at them both, burrowing in through the wounds opened by the not-snow. Viktor could feel it seeping into his chest, tickling and gnawing. 

Desperately, they clawed for the air above. 

— 

Jayce crashed backwards into a shopfront, the glass window cracking. He crumpled to the ground. 

“Stop it!” Amaranthine screamed. She was… somewhere. Jayce’s vision was hazy. 

Damian swung around, fire flowing from his every gesture. It painted a broad streak over the window, glass turned orange and dripping. His head snapped up. He’d found a new target. 

Before he could charge, Jayce grabbed onto his ankle. It was like touching molten metal. Jayce screamed, but it got the job done. Damian toppled over, clumsy in his pain and rage. 

“Found one!” Atlas announced, breath ragged. He’d skirted around the trunk of the tree until he found a living patch of vine. Brandishing a vial of Resin fitted with a needle, he stabbed it into the withered plant. Depressed the plunger.

The vine split like an overcooked sausage. Tendrils spilled in a tide, surging a bright, chlorophyll green even as the not-snow hissed against their bark.

Amaranthine shrieked a child-sized battlecry, plunging her hands into the overgrowth. Her form merged with it. Wrenched to her will. She was a vision, a storm, the epicenter of what was now Damian’s biggest threat. 

He leapt at her. 

Atlas got there first. A clumsy right hook met Damian’s chin. Resin and glass and needle burst sticky over his face. Damian shrieked. 

But the punch had no guard. Wide open, Atlas gasped as Damian’s hand closed over his gas mask. The metal exploded in a white hot glow. Atlas barely had a chance to scream. His arms went limp. 

Amaranthine’s arcaniformes slammed into Damian’s chest, swamping him to his shoulders. His head tipped back. Eyes went wide. And, barely visible through the smoke and the dust and the spots in Jayce’s vision, delicate little sprouts unfurled from Damian’s tear ducts, nose, and ears. 

He battled the current of vines, igniting what he could, but more growth replaced it. 

“I can help you,” Amaranthine. “Please-stop-please-stop-please.”

It was then that Jayce completed the agonizing journey, all of ten meters, from one side of the plaza to the other, to club Damian over the back of the head with a wood post. 

The young mage made a choked sound. The fire in him smoldered. Went out.

Stillness.

The only remaining sound was the crackle of residual flame, the creak of wood, and Amaranthine’s hiccuping cries. 

“Are you okay?” Jayce wheezed. 

She didn’t shake her head or nod, just pulled the bravest face she could as dandelion-milk tears ran down her cheeks. 

“Good,” Jayce said. “That’s good.” Then his world went dark.

—

By the time Viktor and Orianna broke the surface of the water, clinging to one of the boardwalk posts, the atmosphere of the undercity had coagulated to a crusty maroon. 

Viktor shoved Orianna onto the walkway first, heaving himself up after. Two pairs of arms latched hold of him and pulled. He emerged from the water with a groan.

“Damn it all, you’re heavy,” Callista complained.

The three of them collapsed in a sodden, acrid heap. The itching wrongness of the not-snow returned in abundance, sticking to their wet skin. Viktor bent double. Orianna splayed flat on her stomach. Callista's back thudded against an overturned barrel. 

“Are you both okay?” she asked.

“Are… you?” Orianna’s voice came out stilted, like the chemicals had worn at her voicebox. Trembling, mechanical hands studied Callista. She found a nasty gash across the girl’s thigh and pressed both hands to the wound, staunching the blood. “What happened to the Enforcers?”

“There’s some crazy shit happening a street over,” Callista said, stripping off her overshirt to towel the chemicals from Orianna’s arms. “I think the dust is finally settling, though.”

Viktor took the wadded up shirt when Orianna offered it. “Do you mean that metaphorically—?”

A flash of wicked red light illuminated the closest alleyway.

“The hell is that?”

They were all looking down the alley at just the right moment to see the young woman, no more than sixteen, stagger into view, red streaks of light following her fingertips. Curly brown hair. Eyes wild. A choker of homemade beads around her throat. She collapsed to the ground before the gunshot even had a chance to crack the air. Spittle slipped from between teeth. A rattle in the throat, and the slap of a dead thing against earth.

And, at last, like a bitter exhale, gentle rays of sunlight broke through the ruddy pall, illuminating a newly broken Zaun as the bells across the river tolled the hour.

Chapter Text

Growing up in the Fissures, Viktor became adept at reading between the lines of the monthly death tolls. Mineshaft collapses were reported in terms of workers, supervisors, and managers, but they left out anyone who didn’t die in the mine itself, those dragged back home to die on kitchen tables and off company property. What’s more, the title of ‘worker’ included anyone from ages seven to seventy, should a Zaunite have the honour of living that long.

Likewise, chemspills only recorded the deaths of anyone who passed away at the scene. Exposure deaths were noted in the mortuary as abstract cancers, corroded organs, irradiated immune systems. 

So when the Piltover rags published their numbers, he noticed the absence immediately. Three Enforcer deaths, fifteen civilians. The fifteen didn’t include any revenants. It couldn’t, not with the stories that Orianna brought back from what remained of the Entresol, the ones she recounted numbly, gaze fixed on the dull, periwinkle wall. It was far too low. 

Orianna made only sparring visits to the hospital room in Piltover. She claimed that any time not spent in the Entresol needed to be spent resting, the internal workings of her chest still eroded, voice worn and scratchy. She swore her absence was incidental, but Viktor could tell the visits disquieted her. 

She purposefully averted her gaze from one side of the room, from the bed where Atlas lay unconscious, his face heavily bandaged. The burns were worst at the center of his face where Damian had made contact with the mask, but the wounds spread out across the swoop of his cheekbones, over his chin and nose. Everywhere that metal had met flesh. 

Objectively, Jayce fared much better: a second degree burn on his right forearm and first degree burns on his palms. The burns on his hands were superficial and would heal relatively quickly, but there was no ignoring the pain. Or the exhaustion. Or the strain on his leg.  

It was for this reason that Jayce was brought to Terrace Hall—what remained of it—instead of across the river. 

The back fourth of the Hall had cleaved away, exposing the strata of rooms and corridors within. Viewed from the canal level, it resembled an opened dollhouse with steel and iron bones on display, but the remainder of the building stood firm.

The hours that immediately followed the not-blizzard were a sort of mundane chaos. Despite the extraordinary circumstances, pain and panic and effort remained the same as they ever were. 

Viktor joined the tide of Firelights. Searches spread out. Reports came back. Volunteer teams dispatched. Orianna and Callista were next to him. Then they weren’t. Then they were back again, an hour, two hours later, tired and soot-faced but still going. 

A porcelain hand floated palm-up in the canal. 

Viktor paused to watch it drift lazily in the current, causing several volunteers to badger roughly around him on their way to a flooded market square. They cursed him. He didn’t hear.

Grabbing a piece of splintered wood, he bent and fished the hand from the water, hooking it through a hollow loop in its golden wrist. He levered it onto the boardwalk. It flicked up. Landed like a piece of discarded jewelry. Loose. No rigor mortis. 

There was a week when Viktor was a child where the only thing anyone could whisper about was the body that had bumped against a docked ship. The poor bastard was naked, bruised on his chest and face. The skin had been discoloured, bloated and fish-picked. No one recognized him. But there was a mystery to it now, a prestige in being able to unmask him. Many tried.

It was his teeth that did it, in the end. One of the few Zaunite clinicians—the kind that served as doctor, pharmacist, and dentist all—had found a match in his records. 

Teeth. Bones. Fingerprints. Eyes. Hair. Unique identifier that the revenants now lacked.

How many of them would be pulled from the rubble, contorted and mangled and anonymous? How many had been reduced to atoms?

Orianna crashed into him, wrapping her arms around his middle. “I can’t,” she rambled. “I just— They— They were alive and then they just went and we couldn’t— I saw it happen. I couldn’t—”

Viktor held her, but his eyes remained fixed on the wreckage of his decisions. 

Ekko wielded a voice that rang with stern command. He never needed to shout or bark. Wherever he hustled in Terrace Hall, the epicenter of the relief effort followed, lieutenants and Firelights and the occasional Enforcer swooping past like a comet caught in orbit, relaying information or absorbing orders and then shooting away. Almost too fast for the eye.

Viktor was reporting a message that would later bleed from his memory like water when a revenant sprinted through the foyer, calling a name over and over. A Firelight caught them by the shoulder. They exchanged words. The revenant looked no more relieved when they turned and ran back outside. 

Viktor had stilled in the middle of his sentence. Where was Jayce? He should be here. He should be helping. That’s who he was. 

The jerk of the Machine Herald’s mask was so sharp that Ekko blinked, taken aback, barely registering the question asked. 

“Where is he?” 

The sensations that stirred within him were inadequate. This body was meant for action. The best thing it could do was work and work and work until it ground itself to dust. 

Viktor knew what he ought to feel, could label the emotions like specimens in a cabinet, but they didn’t quite reach. 

Vi put him to shame when she rested her forehead on the edge of Atlas’ bed, shoulders shaking in an echo of all the Zaunite mothers who had come before her, helplessness and fury at war within her. Then Caitlyn draped arms over her back like a blanket, and Viktor felt an irrational pang of envy. 

It was evening when Viktor emerged from the adhoc medical center staged in Terrace Hall’s courtyard. 

“I’m sorry.” The voice was so small that he almost missed it. 

“You’re Amaranthine, yes?” he asked. Between the creeping darkness and the wilted foliage, she was well camouflaged. From what Viktor could tell, she was about the size of a five-year-old child, smaller than he expected, but he couldn’t tell if it was because the flora that made up her body had diminished, or because she was shrinking in on herself. “Jayce told me about you.”

“And you’re….” She shied, hiding behind a pile of rolled tarps. “You’re his…” She trailed off. 

Viktor sat on a nearby half-wall to take the edge of his looming stature. “Yes, I am his. What do you have to be sorry for?” 

“It’s my fault he got hurt,” she mumbled. “I said we should go help them and then they got hurt.” 

Viktor mulled this over, held it up next to the tidbits of information he’d heard floating around the search teams, rumours whispered over stolen smoke breaks. 

“They found that mage boy with Jayce and Atlas. You wanted to help him?”

“Mhm.” Her lower lip wobbled. 

“From what I understand, he was far from the only young mage drawn to the undercity today, but he is the only one that is still alive.” 

Damian’s body strapped down to a stretcher, argued over, ferried across the bridge like cargo. 

“Our friends will be alright,” Viktor said. “They chose to heed your warning, and because of that, the right people found the mage. Now he lives.” 

“You’re not mad?” Amaranthine dragged a foot back and forth in front of her. 

“At you? No.” 

“Is Jayce mad?”

“He is asleep.” Viktor glanced in the direction he’d come from. “When he wakes, you may ask him yourself.” 

Amaranthine pouted. “Can you ask him for me?”

Viktor shook his head good-naturedly. Whatever Amaranthine was, whatever accident of magic and desperation that caused her, she was certainly still a child for good and for ill. 

This scene repeated in variations: Viktor hovering, a wall between him and wherever Jayce rested, a voice speaking to him because that’s what voices did. 

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Orianna began, but then her words cut off. She readjusted, what an organic person might call clearing their throat. “Excuse me.” 

“Your voice,” Viktor said. “The mechanisms haven’t healed?”

“I actually think I might keep it. Not the scratchiness, obviously, but it’s lower than before. It’s nice, sounding less like a little girl and more like someone my age.” 

“And your body will allow that? My expectation is that the healing process would reset you back to your default state.” 

Orianna tipped her head to the side, considering this. “You remember Caedmon? They carved pictures into their skin, and those didn’t heal over. Small changes can stick. If we want them. And… other things, too.”

“Other things?” She was leading towards something, and Viktor indulged her. 

“You can cry, if you want to. It’s not the exact same, but we find ways to do it, because stuff like that—expressing joy and anger and sadness—it’s important, I guess.”

“I wouldn’t be able to force it.”

“Hm. It does feel like play-acting at first, but that’s the learning part. I just thought you should know it’s possible.” 

Possible, perhaps, but better? 

Jayce, newly awoken and barely lucid, canting his head towards Viktor. “You’re so calm.” 

 “Recall that this form was created to act, not to feel,” Viktor had told him.

“You feel some things.” He reached with bandaged fingers towards Viktor’s mask, brushed the back of his hand against one of the cleft halves, linen catching on the eroded metal. “Your face… It’s all muddy and melted.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Viktor assured him, “and the eyes and mouth aren’t articulated. I’m not impaired.” 

“But it’s your face.” 

Viktor huffed, the sound gilt by a certain fondness. Jayce’s tone reminded him of one night after a grant proposal fell through and they tried to distract themselves at a bar. An abject failure of an outing as Jayce only grew more morose and bitter with each drink. It was endearing in a way, a reflection of how much he cared about his work. 

“It will heal,” Viktor said. “Faster than you, dare I say.” 

The argument from the last time they’d spoken hung between them, unaddressed, until Viktor was convinced that Jayce had forgotten entirely. 

They talked about old times. They played chess. Callista tracked down a series of novels that had continued since their disappearance and Viktor read it aloud—Jayce claimed they butchered the original characterization. The bandages on Jayce’s fingers came off, skin still tender and taut in places. Orianna showed Jayce how to braid Viktor’s hair to exercise his fingers. It came out badly. Viktor braided Jayce’s hair and it came out worse. They chatted with the other patients. Ekko came by with updates. Orianna climbed the stairs from the workshop to the infirmary up and down seven times with questions before Viktor finally followed her down to examine the Bathus together. He returned to Jayce quickly, assuring him that she would be fine. Then Orianna returned with another question.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” Jayce said.

“I know that,” Viktor said.

Jayce just smiled.

And so it went, on and on, wringing every bit of joy and comfort they could out of days where all they could do was recover. Then Atlas woke up.

When he did it was clear that the pain was disorienting. The medications kept him calm, but a bewildered distress shone in his eyes. And, of course, he couldn't speak. 

“You'll get better,” Callista told her brother the morning after he awakened. “The doctors said your throat is irritated, but there's nothing wrong with anything beyond your face.”

Atlas scribbled on the pad of paper she'd propped next to his hand. Comforting , the note read. 

“Just hold up your hand if you want to contribute so we don't talk past you.”

What Viktor had begun to call “the team” had assembled in the hospital room, Callista perched on the edge of Atlas’ bed, Orianna at the window, and Viktor and Jayce at a corner table, their game of cards now on pause.

“So,” Callista said, calling the meeting to order, “we know what the weird knife and the snow are made of now.” She held up a large tome to a tabbed page that showed an illustration of a forest of white trees.

“Petricite,” Jayce agreed. “I'm a bit embarrassed that I didn't put it together sooner. It came up a lot when I was first looking into materials for early Hextech.”

“I don't follow,” Orianna said. “It's a tree?” 

“It's a material made from a tree,” Callista said. “The Demacians put it in everything, their walls, their weapons, their jewelry sometimes. It's essentially an anti-magic substance.”

“It siphons magic,” Jayce clarified. “It can store it, too.” 

“Which is why,” Callista said, fishing the lump of gnarled black stone from her pocket, “what was left of the knife looks like this. Being stuck in Viktor's wound saturated it with magic and changed it until it was unrecognizable.” 

“And the dust in the undercity changed colour, too,” Orianna said. 

“Exactly,” Callista said, clapping the book shut. “Gold star.” 

Orianna rubbed her forearms self-consciously, fingers sticking on the rough patches and divots. “And it hurts us because we're a product of magic like the arcaniformes.” 

“I suspect it may be more complicated than that,” Viktor said. “Atlas, you may correct me, but my understanding is that the arcaniformes are an impossible intersection of animal cells, plant cells, and inorganic elements.” 

Atlas gave a stale thumbs-up. 

“Yes, thank you. I believe it is magic that binds them together, orders them not to reject their own existence and splinter.”

“Like glue,” Callista offered. 

“Reality-altering glue, perhaps.” 

Orianna fidgeted. “And without that magic, we just fall apart.” 

“It may come as a cold comfort,” Viktor said, “but organic beings have thousands of vulnerabilities that we do not. Having one unique to us is more than fair.” 

“That's still… I mean, it felt awful. It was like I was being reminded that I shouldn't even exist in the first place.” 

Callista rose from the bed. “Ori! Don't say that.” 

Orianna waved her off. “Sorry, sorry.”

Atlas held up a new note. Demacians then?  

“As the culprits?” Jayce said. “Could be. They have the motive; they hate magic to a ridiculous degree.” 

Callista frowned. “But this wasn't very Demacian at all. I mean, turning the petricite into a powder? That stuff is culturally important and finite. Grinding it up and scattering it to nothing feels almost blasphemous.” 

“It’s the only clue we have,” Orianna said. 

Atlas scribbled, Autopsy.  

Callista squinted. “You need to be more specific.”

Atlas rolled his eyes and wrote fervently. Autopsy. Mage kids. Connected. Arcani > organic bridge first ever. He mimed an explosion between his eyes, wiggled his fingers. 

Jayce snapped his fingers then cursed, having forgotten. “Agh, shoot. But yeah, okay. You mean when the plants grew out of Damian’s face.” 

Another thumbs-up from Atlas. 

“Is that why they reacted the same way we did?” Orianna asked. “I thought it was a connection through the Arcane itself.”

“That’s what people are saying anyways,” Callista said, shrugging. 

Reacted to Resin , Atlas wrote. # dead? Autopsy . He underlined the last word three times. 

Callista thought for a moment. “Three dead mages from what I heard. You can’t just start cutting them open, though—they have families.

More scribbling. But for science.

“Janna’s sake, Atlas.” 

Jayce leaned over to whisper to Viktor. “Kid would’ve given Heimerdinger a heart attack.”

“And he thought you violated the Ethos,” Viktor whispered back. 

They glanced over to see Atlas glaring, holding up another note. Face bad, ears fine.  

Jayce barked a laugh. “Sorry!”

“However it happened,” Orianna said, “it didn’t just happen . Whoever connected them to the rest of the ecosystem has to be the same person who rigged the petricite to cycle through the vents.” 

This was the running theory for how the petricite had snowed over the undercity. After the Second Sinking, the ventilation system was choked with sump water and detritus, pipes and filters blasted to bits from the sudden increase in pressure. The repair effort was half-assed. Now, the vents were full of strange connections and dead-ends, easily manipulable. 

“It’s like the attack on Terrace Hall,” Callista said. “Needlessly cruel.”

“Perhaps it is a fear tactic,” Viktor said. “Not unlike some of the campaigns that Piltover has waged against the undercity over the years, if much more dramatic.”

“I’d buy it,” Callista said. “The Pilties have always been envious that the next great breakthrough came from Zaun and not their own labs.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Jayce said. 

Callista leaned against the window sill. “On the defense. Surprise surprise, Man of Tomorrow.” 

“We have a few avenues of investigation,” Orianna broke in, blatant in her attempt to play peacemaker. “When Damian recovers, if he recovers, someone can ask him what happened. Otherwise, there’s the possibility to autopsy the other mages. And we can look into the petricite connection, maybe reach out to the Demacian delegates or research how petricite might’ve gotten into the city.” 

But very little investigation took place in the days leading up to Jubilee. There was too much to repair, too many hours lost to pain and treatment. 

As the humans got back up on their feet, the revenants began lagging behind. All the broadest-leaved arcaniformes had received the petricite snow like cupped hands and withered for it. Even now, with the sun returned, regrowth was slow. Sunstarvation set in. They took to sipping Resin from stored cylinders, siphoning it out of broken engines—a humiliating process. 

