Chapter Text
“Viktor, my boy! Are you in here?” A fluffy head peeks into the crowded office. Not with people — but with things. Viktor supposes when you have been alive as long as Professor Heimerdinger has, your number of cherished possessions cannot help but grow.
“Over here, professor,” Viktor pushes his chair back into view of the door. It is almost silly to call out to him. Professor Heimerdinger knows Viktor’s schedule, knows Viktor’s assignments — he makes them, after all. And when Viktor is here, in the Dean’s office, he always sits at the same cramped desk, in the same corner, in the same chair that is bad for his spine and his leg. It has been his spot for over ten years now. So, surely, Professor Heimerdinger does not need to ask where he is.
These games of courtesy were never something Viktor enjoyed playing. Another fifteen years in Piltover still could not convince him otherwise.
The yordle walks into view, legs working fast just to move a few feet. His hands are behind his back and his posture is as straight as ever. He must have something important to say.
It would be funny to watch him walk quickly across the large office and still take a full minute to reach Viktor if he had anyone to share it with. Unfortunately, the Dean is picky with his assistants, it seems. And Viktor is the only one. Has always been the only one.
Which is alright. Viktor works better alone.
“There is an emergency council meeting happening in an hour I need you to attend!” Professor Heimerdinger exclaims as he hurries his way to Viktor’s desk, a single finger raised as if the words would not be enough to get the urgency across. “Pack your things!”
The sense of urgency does not transfer to Viktor. The last time this happened, he sat and listened to the council debate building codes and historical district borders for nearly the entire day, well past dinner time.
The professor seems convinced Viktor perpetually has nothing better to do than take notes that never become of use.
…He is correct.
Viktor perpetually has nothing better to do than take notes that never become of use.
“And what is the emergency this time?” Viktor says, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. It is a good thing Viktor’s presiding councilor is Heimerdinger. He took to Viktor’s sense of bitterness easily. When he first hired Viktor, the Dean would just laugh along — a dismissive wave of his hand or a giggle as he walked away. In those days, Viktor thought the professor simply did not have an understanding of sarcasm, and was laughing to appease him. Perhaps because he was a yordle? Viktor did not (and still does not) know much about yordles. Until he learned that Professor Heimerdinger certainly did understand what Viktor was trying to say — whether it was making fun of Piltovians or whining about bureaucracy — and found it just as amusing as Viktor himself.
It was a comfort to know Viktor did not have to watch his mouth as strictly around Professor Heimerdinger as he did with other, less savory people of his standing.
But years went by. And the responses remained the same. And the professor never did anything about the things Viktor hid his bitterness for behind jokes, despite the yordle’s insistence that things would get better. “In due time,” he would always say.
Time that Professor Heimerdinger had to spare. Time that Viktor did not.
His laughter lost its charm some time ago.
“It was an emergency! Building codes are very important, my boy!” Predictably, the yordle laughs, picking at his mustache.
Viktor sighs, packing his things. Looks like he’ll be sitting through another five hours of useless, heated debate. Because Professor Heimerdinger understands enough to laugh, but not enough to excuse Viktor’s presence. Just like with everything else.
Seeing Viktor’s reservations, likely written all over his scowl, Heimerdinger softens. “It should be an actual emergency this time. It would be unlike Councilor Medarda to call for a frivolous meeting.”
That makes Viktor pause.
He leans his right hand on the desk for support and turns to look fully at the professor. Councilor Medarda calling a meeting is a surprise. She is the youngest, and newest, member of the council. A great treasure of the Noxian royal family. Despite her age, her intelligence is unquestionable. Her disdain for the frivolous debates and lack of brain cells in the council room is obvious… but only because Viktor knows what to look for. She does well hiding it from her cohort. Yet, Viktor can always see it in her face — knows what to look for. The slight drip of condescending in her voice. Her smiling dismissals of her more silver spooned peers.
Viktor has been impressed more than once by her master manipulation. It rivals the skills the greatest politicians to ever walk Runeterra. Even Viktor found himself having to actively rebuff her invites and attempts to get to know him when she first joined the council. He was far too single minded in his studies at the time to even consider straying from their path.
Now, he often wonders what she wanted from him. How different would his life be if he had taken her up on her offers? There was always something hiding just beneath the surface, with Mel Medarda. A determination to get what she wants that gives her away as Noxian.
Viktor thinks that perhaps that would be a nice change of pace — her fierce perseverance and sharp mind.
Something to work for, something to work towards.
It is… unfortunate, that he wrote off such an opportunity at the time.
Still, Viktor suddenly doesn’t mind going to this council meeting. He very much so would like to know what Mel Medarda finds so important as to assemble the Council so hastily.