The one time Orianna winked out, Viktor caught her by the shoulders. She came around right away.

“You have not taken care of yourself,” he said. “It’s no wonder your condition hasn’t improved. Amaranthine is attempting to heal the gingkos at Terrace; go find her before you render yourself inert.”

Orianna tried to shrug him off. “Others need it more.”

Viktor took her by the wrist, guiding her gently. “Understand that this is a horrible role reversal for me, and I take no pleasure in it. You are coming with me to Terrace, however.” 

No more of his loved ones would suffer under his watch, not while he could do something about it. 

The first time that Viktor was able to see Jayce after the not-blizzard, Jayce had been asleep. His was a natural sleep, unconsciousness born of exhaustion not trauma. Cold comfort settled in Viktor’s bones. 

“Do you see now?” he asked, softly. “This is precisely the sort of vulnerability I wanted to fix.”

The light in the infirmary kept low, and the space was quiet save for the laboured breathing of patients, the shuffling of bedsheets, and the occasional quick strides of a medic. Constant reminders that the room was packed to the brim with people, and yet Viktor might as well have been the last person alive in the entire world for how alone he felt. 

This, he understood, was a discrepancy. 

It was only that, for the first time in a very long time, he remembered how it had been when his mother and father died. They had gone one after the other like a pair of dominoes. And there had been a flatness to it. His last days with his father had been spent ensuring that a thirteen-year-old Viktor knew as much as he could about how to survive; a discussion of which jobs would stress his lungs the least had replaced any meaningful goodbye. 

That was the last time Viktor expected to outlive someone. 

He crouched at Jayce’s bedside, rested his mask against the thin mattress, observed the rise and fall of his partner’s chest. What would it mean to see it stop?

A pale facsimile of heartbreak shuddered through him. 

He found himself wishing that they hadn’t come back from the runestone at all, that instead they had been taken apart by the Arcane, eviscerated in perfect unison. Now they existed as ragged ends, one destined to limp along without the other. One day. Whenever death saw fit to claim its due.

Viktor’s father had endured only five days without his wife, and yet Viktor was convinced that her absence was what had killed him in the end, not the toxins. 

Jayce’s hands—his poor, lovely hands—were neatly bandaged, so Viktor’s touch traced instead over his bicep, his shoulder. 

“You want so badly to be a hero,” he whispered. “It is the best and the worst of you.” A sigh as he carded through tangled hair. “Believe me, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being so callous, for asking you to lose me, some day.” A rueful laugh. “As if I could bear to do the same for you. I only ask because you’re much stronger than me. You are… my light. I could not stand to see you go out. I understand that now.” 

He pressed his forehead to that of his sleeping partner, a light, ghosting pressure, then raised his head so that the taper of his mask rested against Jayce’s brow in the image of a kiss. 

“I doubt you would deny that this selfishness is mutual,” he said, “but still. I am sorry that such a selfish man has fallen in love with you.”

Chapter Text

The last conversation that Viktor and Jayce would have for a very long time started with Jayce doing his prescribed exercises. His hands weren’t quite as limber as they used to be, so the stretches were crucial. 

“C’mere,” he said, beckoning to Viktor.

Viktor was perusing the bookshelves of the Kiramman’s sitting room—Caitlyn had opened up her home to them after Ekko found that, much like half the Undercity, his home now had several missing walls. 

Jayce held up his hand, palm and fingers flat, until Viktor placed his hand against it. Viktor’s palm was rectangular and thin, each segment of his fingers a quarter inch or two longer than they should be proportionally, with exaggerated knuckles and joints, huge. Jayce’s hand was just a hand. 

Then Jayce intertwined their fingers and said, “Selfish, huh?”

Thoroughly entrapped, Viktor just stood there. “Ah.”

“You need to be more careful if you want to keep secrets.”

“Mmm.” 

Evidently, these monosyllabic answers were not what Jayce was looking for. “I’d rather not keep a score between us. We’ve never owed each other anything before.”

“Untrue.”

Jayce worried his thumb along the heel of Viktor’s hand. Two syllables. This was progress. “Spotting you for lunch doesn’t count.” A pause. “Am I allowed to say it?”

Viktor didn’t answer, just shifted uncomfortably. 

“I won’t tell you what to do with your life or your body, Viktor. That’s never what I wanted. I’m happy to take whatever you’re able to give me, but, um, can I ask? Am I allowed to ask?”

“Ask what?”

“For what I want.” His voice was low and sweet and careful.

Viktor squeezed Jayce’s hand. “And what is it you want?”

“I just—” Jayce made a fond, incredulous sound. “You. Whatever you’ll give me for however long you’ll have me. I want to hold you. I want to kiss you. Even after everything that’s happened, it’s a little embarrassing, but I think I’ve got this… schoolyard crush.”

“A crush,” Viktor echoed. He stepped back slightly, keeping their hands together still. “On this.” 

“On you,” Jayce said. “Okay, I’ll put all the words together. I have a crush on you, Viktor.”

“One would think that—” A hesitation, a completely illogical pause since there was nothing to obstruct his speech. “You’re being ridiculous. Aren’t we a bit past that?”

 “I’m trying to be thorough.” The way he said it, it came across as one part proposition, one part promise, and one part playful threat. It was very Jayce. It was cute . 

“I… I see.”

“I have something else to ask you, though. You’ve been clear about what you don’t want, but can you tell me what you do want?”

Viktor thought for a moment, or perhaps he only pretended to think. “I don’t know.”

“Alright,” Jayce said, tugging him closer, “then how about we get granular? We run some scenarios, set parameters, test variables—”

“You are suggesting that we build a dataset.”

“You love datasets!”

Viktor gave a hum of begrudging agreement. 

“And we don’t need to go in depth,” Jayce said. “Just tell me yes or no, if you want it or not. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Great.” But Jayce’s next moves were stuttering, faltering, a lean forward and then back, a tensing that even he himself seemed displeased with. “Hold on,” he mumbled. “One sec.”

“You’re nervous,” Viktor accused. He craned his head to the side, appraising. 

“Hey—”

“You are the one who started this.”

“I know.”

“And yet—”

“So I have this theory,” Jayce blurted. 

Viktor laughed.

“I’m serious.”

“Are you?” His partner’s hesitation had given Viktor room enough to breathe, to lift his arm and cup Jayce’s elbow, fully completing the improvised embrace.

“The theory, it’s about why this is hard. For me. Why it’s hard for me to just… even when I want to…”

“Go on.”

“You’ve always been so beautiful,” Jayce said, words spilling out in a rush, “but, to one degree or another, human beings are beautiful by accident. You’re… everything you are right now is on purpose. I know you’ve said you regret the reason you created this body, but it’s still something you made. Every single part of it is a choice, and I like you, and I like your choices. I can look at you and see the way you think. Other people, I can write them off as being lucky, like they won some genetic lottery. There’s no luck with you. I can’t write you off. I just… that’s my theory. For why you still make me nervous. That and I really want to get this right.”

The longer Jayce spoke, the deeper red he flushed. 

But the idea of it, that millions of little choices had coalesced to form the version of Viktor that stood now, shivering imperceptibly, in front of Jayce, it was suddenly all Viktor could think about. He only understood it the second after it happened. But somewhere, somehow, the part of him that inhabited his body rather than being it, the part he’d sectioned apart without realizing, shifted ever so slightly. It settled. He settled. 

Oh . 

“You may touch me,” he told Jayce.

“I— what?”

“The dataset. I imagine that a few of the scenarios involve physical contact.” 

“Um, a lot of them actually.” 

“Then you may touch me. I… want that.”

“Okay.” Jayce shifted his feet to better balance himself as he took one of Viktor’s hands in both of his own. Caressing the overlapping, metallic tendons of Viktor’s palm, he raised it to his mouth and pressed a fluttering kiss to the pair of golden knuckles. He flicked his eyes up to meet Viktor’s gaze. “Do you want this?”

“Yes,” Viktor breathed. 

He thought back to what Orianna had said, that it might not be instinctive, but that he could react and express and feel the same way he used to. He just had to try. To let it happen. 

Jayce pressed a second, firmer kiss to the back of his hand, and Viktor sighed with content. 

The way that Jayce immediately perked up, did it again and again until there wasn’t a single inch of Viktor’s hand left unkissed, that alone made it all worth it. But there was something innately joyful in the act of expression itself, too. 

“You’re gorgeous, Vik,” Jayce murmured. “Do you want me to say that?”

“Not particularly,” Viktor said. “My ego happens to be a normal, healthy size.”

“Would you like me to say that? Am I allowed?”

A strange, not-quite-warmth built in his chest. A buzzing. “In this case, let’s say that I want for you to have what you want.”

“I just want you to be happy,” Jayce said, moving now to massage Viktor's wrist. “It’s the most amazing, beautiful thing whenever you’re happy.” 

Viktor let these words wash over him, considered what they meant to him—so much—-how they made him feel—too much—remembered how his old body might’ve responded once upon a time—not enough, never enough—and concluded that he ought to pull Jayce flush against his chest. So he did. 

Jayce let out a grunt of surprise. “Oh! Do you—?”

“I could’ve lost you,” Viktor said. He hadn’t decided to say it, but he couldn’t explain what else had happened to make those words leave him. Maybe he was making up for lost time. “And if you— if you hadn’t—”

“I’m sorry I made you worry.”

“You make me so weak,” Viktor complained. He traced hands over Jayce’s back, his long arms fully encircling him. “You need to be careful. You are… damn it, Jayce, you are my whole heart, out and walking in the world.” 

Jayce went quiet. 

Viktor’s voice hitched. “I shouldn’t—”

“No!” Jayce said. His hands flew up to wrap around Viktor in kind. “Please, please say that. Say stuff like that. It’s just, gods, no one’s ever said that to me before. I—” Jayce cut himself off and pressed a kiss to Viktor’s chest. “Do you want this?”

“Yes!?” Viktor said, exasperated, overwhelmed. 

“I’m here,” Jayce soothed. He kissed him again, ran hands up and down his back. “I’m here.” 

Perhaps Viktor might’ve had more to add had Jayce’s hand not brushed against the base of the hexclaw. Sometimes Viktor forgot that it was even there, embedded between his shoulder blades. He kept it tucked away and inert most of the time, and, in truth, it got a bit sore being hidden away.

Curiosity evident, Jayce’s fingers explored the joint, kneading at the musculature, and Viktor went briefly rigid.

“Bad?” Jayce asked. 

“No,” Viktor said, carefully. “It’s only that… perhaps you should save that for later.”

“Oh?”

Viktor leaned down to nuzzle his mask against Jayce’s hair. “Not like that. It’s odd, that’s all. Unfamiliar.” 

“Understood,” Jayce said. He huffed fondly and turned his attention back to that which was directly in front of him, nibbling sweetly at Viktor’s emphasized collarbones. “Do you—?”

“Yes.”

Jayce laughed. “Okay.”

Viktor carded his hands through Jayce’s hair. “Do you —?”

“You don’t have to ask,” Jayce said. “This isn’t about me, and besides, you could do just about anything to me and I’d still love you. I—” He sucked in a breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Viktor tugged on his hair, using the sharp pressure to ground him. “It’s alright. You may say it.”

Jayce’s eyes widened. “I love you.” He said it so eagerly.

“I want you to say it.”

“I love you, Viktor.” 

“And I you. I love you, Jayce.” 

And with that Jayce all but broke into tears, relief spilling down his face in delicate streams, and all Viktor could do was bear witness to the proof of how cruel he had been to make Jayce hold this tension within him for so long. How cruel it had been to both of them.

What followed were many long minutes of aimless touching, rocking back and forth, and, somewhere in the middle, Jayce finding the wherewithal to whisper darling little things against Viktor’s skin. 

And Viktor let himself feel all of it, let the moment continue on unexamined, falling over him in soft downy layers. Whatever his body wanted, he gave it. Whatever felt right, he chased it. So lost was he to bliss of it all, he would’ve missed it if Jayce hadn’t pointed it out.

“Viktor, are you…?”

But Viktor wasn’t done luxuriating in the sensation of Jayce’s breath at his neck, and it drew another deep sound of satisfaction from his core, causing that same rumbling to graze up his chest, his throat.

“Like a cat,” Jayce mused. “You’re purring.” 

“Ah.” As much as he wanted to, Viktor couldn’t very well deny it, so instead he said, “It is more like an engine?”

“No, no.” And Jayce, scientist that he was, turned his head to press an ear against Viktor’s chest as if he were eavesdropping through a door. “I’ve heard cats before.” 

“There is not a single feline thing about me.” 

“Do it again,” Jayce said, ear still pressed. 

“Interesting thing about that,” Viktor said. “I didn’t do it on purpose.” 

So Jayce stood tiptoe, attacking the underside of Viktor’s chin with quick little kisses, and—damn it all—it tickled . 

“Jayce!” Viktor laughed. 

“There it is,” Jayce said as the rumbling began again. “There you are.” 

And Viktor knew with terrible certainty that, had he been capable of it, he would’ve blushed to the roots of his hair. 

How hubristic he had been to assume that his new body was incapable of change, that it didn’t have any surprises left for him. After all, nature had no concept of finality. Evolution was never about an arrival; no, it was a constant forward motion whether Viktor liked it or not. 

And, at that moment, Viktor liked it very much. 

Like the updraft beneath the wings of a bird, Viktor’s arms wrapped around Jayce, lifting him so that he could look down at Viktor the way he used to, only now his expression broke wide with surprise. 

Breathless, he gasped, “I thought you didn’t like—”

“Changed my mind,” Viktor said. “You’re not allowed that angle anymore.” 

Jayce grinned like a lunatic. “I like this one too.” 

“Of course you would.”

“One more scenario for the dataset,” he said. His hand, which was planted on Viktor’s shoulder for stability, moved to trace over the curves of the mask. He bit his lip. “If you want it.” 

“Yes,” Viktor said. “I want it.”

And so Jayce leaned down and kissed him, right on the broad, smooth plane of the Herald’s mask. There were no lips there to receive him, but the metal warmed nonetheless, and they both swooned just a little—a momentary, heady lack of gravity—because for Jayce this was Viktor and for Viktor this was Jayce, and that was all that mattered in the end. 

It wasn’t perfect, but it was pretty damn close. 

—

Following the blizzard that melted half the Undercity, decimated the crops in New Zaun, clogged the shipping channels off the River Pilt, and sullied innumerable Piltover gardens, the Piltover Council elected to postpone its upcoming Jubilee celebrations. 

Zaun, counterintuitively, did not. 

In terms of tone, the citizens of the Undercity struck a balance between funeral and festival, but more than anything, Jubilee became a work order. 

It started in the mercantile district where roustabouts broke out saws and hammers alongside kegs and handpans, shoring up the shipping lanes and greeting the dawn with a light buzz.

Timber frames raised on ropes. Metal supports welded into place. Tarps unfurled like flags to be nailed across broken windows. 

And the tide of repairs spread from there, down the Lanes to the merchant's guild, the painter's alley, up and down the pneumatic lifts. Children ran messages and requests for screws, nuts, bolts. Vendors brought out nutcakes and anise cordial. Fiddles and guitars tuned their frets from open windows. 

Clusters of photos and candles sprang up on the canal corners, wicks as of yet unlit. 

When Viktor walked the switchback staircase down to the Entresol, the rhythm of mallets and bootsteps rose to greet him, the industrious heart of Zaun like a wardrum. As far as he knew, none of this had been planned. It was simply Jubilee, and the call to arms had spread by word of mouth. 

The same was true of him. It wasn't an obligation per se, and he certainly hadn't been dragged, but Viktor was only there for Orianna. 

Because of the nature of the repairs, long wood beams were set up across the canals with flat boards laid overtop, blocking boat traffic but providing a ground floor for the volunteers. It was one of these makeshift platforms that Orianna and a band of troubadours commandeered, musicians and dancers and singers taking shifts just like the workers on the struts above. 

Orianna was a dancer first and foremost, but she sang too. Her voice wasn't done healing, though evidently she didn't care, belting out lyrics that crackled and clipped, trading verses with a young human woman who was all swishing skirts and wild hair, dark brown roots showing above bright pink dye. 

She wasn't the only pure organic in the crowd either. Plenty of humans, a few Yordles, and a spare Vastaya or two mingled in the revenants’ neighborhood. They passed tools, hoisted beams, shoveled debris, and hammered nails to the rhythm of the stomping dance below. 

The way the Undercity loosened its internal borders in the wake of a crisis sent Viktor's thoughts back to childhood. A lot about today reminded him of his childhood—the noise, the work, the fierce joy, the grief smeared into the cracks like mortar. 

It was this exact stubborn, unified spirit that had cut short his glorious evolution thirty years ago, and somehow he loved it even more for that. Thank god he got to be part of it again. 

Well, he got to witness it. As it was, he'd tucked himself away in the shadow of a lopsided rooftop, tapping a foot along to the music. 

Orianna spotted him out between songs and marched over to him. 

“Stop sitting there like a lump and dance,” she said, grabbing his hand. 

Viktor went to shake her off. “You'll find that I neither dance nor sing.”

“Oh, c'mon.” She tugged insistently. “You can't be that bad.”

Viktor's tone turned stern. “Orianna, you let go of me—”

Her hands flew up and away as she laughed. “Okay, okay! Such a cog in the mud.” This last part she said loud enough for the entire crowd to hear. 

“Maybe you've just got too much grease!” someone called. 

“Hey!” She whirled around. “Who said that? I want a name!”

But before the perpetrator could be hunted down, the band struck up again in earnest. An arm wove through hers and she went away with it, cackling and singing and carrying on. 

“And there she goes.” Callista leaned her head over Viktor's shoulder, setting her satchel of supplies in his lap as if he were a shelf. She'd ransacked Atlas' workshop that morning for anything that might prove medically useful and then spent the better part of the day doing random triage to whatever revenant asked. Viktor had unintentionally become her homebase, a guard for her stash of supplies. 

“You could ask her to dance,” Viktor said as he restocked her satchel with rolls of bark and vials of Resin. 

“What?” Only then did Callista actually glance at him. “No, if she wanted to then she would ask. You've met Ori. She is not shy.” 

“I imagine it's situational.”

“Three things—” 

“Oh good, there's a list.”

Callista narrowed her eyes. “If you have an off switch, I will find it.”

“Hm, that’s enough of your prejudice. Orianna!” 

Orianna, who was currently leading her dance partner in a swing, dipped them to clear her view and look over. “Yes?” she asked over the holler. 

“A young lady would like to dance with you.”

Practiced as she was with her emotions, Orianna managed to make her entire body light up with glee. “Okay!” She handed her partner to the next dancer along. 

“And if there's no off switch,” Callista muttered, “then blunt force trauma it is.”

“You are so very welcome,” Viktor said. 

He turned his attention back to the cache of supplies and let the girls have their fun. The grafting material he counted by the roll, and the Resin he counted in sets of five. He looked up as a revenant approached. 

“Could I—?” The supplies jostled, glass vials tipping over and rolling. “Sorry!”

Viktor froze. They were one of the children, or perhaps a preteen. Completely indistinguishable from the others besides their mannerisms and voice. 

“It’s alright,” Viktor said. “Would you like to sit with me?”

They paused, hesitated, and then accepted the seat. “Thanks.”

Viktor studied them. Their entire left side slouched, matter calcified into scars where their form had cleaved away like a glacier. Their joints stuck out at odd angles. The socket of their left shoulder was damaged such that the tendons that connected limb to body showed, stretching for all to see. Clearly they weren’t up for dancing.

“Does it hurt?” Viktor asked, voice hushed. 

“Mm, a little.” The kid was a terrible liar. The pain was evident in how still they held themself.

And Viktor looked out over the crowd, the builders and the revelers and the grievers, each revenant a person whom he owed tremendously, a thousand wrongs he could never make right, and then he looked back to the little one. The uneven weight tilted their head to one side. 

“I can help,” Viktor decided, “if you’ll let me.”

The kid shrugged and nodded, and, despite having offered, Viktor hesitated. A shroud of cold anxiety fell over his brow. This was a terrible idea, but he’d done worse things in the name of easing pain. If he held back now, he would only despise himself later. 

Yes, Viktor had caused this. But he’d caused it. This wasn’t happening to him, sweeping him along in an invisible tide of other peoples’ thoughtless choices; it was happening because of him. There was something intoxicating about being the epicenter of a disaster, because at least he was the center. This wreckage was his. 

The onus, the blame, the duty, the noose, the crown—all of it was his, his, his. One way or another, he’d chose this. The well of power within him, however shallow, sang this song in concert.

He placed a gentle hand on the child’s shoulder. 

With a living Hexcore, his transmutations had flooded his mind with magic, overwhelming their conduit and lashing violently to life. Now, with the Hexcore a vestigial lump in his chest, magic flowed slowly—blood wrung from a stone. No complex visions. No surge. Only simple commands, singular, focused actions. 

Steady now, he told himself, command the machine of magic. Five runes: physicality, shape, sensation, inverted-acceleration, balance. 

Revenant physiology gave easily beneath his fingers, knitting back together with a placid, sigh-like softness. No fight. No argument. Beings of his own creation, their forms answered to him like loyal dogs. 

Viktor mourned as he worked. The ease with which he healed was convenient, yes, but he also had the ridiculous urge to sob. 

The child was silent as Viktor mended his shoulder. Some matter had melted away and left gaps in the ligaments, so Viktor sightlessly picked the pin of his cloak free, the metal spinning into sutures. 

The world around him fell away like how it would when he was squinting at chalked equations or copper circuitry. Soon he found that he had no more pins to alchemize, and the revenant’s shoulder was still only half-mended. 

A flat brass earring pushed itself into his palm.

Viktor looked up to see another revenant detaching a matching piece from her opposite ear, placing it gently next to the other, closing Viktor’s fingers over the offerings. “Here.”

“Thank you.” He wanted to say more, but he couldn’t split his attention. Materials replenished, he continued. 

When the child’s shoulder and joints were set to rights, Viktor looked up to find that two more revenants had gathered around to watch him. That same cold anxiety crept in again. But then one of the spectators wordlessly held out their hand where their fingers had melded together, the pinky finger sticking up at a sickening angle. 

Viktor attended to them. Physicality, shape, sensation, inverted-acceleration, balance.

More jewelry, trinkets, and even some cutlery and clockwork found their way into his hands, all of it spun to atoms at the beckoning of the runes. It felt good. It felt right.

The next time Viktor looked up, the crowd had doubled. In the absence of pins, his cloak had fallen away and pooled around his lap, so he felt exposed both literally and metaphorically. 

Something tugged on his hexclaw. He maneuvered the appendage to hang in front of him and discovered that a small human toddler was dangling from it. They laughed in delight. 

Before Viktor could respond with anything more than bewilderment, their mother scooped them into her arms. 

“Thank you for watching him,” she said, which Viktor hadn’t been aware he’d been doing. “I’ve brought my husband.” And she ushered another revenant forward, this one with heavy modifications that bulked out his limbs and lowered his center of gravity to better suit manual labour. But his limbs were uneven now, and he walked haltingly. 

“Honey,” he told her, “I don’t want to budge in line.” 

“I will see to everyone given time,” Viktor said, though perhaps that wasn’t the wisest promise to make. How long his magic would hold out, he didn’t know.

Word spread along the canal and up and down the scaffolding. Viktor worked, metal and clay and plant matter changed shape. The crowd grew, revenants sitting in semi-circular rows, perching on window sills, crates, stacked lumber, standing, peering, waiting attentively. Whispering.

Entirely too late, Viktor realized that he’d started something that he was powerless to take back. And then he realized he didn’t care. 

“Are you…?” someone asked quietly.

And maybe Viktor should’ve waited to hear what they were going to say next, but he didn’t. What point was there in staving off the inevitable when he could all but taste it?

“Yes,” he said, an exhale. “I am your Herald.” 

It was easy to imagine that the chaos that ensued was meant for him. After all, to Viktor, it felt like he had just peeled away his own skin and let the world see his insides. It felt calamitous. Penultimate.

But what happened next wasn’t his doing, at least not quite so directly. 

It started as a rumble of boots. Next rose a tide of voices, and then Viktor was thrown—by what means he didn’t know—to the ground in a crush of bodies and shrill yelling and the shriek of metal. 

—

It was by sheer luck that Jayce found himself exactly where he needed to be that day, running forty-five minutes late to his doctor’s appointment because his leg refused to get it together. 

Then again, he wasn’t any better. Even as he massaged his cramped muscles and prayed they’d calm down enough for his brace, he smiled to himself. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about Viktor. Viktor, who had let Jayce touch him. Viktor, who had let Jayce kiss him. Finally managing to settle the brace on his leg, he laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, feeling his heart flutter at the memories, barely a day old now. 

Gods, he could die happy just thinking about it.

But then the poor doctor would have a lot more paperwork to deal with, and Jayce was already stupidly late. Hopefully there would still be a spot for him. Caitlyn had made it clear that this appointment had been hard to score and that he should make the most of it. 

He strode from the guest room and was immediately stopped again. 

Atlas emerged from a door at the other end of the hall. He had a folio of papers clutched to his chest, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and a scarf hiding the bandages that wrapped around his nose and mouth. 

Jayce frowned. “Hold on. Atlas? Vi said you wouldn’t be up and walking around for another week.” 

Atlas froze at having been caught out. Then he walked over, pulled what looked to be a set of colour-coded index cards from his bag, and held one up. It read, I am on so many painkillers right now.  

“Why..? You should be resting.”

A shuffle through the card deck. I have work to do . 

Jayce glanced at the deck, assessing its sheer volume. Oh, good god. “I feel like the work can wait.”

Atlas shook his head slowly, but even then something twinged in his facial muscles and he cringed. Which only made it worse. The feedback loop repeated a few times before he settled enough to draw another card. 

Someone cracked the arcaniforme to biologic bridge before me. He thought for a moment, apparently having portioned his statements carefully, and held up a second one. If I can figure it out, I can fix my injuries. And an addendum from the back of the deck: I got them to autopsy one of the bodies. Another: We need to investigate . 

Jayce wracked his brain for if he’d ever done anything this weird and reckless during the good old days back in the lab, and he quickly decided that if he had, he didn’t want to remember. 

Leaning on his cane and fighting the urge to run a hand over his face, he said, “I can’t believe I’m the one who has to say this, but that is a terrible idea. Sure, the mages had arcaniformes implanted inside them. It didn’t exactly end well for them.”

Atlas rolled his eyes and proceeded to the staircase that led into the foyer. 

“Are you working alone on this?” Jayce asked. “Have you told anyone else what you’re up to?” He might’ve raised his voice louder, but a pair of aides idled in the foyer, discussing with a member of the house staff, and he didn’t need to turn this into a scene.

Atlas pushed a card into Jayce’s face. I know what I’m doing . He flipped it around. And I’m good at what I do.  

“And you can’t wait a week until you feel better? Pumping yourself full of drugs is a pretty shit way to keep a level head. Your ego isn’t worth your health.”

At this, Atlas went back to his cards, picking and replacing three times until he paused, fished a pencil from his pocket, and scribbled something. He hesitated before holding it up. Orianna won’t look at me.  

The fight went out of Jayce like a cold draft. “I…  I noticed that too. But you know that’s not your fault.”

One of the aides screamed as a window burst open. Everyone staggered backwards as branches and vines spilled into the room, and then Amaranthine collided with Jayce’s chest. Thank Janna he was getting better at bracing himself with the cane.

“They took them!” she shouted. She was shaking all over. 

“Anthy, are you okay?”

“Enforcers came down to the Undercity and took all the revenants away.”

Jayce just stared. “They… what?”

“They were grabbing everyone and fighting and putting them in wagons and I couldn’t do anything and they’re gone and I don’t know where they went—”

“Breathe,” Jayce said. 

“I don’t have to do that!” 

“Then just— slow down. Enforcers arrested the revenants? All of them?”

Amaranthine nodded tightly. 

Jayce’s stomach dropped. “Viktor? And Orianna?”

Another nod, tearful this time. “I think so.” 

“What the hell,” Jayce muttered under his breath. “What the hell . That’s not— they didn’t even do anything.”

“They were saying,” Amaranthine managed to get out between heaves, “that they’re dangerous.” 

“That’s bull.”

“They’re going to put them somewhere until they run out of energy. And then they won’t be a— a— a problem anymore.” 

Jayce’s eyes shot up to look at Atlas. “Is that possible? Is that how it works?”

Atlas had gone still, his brain working overtime as Amaranthine rambled, and he startled back to the present. Apparently he’d forgotten that his expressions were now unreadable. Then he nodded. 

Jayce’s vision tunneled to a random point on the floor. Fuck fuck fuck . All the revenants were already borderline sunstarved. Viktor was sunstarved. They had Viktor. They were going to do something to him. 

Atlas clapped his hands together to get Jayce’s attention. He held up a scribbled note. Council in session right now. Can’t wait for Mum. Going to find Ekko and Mom (?) And then he bolted out the front door as fast as he could. 

“Go with him,” Jayce told Amaranthine, a split-second decision. “He’s not all there right now, and he needs someone.” 

Amaranthine swallowed the lump in her throat. “You’re not coming?”

Jayce glanced at the aides still standing at the side of the room, whispering together. “I have another idea. Divide and conquer, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Reluctantly, she answered, “Okay.”

“Attagirl.” He ruffled her grassy hair, and in the next instant all the plant life withdrew from the room, swirling up out the window and through the front door after Atlas. 

Jayce marched over to the two aides who straightened instantly at his approach. One wore the dark burgundy and interlocked keys of the Kiramman family. The other…

“You work for the Medardas, right?” Jayce asked them. 

“Yes." They eyed him warily. “I’m just here to fetch some documents before—”

“Do you know the Ambassador’s schedule? Where is she right now?”

“Waiting in the car outside, but if you wish to speak with her you’ll need to go through the proper channels first.” 

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Jayce said. It was like only half of him was in the room, the other half floating outside of his body immersed in a stream of fear and anger that left him forging ahead on autopilot. He snatched the documents from the aide’s hands. “Take your lunch break, and I’ll make sure these get to Mel.”

“You can’t just—”

He pinned them in place with a stare, eyes wild. “Lunch break. Now.” 

They stepped back. “Yes… sir.” 

Jayce found the car easily. He hooked his cane over his elbow and yanked open the door, ignoring the protest of the driver.

“Jayce?” Mel did a double-take. “What are you doing here? Caitlyn told me you’d be seeing a doctor today.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jayce said, sliding inside and slamming the carriage door shut. “I need your help. Something’s—” Then he paused. “Wait, why would she bother to tell you that? About my doctor?”

Mel regarded him with caution, what Jayce thought might be too much caution. “Because we’re worried about you and your health.”

“No,” he said, putting it together. “No, no, no. She didn’t want me in the Undercity. Did she know about this? Did you know?” 

“Know what?” She reached to take the documents, but Jayce whipped them away.

“If you respect me at all you’ll be honest with me. She’s a councillor. You two are allies. Did you know about the revenants being arrested?” 

Mel was silent a long while—an answer in and of itself—and then she thumped on the wall of the carriage to signal the driver. The car started up and she sighed. 

“Jayce. I’m glad you’re alive and that you returned to us, but I wish you didn’t have to be here for this.” 

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I’ll be blunt. The revenants have always been a problem.” 

Jayce blinked, stunned. “A problem ?”

“Yes. Their original creation was spurred by the need for a mindless army, an undying and perfectly obedient warband. By all means, it’s the Trifarix’s dream. Noxus has had its eye on Piltover for a very long time, and now… we know that the revenants can be controlled again.”

“That’s— what happened in the Undercity wasn’t controlled!”

“You of all people know the leaps and bounds that can be made with enough determined research. The revenants aren’t just a danger to the city; they’re a weapon that Noxus is all too eager to wield.”

“So, you’re alright with them being rounded up? They’re people, Mel.”

“They’re dead, and they have been for decades.”

“They’re still people.” Viktor’s people. Viktor was with them. 

Mel shot him a look that made the hair on his neck stand up. “Have you never killed a person, Jayce?” 

The memory hit him like a stench. A crack. A blast. Bodies, yes, and people too. He nodded tightly. “I have, but—”

“Life is not something to be precious about. Pain and harm aren’t something you can quantify or calculate.” She waved a hand vaguely—dismissively, Jayce thought. “Like gravity. Or acceleration. You can’t count mercy in numbers.”

Jayce’s hands balled to fists. “We can’t all— someone has to care if people live or die. Isn’t that the point of politics, to uphold the best interests of your citizens?” 

“You think your heart is the only one that bleeds?” Mel’s expression went stiff. “You’re not a governor, Jayce, and that’s not a weakness, simply a matter of fact. You don’t see it. The devastation of the Undercity is a tragedy, but it’s also an opportunity.”

“Do you even hear yourself?”

“The revenants cannot fall into Noxian hands,” Mel snapped. “Understand, I walk the thinnest line imaginable—I honour my nation, serve my empire, and at the same time protect this city that I hold so close to my heart. I aspire to a world free of domination, and one day, I will likely die for it. I will be executed as a traitor. By whom, I do not know, but they will despise me. 

“If the revenants are truly people, would you rather see them stripped of their autonomy and set loose on a battlefield? If this mindless army requires a commander, would you rather Viktor be shackled and bound? And if his will couldn’t be overridden, would you rather become the Trifarix’s prisoner, their insurance? You’re perfect for it, you know. He would kill for you. Forgive me that I refuse to be the one to bring you in.”

Jayce was momentarily speechless. Mel spoke as if she were assembling chess pieces on a board, physical things with weight and certainty. It was hard not to see her vision.

“You’re just theorizing,” he said. “We have no idea of knowing if anything like that is even possible.”

“Possible or not, things like that don’t happen because of decisions like this.”

“A decision you’ve already made,” Jayce said. Grim. Fury building. “There’s no changing your mind, is there?”

“Like I said, I’d rather you not be here to witness this.”

Jayce leaned forward in challenge. “Witness this or witness you ?” 

“You’re a hero, Jayce. Stay that way.”

“Mel. With all due respect, you don’t get to tell me who I am.” He thumped on the roof of the carriage. “Stop the car!” 

“Stop the car,” Mel repeated, resigned, and they slowed. 

Jayce threw the door open. Neither said a word as he climbed out, yanking his cane from where Mel handed it to him, and then the car continued on its way. 

And, because the universe loved to laugh at him, the street that Jayce found himself at the corner of was one of the stupid, goddamn roads that bore his name. But that was fine. It was fine. Piltover hadn’t changed much since he’d been gone, and he knew exactly where he was going next. 

A hero. A fucking hero. 

Jayce’s grip on his cane went white-knuckled. They'd given him a pedestal? Fine. He'd kick it sideways and use it as a battering ram. 

—

Accessing the council chamber was disturbingly easy with his shoulders held back and the Kiramman crest to wave around. The only resistance he encountered was right at the doors where two guards in Piltover-blue uniforms stopped him. 

“Council is in session,” the younger of the two said. “State your business. Short of an emergency I'm afraid you'll have to wait.” 

The other guard, much older and vaguely familiar to Jayce, went white in the face. “The hell?” 

Jayce only nodded as if to say, Yes, this is happening.

The older man somehow paled even further. “Oh gods above.”

“What are you babbling about?” the younger guard asked. “Are you having an episode?” 

The guard stumbled back, and Jayce took the opportunity to push past them, shoving open the council door with his shoulder.

The chatter within faded as he entered. The council chamber looked exactly the same as when he'd last seen it. He should've guessed. Why fix what's broken when you can gild over it with gold?

Of the current seven council members, Jayce only recognized three of them, and the third just barely. 

The doors boomed shut behind him. The last place in the world he wanted to be, and he walked in like he owned it. His footsteps echoed, two solid steps and one high click of the cane, as he marched to the gear-shaped table, looking at each of the chairs inserted between the gear's teeth. 

He found Caitlyn first. Her expression was a step ahead of her fellow councillors, having skipped over confusion and straight to horror. 

“What is the meaning of this?” The question came from a young woman with long red hair held back by a series of thick, interlocking diadems. 

Jayce didn't answer, instead arriving at the table, crossing from the shadowed inner hall to the illuminated seat of Piltover's power. Sunlight sharpened his features. 

“Talis,” gasped Councillor Shoola. 

“Sorry I'm late,” Jayce said, “but I figured I had a right to be here, seeing how I never actually got the chance to resign.”

Chapter Text

Thick silence befell the Piltover Council chamber following Jayce’s reintroduction. Dead silence. One could’ve heard an owl's wing stir the air. 

Then a cackle of pure, throaty laughter broke through as the councillor in the leftmost seat tossed her head back and slapped the table with a singular hand. Several other council members jumped in their seats. 

“Gods be damned,” she said, voice crackling but forceful. “So those rumours bouncing around the Lanes were true after all. Fuck me sideways.” 

“Language,” someone scolded, but it was half hearted. 

“Fuck me horizontal,” Councillor Sevika amended, grinning so that the corners of her eyes folded into the lines that ran across her face. The sheet of thin, gray hair bounced against her forehead as she laughed.

The red haired councillor hissed to Caitlyn. “Did you know of this? Is it true?” More than a few sets of eyes focused on Councillor Kiramman. Questions abounded.

“Order!” This voice belonged to the man who occupied Heimerdinger’s old seat. 

But uproar consumed the chamber, and Jayce had only to sit back and watch the chaos unfold. Over the course of the ensuing debate, he would understand the current Piltover Council as follows:

Caitlyn Kiramman and Ebele Shoola he already knew—or he assumed he knew them. 

Sevika he remembered vaguely from the war meetings that preceded the Battle of the Hexgate. Seeing her serving on the council was a surprise since he was pretty sure she was a Zaunite. 

Tilde Salo, a younger man with short ash-blonde hair, had taken up his late great-uncle’s seat. He remained a quiet presence throughout the discussion—maybe his family had learned a thing or two about being mouthy. 

Fresh faces occupied the rest of the seats, representatives of families whose fortunes had bloated large enough to grab for power: red-headed Araminta of House Montgivre, elderly Doron of House Cau, and horned Myrsk of the Ottrani House Lanerma. 

Caitlyn raised a hand to quell the chamber. “I can confirm that, to the best of my knowledge, this is indeed Jayce Talis.” 

“Councillor,” Jayce amended. “Councillor Talis.” 

Cait shot him a look, all annoyance and confusion and betrayal. Well, the feeling was mutual. “We can discuss titles later—”

“You’ve given me a lot of those while I’ve been gone.” Jayce leaned on the table as he spoke, treating it like he would the bartop at a local pub. “I’m kinda spoiled for choice, huh?”

“Gods above.”

Councillor Cau remained unmoved. “This is entirely unorthodox. Mr. Talis, while it is an honour to make your acquaintance, and truly it is a shock to encounter you at all, this is a closed meeting. We have an agenda.” 

“Oh, screw your agenda.” 

This earned another snort from Councillor Sevika. “Let him speak, Cau. The man crawled all the way from the grave to talk to your sorry ass.” 