“I thought that might get you moving!” Professor Heimerdinger laughs again as Viktor moves ever so slightly faster to buckle his bag and reach for his cane. Pushing himself up on a shaky arm, Viktor starts for the office door, tugging on his coat marking him as a member of House Heimerdinger over his academy issued clothing. The clunky, damned thing jangles as he fights it on, metal buckles and buttons catching against each other — the bright blue fabric never letting Viktor hide in a crowd.
The professor wastes no time hurrying to follow along, rushing on short legs ahead of Viktor to get the door.
Viktor does not change his pace.
˚∘⊰⋆˙⟡˙⋆⊱˚∘
Viktor hates being in the Council room.
The high, open ceiling, the daunting table in the center. Exclusionary, isolating. Meant to put those who belong here under the spotlight, and those who don’t here belong under their microscope. No escape.
Viktor shudders, remembering the feeling of witnessing his first trial. A single beam of light trained on a sobbing academy student. A woman. From the Undercity. It was just a few days after Zaun gained its independence. They found her with detailed plans of all the major buildings across academy campus — areas of high importance, high traffic, high surveillance — all marked in handmade code.
Professor Heimerdinger claims he brought Viktor in case he had any insight or expertise, being from the Undercity himself. Viktor believes it was a warning. A reminder. Zaun could have its independence, as promised, but the people of Piltover would always have the final say in the rules.
He could feel the professor's eyes on him the entire time.
Today, when Viktor walks in, it is raining. Water hits the domed glass ceiling with a high pitched ping. He stops at the door, as he is expected to, letting the professor walk up to his seat at the Council.
Where he belongs.
All of the councilors are now here… except for Councilor Medarda. Viktor looks around. She isn’t exactly the kind of person capable of hiding in the shadows of a room. And Elora, her assistant, isn’t here yet either.
“Oh, good. We were wondering when you would finally show up,” Hoskel snaps, rolling his eyes from his own seat as Viktor and the professor make their way into the chamber. Funny that he would be so crass about it, considering they watched him walk into the building ten paces in front of them. However, he insists on taking the lift up, even though the stairs would be good for his health…
Unlike Hoskel, Viktor gets no say in the matter. The lift is a must, for a building so high. Which means waiting for Hoskel to go up, and the lift to go down. Making a sixty second difference between their arrivals a ten minute one, instead.
It happens almost every time.
“Yes, well, not all of us were made for climbing!” Professor Heimerdinger giggles, rebuffing Councilor Hoskel’s attempt to make him look bad with ease. He gestures to his short legs as he hops up into his chair, but Viktor looks down at his own. He, too, certainly was not made for climbing.
“Of course. There is no one to blame but the lift. We should discuss getting a faster one installed.” Shoola, voice soft and ever pragmatic, nods.
The doors swing open one last time, and in comes Mel Medarda. The last member of the council they were waiting on — and the most important.
Her dress is dull without the sunlight to illuminate it. The other councilors fall silent as she enters, waiting with bated breath for the moment she speaks, desperate to hear why she called the meeting
In the tense silence, a graceful figure slides up next to Viktor, a head that once only reached past his shoulder but is now almost eye level. His posture grows worse with each passing day, his spine more crooked. Viktor looks to his left, already knowing who to expect.
Elora.
She looks as sophisticated as ever — a sensible pair of slacks and an intricate top that matches Mel’s Noxian flair, hair up in a neat bun. Always looks so put together in a way Viktor has never managed to achieve. As if she was born to stand at Mel’s side and field questions, shake hands, and uncover secrets. She’s as skillful at navigating the ins and outs of politics as Councilor Medarda herself. It is no wonder the Noxian adores her so.
It is perhaps a sad fact that other than the professor, she is Viktor’s closest acquaintance. Though their comradery is limited — a few hours at a time, twice a week or more for council meetings, in relative silence — it is still nice to have.
In the long, useless meetings of years passed, Elora used to talk of dates and suitors, of the night life in Piltover and the adventures Councilor Medarda sends her on for information. Viktor used to show her his personal research — careful diagrams and numbers she did not understand but listened to with bright eyes.
Her love life grew stagnant. Too busy with politics. Viktor’s research was a failure, a dead end. Just like his job.
There is much less conversation to make, as of late.
“Good to see you, Viktor,” she whispers, nodding politely.
“Good to see you, as well,” Viktor whispers back. That is usually where it ends, these days, but Viktor finds a question bubbling at the back of his mind. Curiosity, dripping from a tap long thought to be dry. “I was surprised to hear Councilor Medarda was the one who called this. An emergency meeting is unlike her,” he comments. Hoping, praying, Elora will share something in advance.