“Seconded.” This was Councillor Montgivre, who sat forward curiously. “The first part, that is.” 

Cau pinched the bridge of his nose. “Carried. State your piece, Talis.” 

“I learned this morning that you’re rounding up your own citizens like cattle,” he said. When no one said anything, he prompted, “The revenants?”

“Yours is not the only voice of dissent,” Cau said, “but the motion passed the chamber. The revenants are being quarantined for their own safety and the safety of everyone around them. Once the greater threat has been assessed and dealt with, then we can discuss their reintegration.”

“They’re not part of this greater threat. You need to let them go.” 

“They will be released in time.”

A million good faith questions bubbled to the forefront of Jayce’s mind. How much time? What might be done to speed it up? What would that release look like? But they weren’t acting in good faith, and neither would he. 

“No,” Jayce said. “They should be released now. It’s not right.”

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Councillor Sevika shake her head.

“And why should we acquiesce to your demands?” asked Councillor Lanerma. They spoke levelly, almost eerily so, no malice or favour showing either way. 

“Because,” Jayce said, scoffing incredulously as if surprised how easily it came to him, “I’m the fucking Man of Progress. The Defender of Tomorrow, the Pillar of Piltover, the Father of Hextech. I’ve seen the mileage you’ve been getting out of my image. My face is on half the coinage I’ve spent in the past month. At this point, I am Piltover.” 

He let the implication hang in the air, but no one else seemed to want to voice it aloud, so he continued. 

“You might find it inconvenient if the face of your city started undermining its shining image.” 

Cau spoke. “Were I a lesser man, I’d take that as a threat.”

“If you were a lesser man—”

Caitlyn stood. “Jayce!”

Jayce held up a hand. “Right, no. Not a threat. Of course not, Councillor. I don’t want to do that. I mean, you know the person I am. I’d much rather be of service to the city.” 

“Councillor Kiramman,” said Tilde Salo, “it’s clear that you knew of Mr. Talis’ return ahead of today, yet you failed to inform us.”

“And I take full responsibility for his impertinence,” Cait said. 

“That’s not yours to take,” Jayce shot back. 

“Well, it certainly isn’t yours, not in this context. You’re not a Councillor.” 

“Maybe I don’t have to be.” 

“Then what—”

“Gods above,” someone muttered.

“Quiet!” Cau ordered. “Have some dignity, please. The two of you can do your squabbling after the meeting is adjourned, and as it stands now, I feel as if we may need some time to digest this… new information.” 

Jayce tensed. “No. No, you don’t get to put this issue on the backburner.” But he could see it, the politicians withdrawing from the conversation to plot their responses, their statements, their stupid little strategies. 

And it was then that Jayce realized his misstep. He had himself and he had his image, but he didn't have allies the way that the council did. Blinded by rage, he’d presented them with a problem to make instead of a voice to heed. And he might've regretted it if not for the righteous fury that smoldered like coals under his skin, a heat he couldn't imagine being extinguished any time soon. The anger had pushed him to act; he loved it for that.

But now he would pivot. 

“We’ve heard you out,” Cau said, “and we will take your words into consideration, provocations and all. That is our courtesy to you. As you said, you are an important piece of our city’s history, but this courtesy will not see us bowing to your every whim, Mr. Talis. As grand as you might figure yourself, you are just a man. We, the council, are Piltover.”

It was humiliating, the idea of slipping back into his old role, the man who shmoozed and shook hands, the man who saved all his questions for a chalkboard instead of the council chamber, the one who jumped when they said jump. 

Jayce didn’t want to play, but he would. He would do anything.

And so he straightened up to his full height, using the table to support his leg, and rolled his shoulders back. A pose he was familiar with, if a bit lopsided, and he made it look damn good. 

 “I want to be made aware of the next time the council reconvenes on this issue.” 

A pause. And, hauntingly, Jayce perceived the shift in the chamber, an easing as his change in demeanor brought them back into familiar territory. He imagined himself as a bone being wagged in front of a den of wolves. 

“Great!” Councillor Sevika clapped a hand to her thigh and shoved back in her chair. “I second that motion, third it, whatever, it carries. Tariffs and taxes can wait until tomorrow. Who else needs a drink?”

Barely any of the other councillors looked surprised at this outburst, and none of them protested. In fact, a few of the seats—Shoola, Montgivre, and Salo—rose alongside Sevika without waiting for a formal dismissal. Jayce had to wonder if they acted like this only behind closed doors, or if their weathered attitude extended to public appearances as well. He doubted it.

Sevika passed Jayce on her way to the door. “You like whiskey? I’ve got a bottle in my office.”

Like a duelist unsheathing their blade, he smiled. “Can't say no to that.”

“Yeah, nor should you. With me then.”

Just shy of exiting the chamber, Cait grabbed Jayce's arm, causing his cane to judder from its rhythm and his steps to falter. “What the hell was that?” she hissed. 

Jayce shook her off and continued into the hall, trailing after Councillor Sevika. “Which way did you vote?” he asked. 

“Jayce—”

“The old man said that there was a split vote. It wasn’t unanimous.”

Cait snatched the Kiramman crest from where it sat pinned to Jayce’s shirt. “You used this to get in here? Leveraging my family name, my trust. I can’t believe you.”

“Yeah, reminds me of an upstart ex-cop who forged her brother’s signature to spring a prisoner from Stillwater, hmm, not even a day after he became a councillor. Which way, Cait?”

“Viktor will be fine.”

“Not what I’m asking.”

“It’s the only part you’re worried about. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“Fine, but so what? He’s my partner. You would do the same for Vi.”

“That isn't the same thing and you know—” 

Jayce stopped walking with a slam of his cane and took a firm step towards her, glaring. “I’d say it’s about even,” he said meaningfully.

Caitlyn’s face pinched in surprise. “ Okay ,” she said cautiously, reevaluating the context of the argument and adjusting with impressive speed. “Congratulations, I suppose, but you're still a fucking idiot.”

“If it were Vi,” Jayce pressed, “wouldn't you do the same?”

A beat.

“No.” She pronounced it flatly. 

Jayce stared, refusing to school the disgust from his face. 

“Don't be like that,” Caitlyn said. “You may have different priorities than I do, but that doesn't make you better than me.”

“And what are your priorities? Because I’m starting to believe your citizens aren’t high on that list.”

“It’s only temporary.” Her tone turned soothing, like she was trying to tame a spooked horse.

“The revenants,” Jayce insisted. “If you starve them out, force them to go dormant, do you think anyone will ever bother to wake them up again? Or is that what you want? For them to be ignorable, to just be bodies?”

There had been a moment, one that felt like a lifetime ago, where Jayce passed by the frame that hung suspended in the lab, opalescent light ghosting over his features, and he’d glanced at it, sleep deprived, and thought to himself that he needed to review his notes on the body. The body. Not his partner. Not Viktor. The body. 

He’d thrown up in the trash can from grief. 

Now, locked into a staredown with Caitlyn, he pictured each of the revenants folding one by one, the personhood leaving them. He pictured Viktor as a body again.

“Right, kids.” Sevika muscled in between them. “Save the bitching for after school. I’m too old to be drinking alone.”

Jayce blinked back to the present, marshalled his fighting spirit. “Of course. After you.” 

And they badgered past Caitlyn, leaving the other councillors in their wake as Sevika trudged down the hall, took two left turns, and cracked the door to the office open with the toe of her boot. 

“Welcome to my four walls,” she said.

The office was modest in size, but a breathtaking view dominated the back wall: the sprawling vista of Piltover’s south slope all the way to the river and the fissures beyond. The furniture was all sturdy wood, and Sevika made her way around the thick-slabbed desk to a cabinet stocked with an earth-toned rainbow of bottles. 

“The glasses are on the table behind you,” she said as she fished around. “Fetch. And close the door.” 

Door shut, drinks poured, and Sevika collapsed against the worn, plush back of her chair, she kicked her feet up onto the desk. “So what’s your angle with this, Golden Boy?”

Despite the chair offered, Jayce elected to lean against the wall. He preferred to fight standing up. 

“I think I made myself pretty clear,” Jayce said. 

“Clear as sump mud,” Sevika said, sipping her drink. She moved like she was bullying her limbs and joints to move with more grace than they wanted, all stuttering stops that she forced past. “Why would someone like you give two shits about the revs? Unless it’s true what folks have been saying about you and your metal sweetheart.” 

“What… what are folks saying?” 

“That you’re trying to stick your dick in a brick wall. You know revenants don’t work like that, yeah?”

Jayce, to his credit, did not spit out his drink. “I can, uh, assume.”

Sevika lifted her eyebrows at the word ‘assume’. “My sources aren’t the delicate type, wouldn’t pay them if they were. If there’s one thing I learned from The Eye, it’s that you always need to know who you’re working with or else you lose before you even play.”

Jaw set, he examined the conversation as if he were Mel, turning it around in his hand and poking at the threads. Sevika was giving a lot away. A cynic would assume that she wanted to lower his guard, offer small concessions to lead Jayce into making a bigger one, and the cynic would probably be right. 

But Jayce wasn’t the sort of person to react like a cynic, so he followed along. Eyes open. Ears pricked. 

“The Eye?” Jayce asked. “You mean Silco, the industrialist. He was a friend of yours?”

“Friend?” Sevika chuckled. “I wouldn't call him a friend, but it's a fuckin’ kick in the teeth having to work alongside the woman who killed him. Everyone licks her boots for it, like she put down a rabid animal.” 

“Who killed… Silco?” Jayce didn't bother searching for a more intelligent response to that. “Who—?”

“Your councillor friend,” Sevika said. “Tracked him, hunted him, and put a bullet through his temple.” 

“Are you talking about Caitlyn ?” 

“You see any other marksmen on the council?”

“She told me that Jinx killed Silco. It was an accident.”

“And when did she tell you that? A day after it happened? A day after her mom got blasted straight to hell, an eye for an eye? That's called coping, Goldie. She killed him, and it was no accident—I should know. I found myself in her crosshairs once.” She tapped a finger to her forehead, then over her heart. “And she didn't aim here. Or here.” She tapped the metal cap embedded over her shoulder. “She hit me here. Three, maybe four times on the mark. She's a damn good shot, but she's Piltie-soft. Silco was her first kill and she couldn't handle it.”

“And Jinx?”

“Would never have hurt Silco, no matter how many screws she had loose. You’ll just have to trust me on that.” She took a long sip. “So, congratulations; you’re friends with the woman who finally cleaned Shimmer off the streets. That fine little accomplishment was one of the main pieces of ammunition she used to bully House Kiramman back onto the council. Whatever she told you way back when, she’s singing a different tune now.”

“You don’t have to turn me against her.”

“I know. She did a damned good job of that herself from what I saw.” Sevika dug through her desk drawers as she continued. “You made that council meeting actually worth my time, so I’ll tell you what you want to know: I didn’t vote against the incarceration order either.”

Jayce opened his mouth to speak, but Sevika cut him off. 

“First off, when Cau said it was a split vote, it wasn’t by much. I could see where the chips were falling. I’ve got principles, and the revs are Undercity folk like the rest of us, but I work on this side of the river now. My job is… sticky.”

Sevika found what she wanted, set her pipe and accoutrement on the desk, and went about a practiced ritual of lighting up one-handed. 

“I didn’t think I’d see a Zaunite on the council,” Jayce said, sipping his drink and then hastily swallowing. “Which, I mean, it’s nice to see.”

Sevika snorted. “I can see why you didn’t last long in politics. Good thing my ass. They fucking poached me. After the Battle of the Hexgates, Piltover let us send a representative to sit on the council as a sign of goodwill to the Undercity. I stepped in because, well… I got talked into it, I guess. I thought I’d hold the spot until we could find someone better, but my seat isn’t a Zaunite seat. It’s still Piltover’s chair, their room, their goddamn rules. I’m borrowing it. I walk, and they put another piece of Piltie trash there instead.”

“That’s… bullshit.”

Sevika filled the bowl of her pipe, using a deft thumb to pack it down. “I’m outvoted on nearly everything, but outside the chamber I get some weight to throw around. Fuck-all changes, but I can keep the worst from happening.” She laughed to herself. “Except for when the whole city starts melting around our ears. You were down there for it, I heard.”

Jayce set his drink aside. “You didn’t vote against the incarceration. If it’s like you said and there was an obvious majority, fine. But what are you going to do about it now?”

Sevika held the button of the pipe between her teeth and flicked open the lighter, twirling the pipe with her lips to tilt it and cup the flame. Once smoke spilled from her lips, she freed her mouth to speak. 

“Do you remember how slow politicians move?” 

“Too slow?”

“Just slow enough for everyone inconvenient to die.” Another drag, another exhale. “You’re not gonna find a miracle in that room, boy, so don’t bother looking.”

“I’m not looking for a miracle.”

Wisps of pale, rudy smoke danced through the air, and Sevika assessed him between puffs. 

“I’m looking for friends,” Jayce said. 

Sevika considered this, sucked again on the pipe, and, when she exhaled, asked, “Do I look like a friend to you?”

Jayce considered this, and as he thought, his eyes caught on the rising wisps of pink-tinged smoke that scattered across Sevika’s lips. She noticed him watching and jerked her head in question. He was pretty sure she was fishing for this exact question, but he asked it anyway. 

“Is that Shimmer?”

“Want some?” 

A test. What Sevika wanted to know—whether he was a stuck-up, moralistic Piltie, whether he was a pushover who would cow to any suggestion—Jayce didn’t know. His heart rate kicked up for a completely different reason though. If that was Shimmer, then that was the catalyst for Viktor’s transformation found. 

He took a casual step forward and Sevika withdrew the pipe at once. “Ha, no. Unless you’re willing to pay me the cogs it cost to buy this.”

Jayce leaned back again. “Is it actual Shimmer?”

“All chemtech is Shimmer to you Pilties now,” she said, snorting. “Scared of cough syrup for children.” 

He couldn’t overextend, couldn’t reveal more wants than he could handle her knowing. “If not Shimmer, what is it?”

“The closest we can get. There’s not a huge market for it, on account of all the worst junkies getting dolled up, but there’s still plenty of folks in the Undercity with dependencies. It works well for pain, too.” She thought for a second, glanced down the length of Jayce’s figure. “Did you? Want some?”

And still, even after all this time, it took Jayce a second. He fought the urge to shuffle his legs to obscure the brace. “Is it legal?”

“Gonna drag me in now, Councillor?”

“I heard that chemtech is regulated now.” 

“That just means that the drugs can shift to a higher market if you pay the regulation fees and taxes. There will always be a need for cheaper, faster, and stronger stuff.” 

“Is there stronger stuff than that?” Jayce asked, gesturing to the pipe. 

“So you do want some.”

If genuine Shimmer still existed beyond whatever dregs floated in Dr. Reveck’s ruined lab, this seemed like his best bet to get his hands on some. It was a long shot—especially with how Shimmer was made, something Viktor had explained to him in detail—but this wasn’t the time to let opportunities pass by. 

At the same time, he didn’t want Sevika to know what he wanted any more than she already did. 

“And you want something from me,” Jayce said. 

Sevika pinched her mouth around the pipe. “How’s that?”

“I’m here, aren’t I? In your office, drinking your whiskey.” He swirled the glass in a clawed hand. “Are you going to ask me to foot the bill for this, too, or is it an investment?”

“Alright, alright. We can cut the posturing.” She grinned, all teeth. “You’re damn fun to tease, that’s all.” 

Jayce downed the last of his drink and gestured for her to continue. 

“Like I said, my job is sticky. I can’t step too far out of line without the consequences rippling down to every Zaunite in the Lanes. If you’re gonna cause a ruckus, and it better be a big fucking ruckus, I’m interested in helping with that. Provided you target some specific issues that I haven’t been able to touch.” 

“You need me to be the one getting my hands dirty,” Jayce said. “Making enemies.”

“Don’t pretend like you’re shy.”

“Okay. I’ll need you to pass on some contact information for wherever you get your medication, too. And your sources in the Undercity—if I have questions for them, I want to be able to ask.” 

“Tools for the arsenal,” Sevika said, nodding in what one could’ve mistaken for respect. “You’ve got a deal, pretty boy.” 

“A deal, then.”

When Jayce extended his hand to shake, she took it and promptly yanked him so hard forward that he practically splayed across the desk, his knee colliding with the solid wood, ink spilling and sopping into his shirt sleeve.

“But let me just say,” she intoned, “that if you even think of walking back on this, I will tie you down like a pig and give every Trencher from here to Cradle Lake a turn at stabbing out your eyes.”

Jayce swallowed hard. Once. Then twice. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

—

Viktor dreamed.

He dreamed of being touched, of being held and spoken to. He dreamed of soft sheets and hard work surfaces, of dusty sunlight and rain-soaked dusk, of past and future. And he felt steady hands map the metal ligature of his ribs, and then, somewhere far away and yet immediately present, a thumb rubbed at the soft, fleshy divot of his hip. 

He kissed Jayce’s temples, and in the next instant, he could only nuzzle his partner’s hair with the flat of his mask. 

And then Viktor woke to Resin dripping into his eye slits.

He groaned back to life. 

“Boom,” said a small voice. “I got him, I think.”

The sound of someone kneeling on dirt, and as Viktor’s vision returned to him, he saw Callista frowning down at him. “You with us?”

“Where..?” All he could see was a blurry wooden ceiling, Callista’s face with a bruise on her left cheek, and a revenant. A silvery material fused in rivulets from just below their ear, down the neck, and pooled in patches at their shoulder. Only then did Viktor recognized them as someone he’d healed—the silver had once been his cloak pin. 

“You must’ve been doing some pretty heavy magic to conk out completely,” Callista said. “Do you remember any of what happened?”

Viktor made a concentrated effort to focus himself, but everything—his vision, his mind, his insides—swam sluggishly. “There was… shouting. Where are we?”

Callista helped him to sit up. “The Paddlewick Racecourse on the outside of Piltover’s city limits. Enforcers raided the borough and carted away every revenant they could find, locked them up here.”

Now with enough time for the Resin to trickle through his system, Viktor came back online. He was slumped in a small, wood-walled room, the stone floor dirty and strewn with straw. A soft murmur of hushed voices clotted the air, so many that he couldn’t tell them apart. Somewhere far away, there was a loud clatter, shouts, and then quiet again. 

“Because of what happened in the Undercity,” Viktor said, “during the blizzard.”

“Guess it’s illegal to have your face melted off.” This comment came from the revenant that shared their space. He’d scooted back, legs tucked to his chest. 

“Such horseshit,” Callista said, “which, speaking of, you two ought to be grateful you don’t have olfactory senses anymore. It smells awful in here.”

Viktor used the wall to stand and was greeted by a window of slatted bars that showed into the next stall over. And the next and the next and so on. The row never seemed to end. The complex that was meant to house thoroughbreds was now crammed full of people, some shoved four or five to a stall. 

“They’re waiting for us to give out,” the revenant said. “I guess if we were human, they’d send us to Stillwater, but what’s the point? That place is for actual people.” 

Viktor gestured to Callista. “And you are here because…?”

“Punched an Enforcer in the balls,” she said.

“Twice,” said the revenant. “It was pretty brutal.”

“Yeah, on my knuckles,” Callista complained. “But then Naph hit them over the head with a chair so it worked out. This is Naph, by the way.”

Naph waved. “Hi.” Besides the silvery cascade that now patched his left side, his only modifications looked to be repairs from dents and scrapes, permanent bandages of brass and tin. He wore a sturdy jacket and pants in the same style as any other Zaunite teen, double-layered to bulk out and masculize his figure. 

“And Orianna?”

“She got away,” Callista said. “Well, she better have. I had to kneecap an officer with a boat punt to keep them off her.”

Naph perked up “But now that you’re awake, we can—”

“We have a plan,” Callista said. 

“We have two plans.” 

Naph held up a half-used vial of Resin that he’d tucked into his breast pocket, and Callista retrieved two more from her boot, completely filled. 

“Our hope,” said Callista, “is that this is enough fuel to have you cast a spell that can get us all out of here.” They handed Viktor the vials, the glass tubes tiny in his elongated hands. “But if not, then we can pass these between the stalls to try and keep as many people awake for as long as possible.”

“We’ve seen a few people drop,” Naph said. “They just… drag them out.”

“Where do they take them?” Viktor asked. 

“Dunno. Might put them in boxes or something? When I first woke up, like years ago, I was in a museum—I scared the crap outta this guy when I knocked on the glass—so it could be something like that.” 

Viktor rolled the vials between his fingers. By rough estimate, this might give him enough power to do… something . Blow down a wall. Start a fire. Pummel a guard with a wall of force. But then what?

“I am afraid we will have to play a long game,” Viktor said, handing the vials back. “Pass a vial to the next stall over in each direction with instructions to keep passing it along, and ask them to count how many are in each stall. Once the vial is empty, have them pass it back and relay the full count. We need to know how many of us are here. Then we can think about what to do next.” 

If anything . But he kept that thought to himself. 

Callista nodded. “I’ve got it. You two sit tight and save your energy.”

Viktor seated himself cross-legged while Naph slid down the wall. After a moment, he poked Viktor’s knee. 

“Hey,” he said. “Thanks for fixing me, by the way. You’re pretty cool.”

“Of course,” Viktor said. “Just promise that you will not start worshipping me.”

“Okay, well.” And Naph signed the revenant gesture for rolling his eyes, except instead of just his wrist he used his entire arm from the elbow down. “You're not that cool.” 

And Viktor believed it. There was nothing quite like being talked down to by a teenager to keep your ego in check.

Once Callista was done passing out the vials and giving instructions, she joined them on the floor. They might’ve tried talking with those revenants in the stalls immediately adjacent, but no one was in a very chatty mood. There wasn’t anything left to do but wait. 

It didn’t last long. No more than ten minutes passed before the stall door slid open.

Vi leaned against a post on the other side, arms crossed over her chest, clad in full uniform. “Alright, kid. Let’s go.”

“Mom?” Callista rose to her feet. “You’re here?”

“And you’re getting out,” she said, impatience evident. “Move your ass.”

“What about everyone else?” She glanced at Viktor, then Naph.

Vi huffed. “That’s not—”

“Mom, do you see what’s going on here?”

“Come on, Cal.” 

Callista planted her feet. “No.” 

“What the fuck,” Vi said, giving a full-body sigh of frustration. “The hell do you mean, ‘no’? Do you like the smell of horse shit now?”

Callista backed up until she was in danger of tripping over Viktor, who took the opportunity to climb to his feet as well. “I’m not leaving until everyone else can leave, too.”

Vi hesitated before she stepped into the stall, her movements rabbit-like, as if expecting the door to slam shut behind her from some invisible force. Then she marshalled herself. “You got any idea the kind of strings I had to pull to even get in here? Especially after you assaulted an officer in the Undercity? Twice?”

Her daughter didn’t bother to guess, just pulled her face into a scowl and retreated further into the stall. 

“Your mum is worried sick,” Vi continued. “With Atlas still… You can’t do this to her.”

“Then tell her,” Callista said, “to pull some strings and let everyone go.”

“That’s not what this is about.” Vi reached for her daughter’s hand. “I don’t have time for a tantrum.”

Callista jerked away. “Tantrum?”

“Perhaps this is not the time or place—” Viktor attempted to intercede, but Vi stuck a finger up to his face. 

“Stay the fuck out of this, Scrap Pile,” she barked. 

“You can’t talk to him like that!” Callista said. 

Vi grabbed her daughter’s wrist. “Let’s go. You can yell all you want once we’re out of this shithole.” 

“Fuck off.” Callista tried to wrench herself free, but Vi held tight. 

“I am your mother—” Callista’s knee slammed into Vi’s middle, cutting her off with a grunt. “Oh, don’t start.” 

“Then let go!”

“You don’t belong here, Cal.” Vi grabbed her daughter’s other wrist in an attempt to pick her up and carry her, but Callista pushed back. Vi cursed. “You’re a Kiramman!”

Callista’s eyes flashed. “The hell does that mean?” 

“It means,” Vi said, straining with effort, locked into the grip. Her back slammed against the side of the stall as Callista shoved her. “It means you don’t belong here! It means you don’t get locked up, Cal! It means you’re safe—!”

Callista angled her arm to the side, causing Vi’s grip to break, slide down her forearm. Callista’s elbow clipped her mother in the jaw. “Then maybe I’m not a Kiramman!” 

Vi blinked.

Her hold released, and Callista got another hit in before Vi snapped back to the present and grabbed for her daughter again. She missed. Her knuckles grazed Callista’s brow. Callista growled. The next hit took them both to the ground. 

“Stupid—” Vi grunted. “Don’t know what you’re saying—”

“Zaunites—!” Callista gasped. “Zaunites don’t take last names!” 

“You didn’t grow up in Zaun,” Vi said through grit teeth. “I did. I know what that means.”

“Then—!” Callista’s fist connected with Vi’s chin. “Fucking act like it!” 

“I will march you out of here in cuffs if I have to.”

“Like hell.” 

Another crack of a fist—flesh and bone and ragged swearing. Then another and another. Neither combatant registered who had swung on who until blood spurted hot from Callista’s nose, splattering against her mother’s cheek. 

Vi just stared. 

“Not a Kiramman,” Callista spat from her position sprawled prone on the floor. “Not if that means sharing a name with you. Tell Mum to do her fucking job. Then I’ll leave. With everyone else.” 

Vi staggered to her feet. Her expression was void of emotion, her movements limp and far away. She reached a shaking hand to her daughter. And it hung there, unanswered, unacknowledged, as seconds stretched like hours. “Cal, please, come home. I don’t… you can’t stay here. Don’t do this.”

Callista scooted backwards, propping herself up on her elbows. Wiped a hand across her nose. Glared. 

“Fuck,” Vi murmured. She left after that. 

The stall door closed. Someone unseen locked it again. 

“Holy shit,” Naph whispered.

Viktor knelt next to Callista. “Are you alright?”

Callista held the hem of her shirt up to her bleeding nose, paused for a moment in thought, then burst into laughter. It quickly morphed into an ambiguous sound, halfway between disbelief and pain, the lungs contracting to wretch free emotion. 

“I knew it,” she said. “I knew it, I fucking knew it. She doesn’t give a shit. None of them do.”

And then she went back to laughing.

Chapter Text

Jayce hesitated on the steps of the Kiramman manor, but not for long. He went in. And he found Atlas and Amaranthine in a sitting room just off the main foyer. 

Atlas was curled up on a settee, arm laid over his eyes, one leg dangling and the other drawn up. Canvas bags stuffed full of books, diagrams, and chemical equipment sat strewn around him, some with seed leaves poking past the fabric. His notecards sat abandoned on the nearby end table. 

Amaranthine hopped from her seat when she saw Jayce. “You’re back!” 

The floors of the manor were polished tile. Because of this, because there was nowhere for her to root her plant matter, she stood a few inches shorter. Grassy tendrils and vines spread out to stabilize her. 

Jayce held out his hands and she surged up, coalescing in his arms. 

She pointed to Atlas. “The medicine makes him sleepy, but he wrote a whole report about today.” And her point moved to indicate a page tucked underneath his notecard box. “He’s okay, though. Kinda.” 

“Thanks for staying with him,” Jayce said. “You did good.” 

Amaranthine smiled. “He was annoyed that I kept following him, but whenever he told me to go away I just pretended I didn’t know how to read.” She yawned, and as she did her leaves unfurled, stretching wide to catch the light. 

“You can rest if you want,” Jayce said. 

“But I want to know where you went today,” she said, sitting her little chin on his shoulder. 

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Ugh. Fine.” 

Amaranthine relaxed her form, recognizable human features softening to vague impressions between blades of grass and tender flower stalks. The mass of plant matter draped limp over Jayce’s shoulder, showing no desire to move, so he nabbed Atlas’ report and sat in a beam of fading, dusky sunlight. Anthy only shifted sleepily, angling into the sunset.

Atlas’ report was dated and signed at both the top and bottom, which made Jayce laugh quietly. He read:

Terrace Hall is a ghost town. Completely abandoned except for random stragglers like me poking around confused. Firelights are GONE. Horrible feeling that they were roped into helping with the arrests. Really hope not, but I kinda get it. It’s not something they can afford to say no to.

Looted the hell out of my workshop just in case something happens to Terrace. Cleaned away the work on the Bathus, tarped it and tied it down. Primed the alarms on the doors. 

Searched the Hall top to bottom. People left in a hurry, I think. Storerooms picked through, equipment too. 

Found straw dolls collected under one of the gingkos that Anthy helped heal. Tributes to her? Like the Janna and Herald effigies. Put one in a bag with the seedlings for her if she wants. 

Celebrations stopped in most boroughs close to the rev neighborhood, but lots still happening down by the docks, the merchant quarter, etc. Can hear them.

Spoke with a few organic folk who saw the arrests but were left alone. Enforcers really don’t give a shit about handling revs with dignity. Apparently “porcelains” CAN’T feel pain. SURE. Hope Ori is okay.

People talking about the Herald being back??? 

Asked around more, people very sure about the Herald. NOT GOOD. Just another reason to bury the revs back in their old graves. Revs aren’t a threat. Herald is. What the hell. What did he DO???

Revs aren’t taken to Stillwater. Can see the tramlines from balcony at Terrace. No increase in activity. Where the hell are they? Did they just throw them all into the Sump? The harbour? Burn them? Fuckfuck~~~

Got my shit together. Can’t find Mom. Not at the station. Enforcers won’t talk to me, actually kinda mean to me? Cal did something again didn’t she.

Anthy annoying, by the way. Keeps saying I’m walking like a drunk person. I’m fine, thanks. 

Heading home. Pain meds make fog. Couldn’t find Mom or anyone.

Jayce set the report aside, staring at the far wall as he turned the information over in his mind. Other people knew that the Machine Herald was back. While Atlas’ note had an almost accusatory tone, Jayce couldn’t help but echo his sentiment: what had Viktor done? What in the world had forced him to play that card?

Carefully, so as not to disturb Amaranthine, he rose from his seat and fished through the canvas bag. The little straw doll did bear a striking resemblance to the plant girl sprawled over his shoulder. Scratchy grass pigtails, purple scraps of fabric to form a dress, nuts and seeds like barrettes stuck to its head with tree sap. 

If it was a tribute, she deserved it for her bravery. 

The front door of the manor banged open. 

Atlas startled awake violently. He groaned in pain, pressing both hands over his bandaged mouth, apparently having tried to speak on instinct. 

Jayce, too, jumped. And Amaranthine stirred, collecting herself so that she had a face with which to frown. 

“Whassat?” she asked. 

Jayce scooped her off his shoulder and laid her on the armchair. “I’ll see.”

Vi stood frozen in the manor’s vestibule, haggard, the door still open behind her, as if she’d come home in one breath and turned to stone in the next. 

“Vi?” Jayce asked. 

She whirled around, slamming the door closed, and froze again. Shoulders hunched. Head bowed. Hands locked to the door handles. And it was then that Jayce noticed the dirt and grime on the back of her uniform, the flecks of dried blood. The way her shoulders shook. 

Atlas poked his head into the foyer. For lack of speech, he crept over to stand next to Jayce. 

This second set of footsteps had Vi turning around again. And then she was grabbing hold of Atlas so fast and tight that he barely had time to register the embrace before his mother was sobbing into his shoulder. 

“You’re safe,” she managed between breaths. “You’re safe, you’re okay.”

Atlas could only stare with wide eyes. Pat her on the back, utterly lost.

Jayce caught his gaze for a moment, read the way his expression begged for help. He had no idea what to do, but he tried anyway, “Hey, Vi? Vi, what happened?”

Another sob. Her legs gave out from under her, taking her son with her to the floor under her weight. 

A rustle of leaves, and Anthy spoke from over Jayce’s shoulder. “I saw Mrs. Kiramman come home a while ago. I’ll find her.” 

By the time he turned around, she was already gone, leaving Jayce to stand there feeling perfectly useless, waiting for help, listening to Vi’s hiccups bounce against the high, empty ceiling.

— 

Jayce couldn’t sleep. The guest bed was too large, the air too still, the heartbeat in his ears too loud. So he got up, left the empty-feeling room, and filched.

The Kiramman manor was the sort of house that kept its kitchen buried in the basement, creating the illusion that food was something that apparated into the hands of household staff as they ascended the stairs. It also turned midnight pantry raids into something akin to a heist. Dark, dim corridors. Squeaky floorboards. Sleeping staff just a wall away.

Jayce recalled how a teenaged Cait would drag him through the narrow basement halls to sneak princess cakes and cold beef, stewed apples and pickles, enlisting him purely for the carrying capacity of his arms. They could get away with an entire tea service provided they stacked it properly. And provided Jayce didn’t drop anything on the way out.

The kitchen was exactly how he remembered it. Maybe the appliances had changed, but the dim light hid any discrepancies. 

Jayce cut slices from a round of soft cheese and ate, missing Viktor. This, he reasoned, was better than staring at the ceiling and missing Viktor. Or pacing the guest room and missing Viktor. 

He couldn’t even find it in himself to feel ashamed at how quickly his life’s focus shrank the instant Viktor’s wellbeing was in question. 

But problems didn’t get solved at two in the morning. Two in the morning was for eating cheese until his brain stopped doing miserable little spirals. 

A light flicked on, briefly blinding him. 

“Oh,” said Caitlyn. A dressing gown draped over her shoulders, her hair tangled messily. “I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Jayce said around a mouthful. He chewed hastily.

“I can just…”

“No, this is your house.”

“Yes,” Caitlyn said, sighing far deeper than the conversation warranted. “I suppose it is.”

Jayce bade her enter into his sorry excuse for a heist, and she accepted, glancing over at his choice of snack. She huffed, a good-natured sound, and turned to the shelves. 

“How’s Vi?” Jayce asked. 

“Asleep,” Caitlyn said. “Thank god. She just… wore herself out in the end.”

“What happened?” 

Caitlyn turned back around to face the kitchen, head bowed. “It’s… Fuck, it’s a lot.” Her face pinched in an ambiguous, pained expression.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Jayce said. 

“Not for anything you’ve done,” Caitlyn said, “but I really don’t want to. Tell you, I mean, because then you’ll let me know exactly how you feel, and I barely know how to feel about it myself. And it’s my family, Jayce. And I just don’t know.” That last word splintered apart as it left her mouth.

“Oh, Cait.” Jayce made his way around the kitchen island to stand next to her, to coax her to lean against him, which she did easily. There was no resistance left in her. 

“I, um,” she said, swallowing thickly, “I didn’t vote.” 

“Vote?”

“On the incarceration order. You asked me earlier, and I didn’t vote for it. I didn’t have to, of course, because the motion reached a majority without me, but… you wanted to know.”

Jayce considered this for a moment as he tucked Caitlyn closer to him, felt how her shoulders jumped along with her stilted breathing.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he asked.

“Would you have believed me?” Cait asked, a laugh creeping through the watery quality of her voice. “And like I said, it didn’t matter.” 

Jayce reached an arm around her back to hold her shoulder. “And what are you going to do now?”

Cait sucked in a breath. “Callista won’t leave the revenants. She got taken in with them, during the scoop in the Undercity, and when Vi went to fetch her she… they fought. Badly. Physically.”

“Shit.” It slipped out under Jayce’s breath. 

“Vi… I don’t know what she was thinking, if she was thinking.”

“I’m sure she meant well.”

Cait gave a tight-lipped nod, a distressed hum of agreement. “So now my city is on edge, my council is at odds, my son is hurt, my wife is in anguish, and my daughter won’t come back to us. Jayce, I don’t know what to do.”

“Okay,” Jayce said, processing, “okay.” And then: “Do you still eat those—what were they? The abomination sandwiches. The ones with cream cheese and blackberry jam and bacon?”

Caitlyn just stared at him. But it didn’t take long for her to break, snorting and shaking her head. “Yes, Jayce, I will still eat those. And they’re good .” 

“See, these are the acting skills that got you into politics.” 

And Jayce set to work, rifling through the cabinets and refrigerator, fetching a bread knife, breaking the strips of bacon to length with his hands. Cait just watched him incredulously. But Jayce liked her better like this, when she was being his sister instead of Piltover’s councillor.

She’d told him that she had different priorities than he did, that Vi couldn’t compare to politics in terms of importance. Evidently she’d been lying—though Jayce had to wonder if she’d been lying to herself, as well. 

He finished the sandwich and cut it in two lengthwise. 

“You’re not allowed to mock my tastes when that’s how you cut sandwiches,” Cait said.

“It’s even either way.” 

“But the corners.” 

Jayce gave her a look. “You have two decades on me now and still don’t appreciate bread crust.”

Cait took a bite, munching a piece of jammy bacon into her mouth like a mouse with a parsley stem. It gave them both time to think.

“I'm sorry what I said before,” she said, “about how you only care about the revenants because Viktor is one of them. I know you're a better man than that.”

“No, you were right,” Jayce said, considering the remaining sandwich half but ultimately abstaining. “I mean, before Viktor came into my life, I never thought twice about people from the Undercity. Not in detail, anyways. And if Viktor wasn't tied up in… all of this, if he was human again, we might not even be here right now. We might've just left Piltover.” 

“Feels a bit shit, huh?” Cait said. When Jayce raised an eyebrow in question, she elaborated, “Needing a whole other person's heart to teach you how to care.”

“It's a good thing, though, that we have them.” 

“Obviously,” Cait said, though the barb was toothless. “I keep thinking that maybe that's the reason for Callista putting herself in danger like this. That it's about Orianna. I've never been sure of their situation, but it's clear they care for each other deeply, so if I could guarantee that girl's safety, help her, remove her and bring her here, then Callista might follow.” And then Caitlyn gave a great, weary sigh. “But I know that's not true. That girl is principled. Do you know what a struggle it is, Jayce, to have raised a daughter with principles ?”

“I can’t say I do.” 

Caitlyn bowed her head, elbows on the counter. “I’m so proud of her. She’s become such a remarkable young woman, and it’s fucking terrifying. God, I wish she were boring. I wish she chose some other issue to be obstinate over.”

“I guess that means you’re not giving in to her demands.”

Cait picked up the second sandwich half and pointed its rectangular corner at Jayce. “Ah, you’d like that wouldn’t you.”

“You know where I stand. The revenants are owed the right to walk free, and you’re one of the best people to make that happen. Callista knows it; that’s why she’s doing what she’s doing.”

“Imagine that,” Cait said, rueful, talking around a mouthful. “Imagine a mother’s distress being enough to handwave years of politics.”

Jayce just shrugged, biting back frustration. He was of two minds. The half that felt most like himself wanted to push Cait as far as she would go, to expose as many nerve endings as possible, make her admit that her family was what mattered more than anything, make her prove it. The other half knew that he needed her on his side when the sun rose the next day. 

So rather than prod further, he seethed internally, furious with how Piltover turned them from siblings to opponents on either end of a game board, even in this most private of moments.

“I can’t do an about-face,” Caitlyn said, “but believe me when I say that I understand your perspective, yours and Callista’s. If you want the incarceration order lifted, then the best thing you can do is find proof that the threat has passed.”