The other councilors are growing impatient, watching Councilor Medarda settle into her seat without sharing the news. However, Professor Heimerdinger does not share this irritation, nor does he read the room. He leans over and strikes up a conversation with her about what Viktor can only assume is the weather.
Elora hums a little laugh, picture-perfect Piltovian socialite. “Yes, well, they should really rename the emergency meeting, shouldn’t they? Makes it hold a bit less weight when there’s actually an emergency.”
Viktor snorts.
He’s about to give up hope that she’ll say anything further, when it turns out he didn’t need to hope to begin with. An enforcer walks through the door that he’s quick to recognize— Caitlyn Kiramman. Daughter of Cassandra Kiramman, long standing member of the council.
Viktor finds it hard to not picture her as merely ten when Councilor Kiramman says her daughter’s name. He watched her grow up in the Council’s meeting room.
Still, she’s young. Too young, Viktor would say, if he did not grow up watching ten year olds beg for jobs in the mines and wishing he were one of them. She cannot be older than eighteen, enforcer’s cap too wide for her still-round face. Her long, navy hair is pin straight, only disturbed when it finally hits her shoulder for another few inches. Her garb, thankfully, is ceremonial. Seems Piltover has not started throwing its children out onto the front lines.
Yet.
As she walks forward, in her hands, is a wrapped… something. She holds it as if it were a bomb, away from her body and shoulders tight to run at a moment's notice.
“Councilor. If you would give your attention to Officer Kiramman, please, you’ll find the reason why I called you all here today at such short notice,” Councilor Medarda speaks over the small chatter that had finally managed to start back up.
Councilor Salo huffs at being interrupted, but they are all far too interested to find out what Councilor Medarda has brought to them today to truly protest the cutting-short of their usual before-meeting chatter.
“While on a routine meeting at the border this morning with our newly independent neighbor, Zaun, the ceremonial officers in attendance were…” Mel pauses here. As if she knows her word choice here will be important. She looks to Professor Heimerdinger, to Salo, to Mrs. Kiramman. “Injured.”
Oh no.
“They were attacked?!” Councilor Salo immediately shouts, like a shark that smells blood. Pouncing on weak prey.
In a lapse of judgement, Viktor looks to the exit. Fear strikes him. In his mind, he begins to pack his bags to return to Zaun while he still can before he is stuck on this side of the war. As if he has anywhere in Zaun to even go. In his days, it wasn’t even Zaun yet. For all he knows, it could be a completely different place, now.
Elora puts a steady hand at his elbow.
“Now, now. Let us not put words into Miss Medarda’s mouth!” Professor Heimerdinger holds up a single finger, wagging it at Salo, whose thin mouth goes taught with the treatment. “Were you there, Miss Kiramman? Do tell us what happened.” He turns to the young woman, gesturing for her to continue. Viktor now assumes that whatever she’s holding is actually a bomb of some kind. Used, probably.
“When we were at the bridge this morning, one of the women signing our usual paperwork, Sevika, had a new prosthetic arm. Out of nowhere, it exploded. The explosion was strong enough to knock all of us back at least ten feet away from one another—”
“And we are not calling that an attack?!” Salo shrieks, strings of blond hair falling into his face.
“Councilor Salo, please—” Councilor Kiramman begins to speak, as if to reprimand him for speaking over her daughter, when Bolbok speaks over her.
“He has a point. I do not see how we are not clearly labeling this as an attack. If they have a reason it was not, it better be convincing—”
“Councilor Bolbok!” The Kiramman matriarch is much more firm this time, expression tight. One of her white gloved hands is strained against the council’s cog-like table, as if she could dig her nails into it. Viktor has never watched a council meeting with more rapt attention. Or dread. Part of him hopes his illness catches up to him now and he drops dead on the spot. “My daughter is speaking.”
Councilor Bolbok’s metal face bears no evidence if he is apologetic or not, but he remains silent.
“Continue, dear.” Mrs. Kiramman motions for her daughter to continue, pushing a stray gray piece of hair back into place that escaped her bun in her anger.
“Thank you, mother.” The young enforcer nods once, bending at the spine — perfect posture. “As I was saying. The explosion hurt us all, those from Zaun included. No one was killed, and there were no limbs lost. Vander had Sevika leave us the arm, as an olive branch. He told us we could inspect it, and that it must have been a faulty piece of equipment.”
She holds the mangled heap of metal up, and sure enough— in the wreckage, Viktor can make out a few pieces that were clearly once fingers. The base is unpolished silvery metal, details separating out segments in bronze. Viktor cannot help but wonder what the materials actually are. Caitlyn is holding it like it weighs nothing. Are the materials that thin? Or is it an alloy Viktor has not heard of? He is not the most familiar with metalwork, but he never had a reason to be interested.
Now, he is interested.