“That should be the council’s job.”

She just gave him a sad look, dodging the veiled implication that it was also her job. “Should you figure out what exactly happened, who exactly caused it, then I would have no hesitation standing behind you in the future. We need information. That’s the best antidote for fear.”

Hands pressed flat to the counter, jaw set, expression neutral. He needed her on his side. “Alright. I’ll think about it.”

Being brought to heel was somehow even worse when he was the one holding his own leash. 

— 

Callista’s scrapes had scabbed over hours ago, and her bruises were blooming a cheery green-purple as she laid on the floor of the stall, legs kicked up against the wall. 

“And so the problem is that there’s no incentive,” she told Naph, “either positive or negative.”

“That’s… but there is,” Naph said. “Are they stupid?”

“You need to think of it from a Piltover perspective,” Callista said. “It’s very ‘got mine’ over there. Anything that happens in the Undercity, even if they cause it, isn’t really about them.”

“There is a willful detachment,” Viktor added from his spot, legs crossed in the corner. 

“Exactly. It’s not logical, but it’s true. That’s why you can’t fight them on their terms, because they won’t let you get at anything they actually care about. You can’t fight business with more business or politics with more politics.”

Naph made a little dismissive gesture with his hand. “I’m still gonna call them evil, though. They totally suck.”

“Well, by all means they deserve it, but in terms of productive discourse, simplifying societal motives like that—”

Naph clapped his hands over where his ears might’ve been. “I get it! Spirits, I heard you the first time. Just tell me which slurs I can use and put a sock in it.”

Callista laughed.

“Leech is a classic,” Viktor said thoughtfully, “if it is still in fashion.”

“Sure,” Callista said. “Pigs, too. Prick is applicable. Silver spoon. Robber baron. Inbreds.”

“Gold for brains,” Viktor muttered. “Ripe for a coup. Pays other people to think for them. Would lock their dick in a bank vault if they could.” 

Naph snorted. “Nice.”

“You could write poetry,” Callista said. 

“Seeing as there isn’t much else to do,” Viktor agreed.

They’d been like this for hours, talking in loose circles, getting nowhere but not particularly wanting to. It was a waiting game. 

The vials had been passed down the row of stalls, only one returning to them empty. The other had been confiscated by a lurking Enforcer—they’d heard the shouting and hitting even from far away. Then the tallies came back. Fifty-five revenants in one direction, and twenty-nine in the other, before the vial was caught. The census was repeated down the line, past where the vial had stopped, and returned as forty-two, with three revenants having dropped and dragged away in the intervening time. 

And then they waited. 

Waiting for what, they didn’t know. Or at least they didn’t say. Viktor couldn’t help but feel like they were waiting for the end. But he didn’t regret it. He was right where he ought to be, among his kin.

The light in the racecourse stables drew low. The sunset. The talk continued, flat and spiritless, until Viktor noticed that Naph had stopped contributing. Not even to snark. 

He nudged at the young revenant. “Are you with us?”

Naph mumbled something that wasn’t quite words. 

Viktor shared a look with Callista, but there wasn’t much they could do except prop him up into a respectable, seated position, and Viktor tucked him into his side, putting his own body between Naph and the stable door.

Another hour passed. Darkness fell.

Another hour. The occasional lantern light of an Enforcer passing, though these became less and less frequent. Each time, Viktor leaned over to obscure Naph’s unconscious form. 

The night turned from a dense black to the thinned gray of too-early morning. 

Then whispers, footsteps, creaking against the wood doors of stalls. 

“The big guy is in here,” someone said. 

“Don’t call the Herald ‘big guy’, Janna’s sake.” 

“Hello?” Viktor whispered. 

A familiar face pressed itself to the wood slats that served as a window into the stall. Partially obscured by a thick, dark green hood, it immediately broke into a relieved smile. 

“Thank goodness,” Orianna said. “You’re here. Oh, we found you.” 

Viktor dragged himself to his feet, but Callista beat him by a mile, shooting upright and scrambling over to the door. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Ori, you can’t be here. What’s going on?”

“Take these,” Orianna said, pressing a bottle meant for over the counter medicine past the bars, followed by a paper packet. “Listen, I need to keep moving, but Ekko and the Firelights are out front pitching a fit to the Enforcers so the rest of us can get these to you.”

Behind her, more figures skirted between the stalls, speaking in hushed tones.

“Plant the seeds in a seam in the door and use the Resin to pop it loose,” Orianna continued. “We’ll meet by the cliffside. I know a couple spots in the old mining tunnels we can hide out; I used them before the Sinking. But Ekko wants you to wait until they’re clear. Plausible deniability or something. Viktor—” And she held out another bottle of Resin. “This is extra for you.”

He took it. “For me.”

“Yeah.” 

He held the bottle in both hands. Extra. Special treatment. Undeserved, wholly and truly. The wave of guilt that hit him was instinctual more than anything.

But before he could say so, someone grabbed Orianna by the arms, wrenching them behind her back in a way that made metal screech against metal.

“Weaseled your way out, did you?” the Enforcer growled.

“Ori!” Callista yelled. 

It happened fast, but Viktor’s decision came faster. 

He crushed the bottle. Glass like eggshells in his fist. Resin crept down his forearms, finding a home in his plating, membranes, exposed musculature. And then he could move again. Lightning in his chest after days of numbness.

He threw his shoulder against the door and the wood burst apart around the lock. His hexclaw lashed out, caught the Enforcer by the neck. Lifted them. He didn’t spare a glance over his shoulder at the gurgling sound they made or the noise of Orianna landing on the floor. He surveyed the aisle between the stalls, Orianna’s fellow saboteurs, their shocked expressions. Felt the thrum of magic like electricity over metal. 

And maybe he didn’t deserve this power, didn’t deserve to be the Herald, but his people deserved a champion. 

“Fuck plausible deniability,” he said. “This happens now.”

—

As Viktor sprinted for the front of the racecourse stables, wood splintered in violent bursts, arcaniformes growing through the timber and popping doors from their hinges. Firelights and revenants carried sunstarved bodies to the back doors, to the cliffside meeting point. 

Gunshots sounded—a reason for fear had Callista not looted the incapacitated Enforcer for his firearm. The dull Hextech whirr of Orianna’s Armillary accompanied them. 

There was something beautiful about the chaos, the dust, the cracking, the shouts, the burn of forward motion. Delicious momentum. Celebratory like the dancing and music of that morning. It felt like a lifetime ago, but here it was again, bookending the day, cheering, roaring, living. 

Most of the Enforcer presence at the racecourse had left to quell the tumult inside the stables, but there was still a line of assembled officers at the front gates. They stood with their backs to Viktor. And, on the other side of the gate, Ekko and his Firelight lieutenants. 

Ekko caught sight of him first and visibly stiffened. 

Viktor didn’t blame him. He was going against the Firelights’ plan. Meanwhile, had it not been for their intervention, he would still be locked in a box. But he wasn’t sorry. 

As soon as Ekko noticed him, the others did too. The Enforcers turned. There was no recognition to their movements, just confusion and exasperation. So they didn’t know him yet. But they would soon. 

Viktor balled his hands to fists. Drawing from limited resources, he needed to be smart with his magic.

One breath: he tore loose the packet of seeds. 

One breath: Paired runes— growth, acceleration— and he sent their development galloping into the future. 

One breath: Leaves unfurled to lap at the pale morning sun; roots splayed over his back to feed magic back to him in a loop. 

And then Viktor calculated. Defined a parameter. Grounded it in physical space. He assembled a runic sequence, grasped it with all three hands, and ripped the gravity from a twenty foot sphere centered on the gate.

Reality buckled. It screamed. But the spell held. The math was good. The math was exquisite. Viktor was almost dizzy from it. 

Shouts rang out as Enforcers and Firelights alike lifted off the ground, scrambling for purchase, some grabbing onto the fence, others pinwheeling helplessly. And then a gentle whirr of engines, pulses of green light as hoverboards coughed to life. The Firelights were no strangers to airborne combat. 

Viktor marched into the heart of the gravity field. As it turned out, the spell was still fighting against reality just to exist. Random currents of momentum swept through like wind in a tornado. They whipped at Viktor’s hair, at the arcaniformes that trailed him, at the tails of his cloak. The membrane of the world thinned. Stars shone through. Gaseous wisps shredded apart and reformed.

He found the highest ranking officer by uniform, grabbed them by the shoulder, and spun them around until they could speak face to face. The fact that the Enforcer remained upside-down was inconsequential. 

“You are conscious, yes?” he asked. 

The Enforcer just stared at him. 

“Good. You will bring a message back to your council. The revenants are under my protection. Zaun is under my protection. You will not treat our lives like idle playthings.” Here, had he been capable, Viktor might’ve sneered. Might’ve smiled. “Tell them what happened here and they will know who I am.”

And then he gave the Enforcer a gentle push, condemning them to spiral helplessly through the arcane storm for as long as the spell remained.

When he exited the storm, Ekko was waiting for him on his hoverboard. Viktor expected anger but was instead met with something akin to grudging respect. 

“You know you’ve just declared war, right?” 

“I doubt I’m enough of a threat to warrant war,” Viktor said, lethargy creeping in at his peripheries.

“And if you are?”

“Then I hope you will forgive my indiscretion.”

Ekko just leaned back on his board, shook his head. “I would’ve been kidding myself to think I’d never see something like this again in my lifetime.”

“I imagine the tear in the fabric of reality is a surprise.”

“No shit.” Ekko gave his board a little kick and it jolted forward. “Let’s just go get our people.”

Chapter Text

Caitlyn broke the news over breakfast, and all Jayce could do was squint at her and ask, “Are you sure?”

“Am I sure that Viktor collapsed a building, stranded half a dozen Enforcers midair for hours, and disappeared with over a hundred fugitives into the depths of the Undercity.” She stared at him. “Is that what you’re asking me?”

“Doesn’t sound like something he would do,” Jayce said, avoiding her gaze.

And Cait just huffed, said something about a meeting, and left. 

In truth, it did sound like something Viktor would do if he could. And apparently he could now. It inspired in Jayce a feeling he couldn’t quite pin down, something between irritation and guilt. Some hours later, he realized it was exactly what Caitlyn had spoken of the night before, the feeling of wishing that the person you loved was less willful and principled and likely to get into trouble than they were. It was wanting, even as you loved them, for them to be less themself. If only to see them safe. If only to keep them longer.

Jayce turned the new scenario over in his head as he groomed and dressed himself for the day. Really, it didn’t change much. What was he going to do, sniff Viktor out like a bloodhound? Waste days of his life fumbling around a city he was completely unfamiliar with, hoping to run into him by chance?

He had to wait. He needed more information, a direction, maybe even a sign from Viktor. And until then he was still most useful on this side of the river. He was Piltovan. He was The Man of Progress . If he could secure genuine sway with the council, well… it was a possibility he couldn’t ignore. 

And Janna only knew Piltover wasn’t about to let this go. Viktor’s jailbreak would only have them tightening their grip on the revenant situation and the Undercity as a whole. A search was inevitable. A mass deployment of Enforcers wasn’t out of the question.

Maybe he could head that off, stall it out, do… something.

Smoothing down the collar of his shirt, he glanced out the window: rooftops, glass greenhouses, plumes of white smoke, a sparse few puttering airships, jewel toned flags, the bare branches of the suffering gingkos. And, somewhere, hidden from view, Viktor. 

Gods, he was such a heartsick idiot. 

He fiddled with the latch on the window, opened it to let the fresh air waft over him. There. One less barrier between him and his partner. And then it struck him how stupid he was being. He had to get it together. He closed the window again. 

Combed his hair back, shrugged on a smartly tailored jacket, thought a few too many thoughts. Opened the window again. 

It wasn’t fair. All he could do was imagine what his morning would look like if Viktor were still with him instead of untold miles away. They’d only just agreed on what they were. They’d only just begun. 

He’d had these thoughts about Viktor before, little curiosities to the tune of “What if they were something more?” What if Jayce told him right then, in the lab, at the party, in the carriage ride, after this field test, during yet another late night work crunch, once they took a power nap, in the morning, in the moonlight, over lunch, over their fifth coffee, over and over again between bursts of laughter? What if? What then? 

And yet all that happened was that Jayce counted time in wasted weeks, wasted months, wasted years. Not entirely wasted, not when Viktor was still there, right next to him, but now Jayce didn’t even have that. Forget healthy or happy, he didn’t even know if Viktor was safe. If he was… 

Jayce gripped either side of the window frame. 

Viktor could handle himself. Hell, he was much stronger than Jayce now, bigger, faster, and with magical abilities. That counted for something, even when it did nothing to quiet the anxious gnawing in Jayce’s chest. 

He pictured himself running down the streets, across the bridge, searching every nook and cranny of the Lanes until he found them, found Viktor, found the voice and the mind and the embrace of the man he loved. And he’d hold him— gods how he would hold him. Like the world was ending all over again. Like their bodies were permeable and could fuse into one. Like he wanted he could drown in the everything that was Viktor and just be done with it all.

And… 

And then what? What good would he be? 

No. His grip tightened, the old wood creaking. No, he would hold the line in Piltover. Even when the distance and the not knowing and the cold lack of a familiar presence hollowed him out with every passing hour. 

He would pick his moment. He would wait as long as it took. 

“Take care of yourself today,” he told the horizon, and left the window open.

—

If he had to rebuild his presence from the ground up, Jayce decided to start in familiar territory. 

Piltover Academy might as well have been frozen in time since he’d last seen it. Limestone-white walls reached so high that they transformed streets and greenspace into shadowed canyons. Students traveled in packs. Professors chatted in doorways. 

He’d asked one of the Kiramman’s aides to send a message ahead, so Jayce was met at the gates by an older gentleman with blonde hair and thin spectacles. 

“Dean Lymere,” the man said, shaking his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Jayce said, letting his gaze drift, watching how the passing students did or didn’t regard him. More than a few stared openly before looking away. Word travelled fast apparently. 

“I was glad to receive your note,” Lymere said, “but I had a feeling we’d be hearing from you soon. Professor Montgivre was quite delighted to share the news of your return.”

“Montgivre?” The name rang a bell.

“You may have met her sister. She represents their family's interests on the council.”

“Huh.” Influential in both the halls of the Academy and the council chamber; Jayce would need to keep an eye on that merchant clan. 

“But I imagine you have more important reasons for gracing our school than idle gossip,” Lymere said. 

Jayce put on a practiced smile. “Well, you know, time travel is a little outside my field of expertise, so I was hoping to get a better idea of how exactly I ended up here. I figured the Academy would be the best place to start.” 

All of which was true, to a degree, but it was more so an excuse to make his presence known to the faculty and students. Like Lymere had demonstrated with the Montgivres, most everyone at the Academy was connected to someone powerful, either through blood or sponsorship. The world of academics had always been his gateway to the systems of power that churned from on high—he trusted that it would serve him well again.

“I know exactly the person you need,” Lymere said. “If you’d follow me, I’ll introduce you to Miss Rudy.”

By the time they arrived at their destination, Jayce had gained a deep understanding of why Viktor had always arrived grumpy to the lab every morning—the Academy campus had too many hallways that were way too long and too many staircases that were way too tall. The constant reminder that the rest of the student body managed the distance just fine was enough to sour anyone’s morning. 

He was so preoccupied by the growing ache in his ankle and right shoulder that he barely noticed what door they’d stopped at. But then he did. And frowned.

“Isn’t this yours?” Jayce asked.

“Pardon?” Lymere asked. 

“Sorry. This is the dean’s laboratory.”

“What makes you say that?”

Walking the Academy halls was like stepping back in time, and it took Jayce a second to remember where and when he was. “The last time I was here, this was Heimerdinger’s office.” 

“Ah!” Lymere gave a short laugh. “I suppose that tracks. No, I’m a ways down the hall. Call me fussy if you wish, but I prefer my door knobs and counter tops to be at a reasonable height.” 

“As do I!” The door swung open, forcing both men to stumble back. 

Miss Rudy wore a tan-coloured, sleeveless vest with buckles reaching from throat to hip, a pair of soft drawing gloves, and a mismatched set of earrings. She was also, it should be noted, three feet tall and covered in dark brown fur with fluffy ears to match. A yordle. 

She rubbed her hands together in relish. “Oh, Guin wasn’t kidding. It’s Mr. Hextech in the flesh. So kind of you to deliver him to me, esteemed Dean Lymere.” 

And that was Jayce’s morning lost to a battery of questions and tests, measuring his height and weight and memory, checking his vision and blood pressure, meticulously recording anything and everything he remembered about the sea of stars through which his soul had briefly floated. 

“See, I’m an anthropologist,” Rudy prattled, swinging her legs back and forth as she jotted notes. “I’m studying how you human-types interact with magic, but I’d never heard of it being done before, you know, non-mage humans messing with ‘the Arcane’ so directly.” She made scare quotes with a clawed hand. “It’s a miracle you didn’t get lost in the back alleys of Bandle, gone forever. Just… poof! You know time travel is all relative right? You all made that up whole cloth. You’re so fascinating with all your labels and systems.”

“Um, sure,” Jayce said, feeling a bit like a slide under a microscope. 

Eventually, he managed to sneak in a question of his own. “Do you know what happened to Heimerdinger? Everyone acts like he’s died, but—”

“Yordles don’t die,” Rudy said, waving her gnawed pencil dismissively. “If anything messy happened, then he’s back in Bandle City. Otherwise, he probably just got bored. Suppose that’ll happen after a few centuries, but I don’t think I’ll ever be bored of you silly creatures.”

“And if he touched the Arcane?”

This gave Rudy pause, but only slightly. She laughed. “Then I doubt he’s bored anymore!”

A few minutes past lunchtime, a knock sounded on the door to Rudy’s lab, and Jayce ended up getting exactly what he was looking for without having to go looking for it.

He opened the door to find fifteen-odd students and adjuncts piled up in a crowd. They froze when they saw him. His audience had arrived.

Rudy peered around Jayce’s leg. “Friends of yours, I take it?”

“We’ll see,” Jayce said, opening the door wider. “You mind?”

“I’m taking my lunch,” she said. “You have until I get back, so don’t make me have to herd you all out, got it?”

A few students acknowledged her as she passed, a quiet “Yes, ma’am” here and a “Thanks, Miss Rudy” there. And then all their eyes turned back to Jayce. 

He couldn’t help but laugh. This wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar situation. There had been a sweet spot between their initial obscurity and the truly hectic days of Hextech where undergraduates would assemble the back of the lab for demos or short talks whenever he or Viktor could spare the time. The eager way they’d crammed themselves into the space had reminded Jayce of a school of sardines. The students of this new age were similarly fish-eyed. 

“Alright, alright,” he said, shuffling aside. “I know what you’re here for. Everyone gets three questions max.”

As it turned out, they did not finish by the time Rudy returned from lunch, but she was amused enough watching Jayce get absolutely run over that she let them stay, working at a corner desk and throwing in the occasional jeer. He suspected that she was also taking observational notes.

For Jayce, it was the questioning Callista had given him turned up to eleven. Questions about the founding of Hextech, curiosities about the battle, cross-referencing him against the archives and textbooks, speculations about his return, inquiries into his personal life. A few asked about Viktor, that is, The Herald, and Jayce awkwardly sidestepped. He was pretty sure they noticed, though.

He let the bulk of the conversation wash over him. Instead, he paid attention to how the students stood, how they introduced themselves. It was easy to tell the legacy admissions apart from the sponsored students, and it felt hypocritical—slimy even—to discount the lesser connected pupils, but he needed these connections. He needed these good impressions to make their way back to the students’ parents, the industrialists and doctors and traders and socialites that pulled Piltover’s strings. 

By the time the crowd thinned, students pulled away by other responsibilities, several hours had passed. 

Jayce fiddled with a prototype one of the undergraduates had brought. The ill-timed valve gates made for a relaxing puzzle after the deluge of questions. 

Its owner watched him tinker. “So, what are you doing now?” she asked. 

“Watch the pressure release here,” he said. “You’ll need to place insulation between the two manifolds to keep the current from tripping the other switches. Maybe think about arranging it three-dimensionally instead of on a flat plane.”

“No,” she said, accepting the mechanism back. “Uh, that is, thank you, Mr. Talis. But I meant, why are you back at the Academy? I imagine you have better things to do than letting us pester you all afternoon.”

Jayce had to think about the best answer to that question. He worried his thumb over what was becoming a well-loved divot in the handle of his cane—his go-to fidget in lieu of his old bracelet.

“I wanted to get a sense of what problems need solving nowadays,” he said. 

“Pff. I could write you a list,” the student said. It was clear from her attitude and the patched elbows of her uniform jacket that she was on scholarship. 

Jayce offered a smile. “I might just take you up on that. Next time you see me around, you can give it to me.”

She considered this. “I charge by the word.”

Jayce smiled, even as something about her pragmatic wit made his chest pang. “You got it.”

—

In the end, Jayce got held up at the Academy for far longer than he'd planned. Everyone wanted to speak with him, to arrange a chat, a lunch, anything if only to say they did. Which was the goal, he kept reminding himself. This was a good thing. 

But it wasn't until sunset that he finally made his way to investigate Paddlewick Racecourse. And when he arrived, he found he wasn't alone. A carriage and engine waited some paces down the road, and a Noxian soldier stood sentry at the gate. Mel knelt in the gravel beyond, picking at the ground like a scout inspecting tracks, completely ignoring the collapsed building behind her.

Jayce leaned his forearms on the fence. “Regret teaching him yet?” 

Her gaze lifted slowly, cooly, but it betrayed no anger or irritation. “I don’t find regret to be a particularly useful emotion.”

“Now you’re the one who sounds like a machine.”

She hummed in thought, then spoke, “Let’s put it this way: the worst thing the revenants could be is hapless victims, puppets, or weapons. The second worst thing they could be is decommissioned. I was happy to settle, but…”

She stood. Magic sparked from her fingers, lashing gently at the ground like snakes’ tongues, tracing an unseen circle. 

“The second best thing they could be is protected.” The magic swirled in small pulses. “And the very best thing they could be…?” 

She looked to Jayce. Ages ago, at galas and fundraisers and socials where they stood arm in arm, he'd served as her favourite rhetorical device. Now he stared back impassively.

“The best thing they could be,” Mel said, raising her magic so it crawled upwards, doming in a faint echo of a previous spell, “is strong enough to protect themselves.”

“You said in the car that you wanted to be honest with me,” Jayce said. “Where was all of this before?”

“Honesty changes day to day,” Mel said, passing beneath the arch of the gate, her soldier falling in behind her. She cast a sparing glance behind her at where her imitation of Viktor’s magic glittered in the dying sun, winking thread by thread back to nothing. “And look at that. I daresay he's getting the hang of things , don't you think?”

—

When Jayce finally made it back to the Kiramman manor, it took all his strength just to find his way back to the guest room. He’d forgotten how exhausting socializing was when there was an underlying motive behind it—fund this, believe in that, on and on and on. It wore him down to his bones.

He passed Atlas and Amaranthine in the hall. Anthy was nattering on about how she understood root networks, and Atlas was giving her a look that said That is absolutely not the correct term for that and I wish I could say so , but they weren’t having an outright fight so that was probably a win. 

Atlas, with his arms full of a tray of potted seedlings, only nodded in Jayce’s direction, but Anthy broke away to follow him. 

“I haven’t seen you all day!” she said. 

Jayce bit back a sigh and mustered up the energy to form words. “Yeah, I missed you this morning. I wanted to ask—”

“Oh,” Anthy said, “I checked. I mean, you want to know if I can look for the revenants, right?”

Jayce nodded. 

“Atlas asked me too, but the arcaniformes are super shrivelled after the storm. I can’t travel anywhere without them, and healing them takes—” She paused to yawn. “It’s a lot. So I can try, but it’s slow. And it’s weird in the Entresol now. It feels all icky and creepy.”

Too tired to ask, Jayce let the last comment pass unexamined. “Thanks for trying.”

“Yeah, well, duh.”

Jayce reached the guest room, opened the door, and just… stopped. It wasn’t even the exhaustion that stilled him. Well, that was part of it, but reaching the end of the day was like toeing the edge of a cliff. There was no more work to be done, no more effort to expend, no more distractions to pile up against the tide of loneliness and worry that rose to meet him. 

There was only the absence, only the open question. Only the hours and hours with which to feel it. 

“Are you okay?” Anthy asked. 

“I’m fine,” Jayce said, not realizing how tight his throat had become and how obvious it made his lie. 

She walked around to take his hand, her little palm petal-soft in his. “I’m sorry your boyfriend is a criminal.”

Jayce’s laugh choked in the middle. “He’s not… a criminal.”

“Is he your boyfriend, though? Like, for real?”

And something about how genuine the question sounded coming from someone so young allowed Jayce to take a deep breath in, a breath out. “We didn’t get the chance to talk about it. He’s my partner. He’s always been my partner.” 

“Are you gonna get married?”

“Maybe,” Jayce said. “I’d like to.” 

“Okay, so nothing bad is going to happen to him then, because magic and true love and all that gross stuff. You don’t have to worry.” 

This time, Jayce’s laugh came a little easier. “Thanks, Amaranthine.” 

But it still took him ages to fall asleep that night.

—

Tomorrow dawned. There was no sign from Viktor, so next verse same as the first, Jayce kept himself busy. Hours at the Academy, hours writing to the offices of councillors, a mercifully brief hour meeting with Sevika to arrange a time to visit the ports in New Zaun. 

When news spread that Piltover was reinstating Enforcer jurisdiction in the Undercity, he made his way to their headquarters across from town hall. A brass-plated directory dominated one of the lobby walls, so finding Vi’s office was easy. 

She crossed her arms when Jayce entered. “I know what you’re here for, and I didn’t have any say in it. Seriously, has Cait not gotten it through your skull how fucking little say any one person has?”

Vi was messy on a good day, but during the time Jayce had gotten to know this new version of her, he’d come to expect a sort of purposeful mess. Shirts unbuttoned with care, hair combed by finger instead of brush, mud splattered meaningfully across her boots. But now the mess was genuine, the dark circles under her eyes and rumpled uniform both true accidents.

Jayce held up his hand. “I’m not here to fight. I just wanted to know if… you know, if you’re joining the search efforts.”

“I thought the point of you science geeks was asking smart questions.”

“And I wanted to know if you’re doing okay.”

Vi narrowed her eyes. She’d been shuffling papers into uncoordinated piles as she spoke, but now she turned her full attention to the conversation at hand. “Did my wife send you?”

“No? Why would she have to do that?”

She took a second to judge his answer, then she huffed. “Worry about your own goddamn problems then, Councillor. No matter what my daughter thinks about me, I’m finding her and I’m bringing her home.”

The idea of Vi being set on Viktor’s trail was disconcerting, all that fury and determination directed at finding the revenants and bringing them back under Piltover’s thumb.

So, he tried to be delicate. Emphasis on tried . “You know this whole thing isn’t just about Callista.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Whatever you’re getting at…”

“I know you’re worried, I get that, but she chose to be there, because of the cause she believes in. And there’s more people than just her that could get hurt if—”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Vi burst out, slamming her fists against her desk, and it was like Jayce could watch the tremor pass from her knuckles clear to her shoulders, but the flash of pain across her features was just more fuel. “I’m so sorry that your stupid fucking metal boytoy might get arrested. I’m sorry that he might face a couple consequences after staging a fucking jailbreak and also, y’know, transmuting an army and nearly ending the world way back when. And also lying to me about helping my dad. The shit he did killed nearly everyone I ever cared about!”

Jayce took a step back, the sudden whiplash leaving him with nothing to say.

“Listen,” Vi growled, “I wanted to give him a second chance. I wanted to trust my daughter’s judgement, because that’s what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to trust her and love her and believe in her. But the last time I believed in that ugly piece of scrap metal you call your partner, you know what he did? He took my dad and he twisted him until he was nothing. Nothing , Jayce. He wasn’t even allowed to die as himself.” 

She sucked in a shaky breath, the only sound in the cluttered room aside from the heartbeat that pounded in Jayce’s ears. 

“I left my kid there, the only human being surrounded by a mob of machines… and now what? I’m just supposed to trust it won’t happen again?”

“He wouldn’t.”

“But he did. He did it before and he could do it again. And that alone tells me a lot more than whatever goopy fucking feelings you might have for him.”

“Okay,” Jayce said, edging towards the door like he might need to make a break for it. “Let’s say you find Callista. Forget… forget Viktor for a second. What about all the other revenants down there? What about Orianna?

Vi just snorted, massaging her hands. “Don’t pretend you’re suddenly a big picture guy. We all have our fucking priorities.” She abandoned whatever work she’d been picking at and grabbed her jacket and holster from the back of her chair. “You want to be useful to your partner? Then tell his cowardly ass to come out of hiding so we can talk face to face like fucking adults.”

And with that she stormed out of her office, knocking Jayce into the wall as she went.

— 

The third day, still no messages or signs. Nothing.

Atlas caught Jayce as he was headed out the door. “Anthy found these.”

“You’re talking!” Jayce said, startled.

His voice was stilted and scratchy, his chin and lips still bandaged and tucked beneath a navy blue scarf, but good news was good news. 

“Yeah, whatever,” he said, handing Jayce a folded paper. “Look.”  

Jayce unfolded it and winced. It was actually two pieces of paper, both wanted posters, one for the revenants in general and another for Viktor in specific. Well, they didn’t call him out by name. They didn’t call him anything, actually; there was only a woodcut portrait, the depiction needlessly sinister, all glaring eyes and curved horns, the hexclaw looming at a disjointed angle. 

Atlas took back the poster with the image of a generic revenant. It had a bounty, relatively low compared to Viktor’s, but not nothing. “These are all over Zaun. Those—” And he pointed to the poster in Jayce’s hand. “—are really only in the Entresol, and mostly far away from the pneumatic lifts and gondolas.”

“They don’t want Piltovans to know about Viktor,” Jayce reasoned. “I guess so no one knows there’s an uncontrolled threat.” 

“And Piltovans don’t care about bounties. After the storm, I think a lot of Zaunites would see this money as a great way to fix a hole in their wall, or pay medical expenses, or just make up for lost wages.”

“They’re trying to turn the Undercity against itself.”

Atlas made a contemptuous sound in the back of his throat. “For however many Zaunites consider the revs to be actual citizens of the Undercity. Has Mum talked to you about trying to figure out the whole petricite deal yet? I think that’s worth looking into.”

Jayce’s instinct was to brush it off. After all, what did it matter now that the revenants were wanted for a crime that—while justified—they really did commit? At least in Viktor’s case, the danger he posed wasn’t just hypothetical. 

And then he remembered that whoever had caused the petricite snow was still out there. Whoever had killed Anthy and stabbed Viktor in the heart was still out there . No doubt just as motivated and murderous as before, but now with the revenants more vulnerable than ever. Maybe this was what they had wanted all along.

Again, Jayce’s soul screamed at him that he needed to find Viktor. He needed to be there. Damn Piltover, damn it all. If all he could be was a body flung between Viktor and the business end of a knife then that was as good a use for himself as any. 

He took a step to leave and it was like Atlas could read his mind. Or maybe it was painted all over his face: the fear, the desperation, the longing. 

Atlas said, “Mom’s having you watched.” 

Jayce froze. “Vi—? She’s what?”

“She thinks you know more than you’re letting on.”

So don’t do anything stupid , was what went unspoken. 

“Listen,” Atlas said, “I know you have your own projects you’re working on, but I could use your help the next time I visit Damian. They’re keeping him under observation at the Academy’s adjoined hospital, but his body, the things that were done to him… If his condition stabilizes, he might be able to tell us something.”

Jayce barely heard him, his mind still whirling through the implications of being monitored. The back of his neck prickled. Suddenly, the Kiramman manor felt less than safe. 

“Are you a part of that?” he asked. 

Atlas raised his eyebrows. “I’m one of the few topsiders who bother to study the arcaniformes, so yeah, they want me on his case.”

“No, Vi’s thing. If she asked—”

A laugh. “I don’t have enough time to spare on spying,” Atlas said dismissively. Almost too dismissively. 

Jayce straightened his stance, drawing back subtly. He took a second to resituate himself in the conversation. “And how is Damian?”

“Come with me next time and find out.”

But the next time that Jayce saw Atlas, it wasn’t at the Academy. Instead, it was the evening a day later in the west wing of the manor. He was in search of Amaranthine, who had made a habit of pestering the young Kiramman whenever she got bored enough, and he poked his head into Atlas’ study. 

The space was awash with white and violet grow lights. Canvas tarps covered the hardwood floors, stained in places from where planter beds had spilled or chemical fertilizers had leaked. What might’ve once been a coffee table was now buried under a mountain of rescued supplies. 

Atlas stood at the desk facing a mirror, delicate tweezers in one hand, a scalpel in the other. His eyes widened when he saw the door open in the reflection of the mirror, and when he turned, Jayce caught a flash of opalescence scattered across his jawline. 

“What are you doing?” Atlas demanded. 

Jayce’s first instinct was to apologize, but his shock and confusion outweighed it. It had been a long time since he’d seen Atlas’ bare face. The meat and muscle of his chin had been eaten away by the burns, and the angry red scarring extended up towards his ears, tracing his mandible, wasting away his lower lip. 

But then the left side of his face… 

A smooth, shimmering membrane stretched across his skin, held in place by sutures and medical tape. Dried blood crusted in places. A freshly bloodied patch wept on his chin, and he grabbed a patch of gauze to cover it as Jayce stared. 

“You’re experimenting on yourself,” Jayce said. 

“I could’ve sworn I locked that door,” Atlas said, expression steely. “Don’t start with any lectures, alright? I know what I’m doing.” 

“You said you were researching how to graft the arcaniformes to humans,” Jayce said. “You didn’t mention you were trying it on yourself.”

“I’m a fully consenting adult.” 

Barely , was Jayce’s first thought. Sure, he’d spent the better part of a month with both Atlas and Callista, treating them both as intellectual equals in most respects, but they were still Caitlyn’s children. They were his niece and nephew. They were family. And so something primal in the back of Jayce’s brain kicked at the prospect of Atlas slicing into himself, no matter the reason, and he took another step into the room.

“I know the arcaniformes are your field of study,” he said, “but have you considered that using them as skin grafts means connecting the Arcane to your own body?”

“That's the point.” Atlas gestured with the scalpel. “Human biology is rigid, but the arcaniformes are fluid, moldable. The revenants benefit from their adaptability in so many ways, and I see no reason why we shouldn't be able to do the same.”

“It's not the same,” Jayce argued. True, the revenants coexisted with the arcaniformes without one overpowering the other, but they were both expressions of the Arcane. “The last time we tried mixing magic and organic matter like this, the Hexcore… it took over Viktor's body.”

“And now the Hexcore is dead and the Arcane has made a home for itself in Piltover. You were exploiting magic and pushing it too far. Now we have the good sense to work with it, and that's what I'm doing. Engineering new arcaniforme cultivars is literally my job.”

Still, the knot in Jayce’s stomach tightened. “Fusing with a piece of the Arcane will have consequences. And your face… it's not that bad. It'll heal in time.”

Atlas laughed, a bitter bark of a sound. “You think this is about vanity?”

“Isn't it?” Jayce challenged. Maybe not physical vanity, but arrogance. For all his ambition and his compassion for others, Atlas reminded Jayce of the moneyed contemporaries from his Academy days, students picking up a degree on their way to trust funds or cushy political positions. Scientists, yes, but Piltovan elites, too. 

“Don’t pretend like you’re above it,” Atlas said.

“What, vanity?”

“It matters ,” Atlas snarled. “Appearances matter. With the stunt that Callista’s pulled… Mum has talked about the title of Kiramman heir passing to me. That means leading the house and the adjoining minor houses, sitting on the Piltover Council, overseeing our economic interests.” The longer he spoke, the more contempt crept into his voice. “And I’d rather not have my presentation work against me.”

Jayce opened his mouth to raise another argument, but Atlas jerked from his seat, swinging around to fully face him.

“This research isn’t just for me,” he said. “Once I get consistent results, this could benefit you as well. Whatever help you might need with your leg, it’s yours.”

Almost unconsciously, Jayce shifted his weight from one leg to the other, leaning onto his cane. 

Atlas watched him. “They look at you differently, right?”

It wasn’t just that. And it wasn’t just his leg. These past days spent keeping up with the breakneck pace of the Piltovan political machine had cast his new deficiencies in stark relief. Exhaustion so heavy it collected in his chest, cramps kicking in like clockwork every evening, and brain fog laid in layers by every combative conversation. 

It was agony, suffering a problem that he couldn’t fix. 

“I can’t deny that,” he conceded. “And I’ll admit, your offer is… tempting. I appreciate it. But it isn’t worth the risk.”

“It is to me.” Another blithe laugh. Atlas didn't explode like his sister, but he'd inherited Cait's temper in his own way. “And maybe it is vanity; call it what you want, but I can barely look at myself. Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl. Existing like this makes me want to…” He trailed off, dabbing again at his wound. “Especially if I have to sit on the Council one day.”

“Cait wouldn’t force you.”

“You’re saying I could just step aside and let the Kiramman legacy—two centuries of history and six generations of Councillors—wither and rot? That’s not how this works. And when you have power like that dropping into your lap, you take it. You do something with it.”

And in that moment, the weight of Piltover society became a physical thing, a tangible pressure squeezing the air from the room. Jayce could only grimace.

As if he too feel it, Atlas offered a slant grin. “Besides, I'll be good at it.

Jayce sighed. “There are other ways to heal yourself.” It was a weak attempt, a white flag.

“Thank you for your concerns, but I should get back to work before I scab over.”

Grinding the foot of his cane against the floor, Jayce’s mind wandered back to his conversation with Viktor, the argument over how best to remake his body. Because that was the crux of it. When you have no say over the ways in which the world hurts you, you fight with everything you have to decide how you heal. 

And Jayce could hear it in the claw of Atlas’ voice, buried under the bravado: the desperate desire for control in the face of a million choices already made for him.

So he told his nephew, “Okay, just come find me if you need help.”

—

Jayce spent so long fulfilling promises that an entire week fell away without him noticing. 

The council didn’t reconvene, but the ancillary meetings seemed unending, each one bringing with it an issue that Jayce hadn’t even considered. Seven inert revenant bodies remained behind after the destruction of the racecourse, and it took an infuriating amount of back and forth to establish a guarantee of their documentation and an oversight of their storage. It would be so easy for them to be lost—on accident or on purpose. The fact that they were being stored was insult enough, and the possibility of their revival had never made it to the table. 

And then there was an issue that sent him marching back and forth between Piltover and Zaun: the revenant's neighborhood. More specifically the now vacant properties and the city's rights to redistribute them. As if they'd been empty for years instead of a mere ten days, the previous tenants long dead or mere imagination.

And in this, Jayce met resistance from both sides of the river. A non-trivial number of Zaunites were eager to buy up the properties at a bargain, though there were thankfully just as many dead set on opposing the sales. 

Jayce took this as permission to focus his attention on the bureaucratic, Piltover side of the conflict. 

Visiting the Undercity put him ill at ease. Not in the way that it used to, not for fear of his wellbeing, but in such a way that he was always alert, always searching, as if he'd find what he was looking for waiting on a street corner or shadowed in an alleyway. 

Viktor still hadn't contacted him. No one had. Anthy hadn't found anything, and neither had the Enforcers, thankfully, but the silence was maddening. 

It weighed on Jayce through every conversation, every meeting, causing his emotions to spiral randomly. 

For example: another council-adjacent meeting, another circular argument, another coin flip of Jayce's anxieties. 

“Does nobody remember the days of Shimmer?” asked one politician, a representative from House Lanerma. “This poison that took over the Lanes, turning men into monsters, threatening to infect our own streets? Again, we have a corrupting force that we don’t understand—”

“Then let’s understand it,” Jayce cut in. “Locking it away and burying it doesn’t do us any good.”

“It keeps our people safe.”

“It keeps them ignorant.”

“Beg pardon?”

It wasn’t immediate, it wasn’t instinctual, but once Jayce cast his gaze around the room he bit his tongue. Strange. He used to be so effortlessly charming, coaxing coin from donors with his beliefs alone. All he’d had to do was show the people his heart. 

But his heart, it seemed, had changed—changed too much, if the looks he received were anything to go by. It wasn’t what the situation called for. It wasn’t what the powerful wanted. Jayce huffed out a short, sharp breath, drew it back in slowly.

Golden Boy. Man of Progress. Jayce Talis. 

He wrapped his persona's leash twice around his hand, yanked, and spoke, “We can't let fear control us. Fear isn't what made Piltover the bastion of progress that it is today. Yes, there is risk. There's hazard, but that's what's needed for discovery. If we let this fear hold us captive, then we destroy the dozens of opportunities for advancements that we don’t even know about yet. Last I checked, this city wasn't known for its cowardice.” 

The patriotism felt flat on his tongue. Not dead, not entirely, but lacking.

And what's more, he could feel his influence waning. Other than the vague, shiny memory of who he once was, he had nothing of interest. Nothing anyone wanted. He was history.

A solution presented itself midway through the week, dangling like bait behind a rope snare, when Rudy introduced him to Professor Montgivre. 

“Just call me Guin,” she said. The arms of a well-loved jumpsuit sat tied over her hips, contrasting the gold filigree of her shirt and house crest.

Jayce shook her hand, eyes wandering around the room. Practically a cathedral with steel beams for pillars and power tools in place of effigies, the ceiling vaulted high to accommodate multiple airship hulls. Detached turbines and deconstructed engines ate up the remaining square footage. 

“My family’s main investment is in transportation and shipping,” she said. “I suppose I ought to thank you for our decades of prosperity—with the Hexgates gutted, advancements in dirigibles swooped in to fill the void. But you’re not here for a lecture. If you’d follow me, there’s something you should see.”

She led them down a short hall to a door that took two keys to unlock. 

In terms of square footage, the room was small, two closets worth of floor fused together, but sturdy wooden shelves stretched to a high, dusty ceiling. Each and every cubby was full with either a box, a bin, a tray, or some metal gadget too large to fit anywhere else. 

Guin tugged over a rolling ladder made of copper piping. “It’s all proprietary, lent by House Kiramman for storage and security purposes, so if we want to actually study any of it we need to write a request, but there’s no rules against looking.” She handed the ladder handle to Jayce. “Especially not for you.”

Jayce didn’t get far on the ladder before he stopped short, reached out, and lifted a collapsed rifle from one of the shelves. A little paper tag dangled from its trigger guard. Number, name, date—but he didn’t need it. Even empty of its signature blue glow, he recognized it instantly, flicked it so it extended to its full length, latches clicking softly into place. The firearm he’d crafted for Cait’s raids on the Undercity. 

“Is this all Hextech?” he asked, already knowing the answer. He dug his hand into the neighboring cubby, pulled out a leather case, emptied a handful of spiral-etched bullets into his palm. 

Guin leaned against the doorframe. “There’s only so much melting down and crushing you can do before it stops feeling like progress, you know? From what I remember, the council was of two minds about it.” 

Rudy inspected the two rows of cubbies at her eye level. “Ha, I remember that fight. They only started tossing stuff once no one could figure out quite how to make it tick.”

Jayce held a bullet up to the light. The inscribed runes were miniscule, each stroke the width of a hair. He hardly remembered creating them, he’d been in such a state, but seeing them now, the evidence of how carefully and meticulously he’d worked to ensure each would pierce their target with perfect precision… he nearly lost his balance on the ladder. 

And there were a lot of bullets, but even beyond that… He glanced upwards, the vertigo finding root in his bones.

“What’s, uh—” He cleared his throat. “What’s all in here?” 

“Great question,” Guin said, fetching a twine-bound dossier and flipping through. “From what I was told, they dissected your lab top to bottom, labeled and stored everything they could, but like Rudy said the collection thinned over the years. Written records though—” And she pulled aside a panel to reveal reams of paper, crates of notebooks, a honeycomb shelf of rolled blueprints.

Jayce lifted a notebook from the nearest stack. The movement felt strange, as if he'd reached underwater, across decades, between lifetimes. The notebook was tagged like an artifact, and yet he'd written the last entry only a few months ago from his perspective.

“Any gemstones?” he asked. 

“No,” Guin said, hesitant. “But that doesn’t mean it would be impossible for you to get some, given the right… justifications.”

A furrow worked its way between his brows. “Did your sister ask you to show me this?” he asked Guin. 

Rudy, at least, had the decency to look sheepish, but Guin only stared back impassively. “The Council wants to know if you could kickstart Hextech research again.”

“No.” And a half second later, his pride flared at how that had been his instinctive response. But then he could feel it, same as the unerring pressure of Piltovan politics—he could feel the money in the room, the influence, the power. The way it belonged to him. The way it remembered him.

“No, no,” he repeated, reaffirming it to himself as much as the two women. “This should all be destroyed.”

“You’ll have to speak with House Kiramman about that,” Guin said. 

“I just might.” 

They only spent a few more minutes peering at the shelves and prodding through the files like academic tourists, but it was enough time for Jayce’s thoughts to complete several full rotations—and for his fingers to quietly lift the old notebook and tuck it into his coat.

—

Twenty minutes into the journey from Piltover to the Merchant’s Guild in the Undercity Jayce noticed that someone was tailing him. Though, once he clocked it, he put it out of his mind. He was getting used to it by now.

Every time he so much as set foot on the Promenade, he could guarantee there was someone in the crowd with their eyes trained on him. He couldn’t always spot them outright, but after spotting the first one—and failing to confront them as they easily outpaced him—he knew they were there. 

He’d cornered Vi about it, of course. He’d steeled himself for a fight. What he got instead was a cold, blank stare, an admission without guilt, and a shrug as she soldiered away. 

So Jayce had given up on seeking out Viktor before he really even began. He had no speed to shake his pursuers, no stamina to embark on a real search, and no strength to cope with his inevitable failure. 

If Viktor needed him—wanted him—then he’d send a message. 

Or Orianna would. Or Callista. Someone. Someone would let him know.

A couple weeks out, the Undercity was beginning to recover from the storm, but Jayce had to admit that Anthy was right; the atmosphere was noticeably grayer. The same shifty-eyed wariness that he remembered from his thrifting trips had returned to the Lanes. Enforcers posted on corners. Clouds of remnant petricite swirled with the wind.

His shortcut down an alley brought him under an arbour utterly infested with white, frilly orchids, some so low they brushed pollen on his shoulders. He exhaled a small approximation of a laugh. They really were everywhere now.

Amaranthine had approached him with it the other day—or maybe a few days ago, he couldn't remember—the switchback stems snaking over her palms like tamed pets. 

“Did you know that people made up a whole language for flowers?” she'd asked him.

“I’ve heard of it,” he said.

“Atlas taught me, and he helped me pick these out.” She snipped one loose and held it up. “They’re like little white birds. They mean ‘thinking of you’ or ‘wish you were here’. I’ve got a pouch of seeds to plant while I’m healing the other arcaniformes, and eventually they’ll spread on their own and Viktor will see them and know you miss him. I couldn’t think of another way to get a message to him without knowing where he is.”

Jayce took the orchid and twirled it in his fingers. He doubted that Viktor knew any of the meanings behind flowers, the custom being frivolous and Piltovan, but he ruffled Anthy’s hair and thanked her anyways. 

It was a beautiful thing to do, even as it churned the restlessness in Jayce’s chest.

And it wasn’t just the one arbour filled with orchids, either. They sprang up in the nooks and crannies, climbing the sides of trees, feeding off the biomass from their melted predecessors.

We found himself walking faster.

By the time he arrived at the docks, his ankle was screaming for a rest, and Sevika scowled at him through a smoke-filled exhale as he walked up. 

“You’re late,” she said. 

“Got lost,” Jayce said. The person following him was gone, but he knew better than to believe he’d shaken them; he didn’t walk fast enough for that. They’d simply peeled off once they realized he was sticking to council business. 

Sevika just rolled her shoulders. “Once a Piltie,” she grumbled, then paused, and it wasn’t quite an apology, but she said, “It’s been a day. The news finally got out that the Kiramman princess forfeited her inheritance.”

“I’ve heard,” Jayce said, mouth drawing to a thin line. “You said you wanted her on the council.”

“What’s her brother’s like?” she asked, taking another drag. “He’s too much of a shut-in for word to get back to me. I only know that Ekko’s soft on him.”

“He’s… okay.”

Sevika just huffed, the smoke hissing out between her teeth. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

While the seat of power for Piltover’s merchants towered over the city, the Undercity’s Merchant Guild sprawled across a disused, paint-stripped dockyard, with offices and commercial stalls squeezed into old warehouses and onto the decks of beached trawlers. The guild leader, Parly, met them each time with the malicious sort of handshake that didn’t bother to hide the point it proved.

“How’s talks up there?” Parly asked, swinging her boots up onto the table. “I’ve got barons huffing down my neck about foreign markets.”

“Well,” Jayce said, hesitance overwriting any confidence he managed, “you can tell them to save their breath or they’ll start hyperventilating.” After a few trips with Sevika trying to stabilize Zaun’s economy, he’d started leaning into their way of speaking, even if it didn’t always work.

“Ooh, big words. Should we all be raising our hands before we speak, teach?” 

Sevika cut in. “Talks are the same as always. Piltover is dragging their feet over the tariffs, so it’s looking to be either that or the renegotiating of the chemtech treatise.”

“Speed’s the problem, eh?” Parly chewed at her thumbnail. “And isn’t that always the root issue, how a minute up there is days of life down here. Let’s sic the dog on them, see if he can’t bite at their heels. You’ve got teeth, right, pup?”

Jayce frowned in reply.

It wasn’t that he opposed the causes that Sevika put forth. And it wasn’t that he agreed with Piltover’s arguments against them either, but more and more the talking and the posturing and the scheming was eating at strength he didn’t have, wearing down his patience until it felt paper thin.

This was important work, but it felt like a waste of time. 

The only inch of progress he felt he’d made was the information he got from Parly when he asked about petricite. She was purposefully vague, blunt even, but she knew her stuff. Blackmarket imports were a dime a dozen. Psychedelics from Shurima, endangered pelts from Ionia, exhumed human remains poached from the base of Mount Targon—most if not all of it eventually ended up in the hands of the Piltover elite. 

Petricite, though, was different. Demacians didn’t trade it. They rarely let it leave their borders except in the form of weapons wielded by their most loyal soldiers. Petricite ending up on the Zaunite blackmarket would’ve been an event, one Parly would’ve heard about the second it happened. 

So it hadn’t passed through the markets. Stolen, bought, or gifted, it had arrived straight from Demacia, and in Parly’s opinions, the Demacians would’ve been thrilled to learn what it had been used for. Or maybe they’d be appalled at how it was ground into dust, treated like dirt, desecrated.

This was what Jayce stewed over as Sevika and Parly debated back and forth over the forced compromise. And that was something. It felt like something, even if he was thinking in circles.

A sudden missive called Parly out of her office, which took their conversation on the go. Tramping down the docks, salt-soft boards bouncing under their feet, they argued over their next proposition loud enough for it to echo on the water. The only reason Jayce didn’t struggle to keep up was because Sevika was just as slow, and Parly actually respected her. 

The dockyard bustled mutely. Most were out continuing repairs across the city, but here and there roustabouts and clerks carted inventory, checked books, and blew smoke into the cooling fall air. Gossip hushed like the tide.

“A broken nose isn't gonna claim a bounty.” 

Jayce's ears pricked at the last words, focus swiveling to the pair of roustabouts sharing a cigarette. 

The one tapped ash into the water. “Idiot just wants to be known for something other than being a shitshow in bed.”

“He will be,” said the other. “Known, I mean, as a pathetic liar. The pigs couldn’t find a porcelain if it bit them on the dick, and Crantz has as much luck as a wharf roach.”

“Bet he wants to cover the fact he fell drunk off the elevator again. Did he tell you what the doll's supposed to look like?”

Jayce strode over. “Your friend saw a revenant?”

Both men paused their conversation, looking him up and down, unimpressed even as his broad shadow fell over the one of them. The man currently in possession of their smoke exhaled and said, “And I want to talk to you… why?”

“You said his name is Crantz. Where can I find him?”

The man turned back to his companion with a grin. “Did you hear something?”

Suppressing a frustrated growl, Jayce dug into his pockets for a handful of coins, slapping them down on the crate between them. A jumpy energy possessed him as he stared them down. His jaw ticked. 

One man scooped up the coins while the other laughed at Jayce’s intensity. “Crantz watches one of the booze stalls in the market house. Shouldn’t be too hard to recognize him with his nose swollen to hell.”

“Great.” 

Sevika and Parly had paused to watch the exchange, both throwing him annoyed looks as he shouldered towards and then past him. 

“I’ll be back,” he told them, not hearing if they bothered to say anything back. 

A graffitied sail cloth served as the entrance to the market, a warehouse where Zaunite businesses bought wholesale from traders. Unfortunately, there were countless stalls selling alcohol, shoved between cloth merchants and toolsmiths and metal refiners, and the aisles snaked like the tunnels of a warren. 

With every corner he searched, Jayce felt the tension within him wind tighter. He knew he was getting his hopes up. He knew, but he couldn’t help it. This was the first lead he’d gotten in weeks, the first sign that Viktor and the revenants hadn’t fallen off the face of the earth and left him entirely alone.

Just as he felt taut enough to snap, he found what he was looking for. 

Slowing his pace, he approached the stall and gestured to the tender's nose, which swelled along the bridge, the angry red colour butting up against a black eye. “Did you win?” he asked, conversational.

Crantz looked up from his ledger. “You're that Piltie that follows Old Granny around.”

So much for the casual angle. 

“Yeah,” Jayce said, “we're here on council business, and I heard you knew something about the revenants.”

“You're not really a councillor.”

Impatience prickled like electricity, and he drummed his fingers on the counter. For all that Parly's claims that time moved faster in the Undercity, its denizens were steadfast in wasting as much of it as possible.

“If you have information,” Jayce said, forcing patience, “then there's money in it for you.”

Crantz rubbed his nose, toyed with the curling corner of his ledger. “Boss says I only have to talk to paying customers.”

Sparing only a half glance at the inventory, Jayce grabbed a wide-bottomed bottle and slammed it down, a generous handful of coins following after. “There. Whatever the difference is can be your tip.”

But his frustration only did so much to cover the clear desperation behind his actions, and Crantz gave him a once-over before languidly scooping the coins into his hand and counting them one by one. Most he dropped into a padlocked box, the rest he pocketed. Then he slid the bottle towards Jayce and leaned back in his stool. 

“I don't know who you are,” he said, “but I know for sure you can't do anything for me.”

“I…” But Jayce trailed off. Because, in the end, what did he have to offer? The promise that he'd beg someone else to do him a favour? All he had to his name was history, and apparently everyone could see it, could look through him like he was made of glass to see even more nothing on the other side of him. 

“You've got to be kidding,” was what he said at last, gesturing to the bottle. “Come on. Please.”

“Pleasure doing business.” A dismissal. 

Had Jayce been a different sort of man, he might've leaned across the counter and grabbed him, maybe tried to get a punch in. 

It wasn’t just this encounter. It wasn’t just the rude Zaunites refusing to cooperate or let themselves be helped. It wasn’t the dead end or the whiplash of hope or the time seeping away like blood into dirt. 

He grabbed the bottle by the neck, stalking off, not bothering to find Sevika or Parly before he left. 

He was halfway back to Piltover, sitting in the pneumatic lift, when he recognized the drink he'd bought.

The glass was a distinct, obsidian purple, but it was the label that caught his eye, the bold black stamp of a kraken’s tentacles curling around gothic lettering. One of Viktor’s favourites, he’d cajoled Jayce into trying it. It tasted like if blackberries and hellfire had a baby, scorched his throat, made his eyes water. 

Now, his eyes itched for another reason entirely, remembering a night in the lab where progress ground to a halt, moonlight gilding the edges of oaken hair, organic laughter pierced the air, a fluttering sat unexamined in his chest. 

Now, he wondered if these memories had subconsciously steered his hand.

Now, he cringed as fierce, useless nostalgia clawed his ribs. 

He swallowed it back. They'd share the liquor once they saw each other again, he resolved, the same as they’d done before.

And then he remembered that Viktor wouldn't be able to drink it anyways. He couldn’t eat or drink or breathe, and for a moment Jayce had completely forgotten.

And that felt like an ill omen, the forgetting. It felt damning. It felt like acid, like a fuse burning at the periphery of his vision, throwing harsh shadows across his futile efforts these past weeks, so stark that it stabbed at his insides, so untenable that when he returned to his room and shut the world away behind the door, he dug the cork out with a letter opener and drank straight from the bottle. Just to get rid of it. Just to feel seven years and worlds younger.

Then he blinked and he was half curled on the bed, inert. 

Gods, he was so useless. He’d been kidding himself, thinking that Piltover would respect who he had been and what he had done for it. 

There was no fire to his fit. No petulance, no anger, just a hollowness. He simply laid there, lifeless as stone, feeling the muscle mass he’d lost in the ravine, the leg that was a stranger to him, the numb tingling of his burnt and calloused hands, the anxiety he couldn’t sweat away in a forge because he couldn’t stand, couldn’t lift, couldn’t do anything long enough for it to mean something. 

And at the same time, like the rhythm beneath a melody, he still missed Viktor. 

He stared blankly at the wall. Maybe that was it then. The only thing he could do was wait. Because who was he without his partner, really? What was he? When was the last time he’d dreamed alone? 

But even that dream, the core of his very being that had driven him since childhood, had rotted from the inside out and taken all of Runeterra with it.

So he drank. He thought. He watched the shadows move slowly across the floor. He pictured a gaping hole in the wall next to the window. He recalled arcane wind ripping his form apart. 

It was there—drunk and hovering on the precipice between being a person and being a body—that he found the notebook he’d lifted from the Hextech archive.

Flipping through the pages made his heart seize. His eyes retraced the ruler-straight diagram drafts, the napkin notes saved and pasted in, his annotations of Viktor’s annotations of his first annotations. The memories were overwhelming, but, despite it all, his breathing evened out. He calmed.

Rubbing his fingers together, he remembered the phantom bite of the spiral-ridged rifle bullets between his fingertips. And there was something still beautiful about them. 

Because his research felt like home. It felt like power, it felt like progress, and most of all it felt like himself.

He found a pencil and began making notes.