Even the blown bits of the arm design are clearly carefully crafted. It looks like a piece of Piltovian craftsmanship, a far cry from the body mods that would come out of the Undercity that Viktor remembers. In his days they were all heavy, awkward. More of a violent show than function, neon chemical tubing running in and out of the wearer — forever beholden to whichever chembaron made the necessary concoction to keep their arm or leg attached. A life sentence. A debt owed and collectable at any time. It was the reason Viktor swore to never modify his leg, if he ever had the money to do so.
This machine has no such connections. Which leaves Viktor to wonder… how does it run?
“This is why I brought you here today.” Councilor Medarda addresses the room, turning to her companions. Elora squeezes Viktor’s elbow. Viktor turns to her, a question on his tongue. He doesn’t get the chance. “I wanted to present you all with the information we had so far, and call a vote. I believe we should leave the prosthetic with Professor Heimerdinger to look for any evidence of foul play.”
There are murmurs through the room. Some nods, some annoyance. How anyone could be against such a directive, Viktor does not understand. It would seem imperative to at least look at the equipment just to be sure…
Plus, if the professor gets to look at it, perhaps that would give Viktor a chance to at least see it closer up. And that would be very interesting, indeed.
“And how come you knew about this before anyone else?” Councilor Hoskel sneers. Viktor rolls his eyes. Always focused on the wrong things.
The huff to Viktor’s left tells him Elora feels the same way.
“I was at the station waiting to talk to our esteemed retired sheriff, Miss Grayson, when they returned from the incident. She asked me to call the meeting.”
Viktor has only interacted with Sheriff Grayson on one occasion: the day Zaun gained its independence. It was the only council meeting she ever showed up to. He was shocked to see her smiling — shaking hands with Zaun’s new leaders, Silco and Vander, exchanging laughter and congratulations.
“You know them?” He had asked her, at the after party. He did not think himself one to talk to enforcers, and still does not… but she was standing alone in the corner. As was Viktor, forced to attend at Professor Heimerdinger’s side. Too Piltovian to party with the Zaunites. Too Zaunite to socialize with the Piltovians. And also, perhaps, a little bit tipsy. Though he would not have admitted it at the time. The bartender was a hulking man from Zaun, and the drinks he was making with his own supplies were much stronger than their topside counterparts.
“Old friends,” she said back. He remembers noticing that there was no drink in her hands. “More so, I am celebrating the fact that I can finally retire. I am far too old for this, I fear.” She laughed in the moment, watching the swarm of people swirl around one another at the party.
“What does this have to do with your retirement?” Viktor was always nosey when he drank.
She smiled, a tiny smile that crinkled the visible wrinkles around her eyes. “I think you, of all people, Viktor, can figure it out.”
He didn’t know she even knew who he was.
When they nominated the next Sheriff, a foul man named Marcus with a scrutinous eye on the now-independent Zaun and a distaste for anything not of Piltovian standards… Viktor immediately understood.
The day of Marcus’ inauguration, Viktor did not forgive Grayson in his mind of the sins her enforcers committed under her watch, but he did lighten the load. If only to quiet the ghost of a voice in his mind crooning on about “necessary evils”.
“And where is Grayson now? Or Sheriff Marcus?” Shoola asks, dragging Viktor out of his memories. She casts a glance at the young enforcer in front of them where either Sheriff should really be.
“They are filling out paperwork about the incident and debriefing the other enforcers. Miss Grayson is also trying to get in touch with her old contacts in Zaun to see if anyone has any inside information. As she is no longer our Sheriff, she is not obligated, nor qualified, to stand before the council with evidence.” Councilor Medarda doesn’t miss a beat. Something about her explanation feels… off… to Viktor, but he cannot put a finger on it.
“My daughter was at the scene. She is more than capable of answering any questions.” Mrs. Kiramman and Mel share a glance and a nod.
“So long as it is to Councilor Heimerdinger’s liking, we should vote on handing over the evidence to his lab.”
“You are really pushing this vote,” Councilor Salo raises an eyebrow, but he’s ignored. Professor Heimerdinger clears his throat, raising a hand for the chamber’s attention.
“Actually, Councilor Medarda, if it is all the same to you, I would like to submit someone else to examine the equipment!”
Viktor’s heart sinks. If it is examined by someone else, Viktor won’t get a chance to see the piece up close—
“And who would you recommend, professor?” Councilor Medarda asks, completely unphased. Almost as if she… expected it. For the second time, Elora squeezes his elbow.
What is going on?
“Well, my assistant, Viktor, I think would be the best man for the task!”
What?
What?
The whole council looks at Viktor as the Dean gestures his way. He freezes. In his decade of working for the Dean, never has anyone in the council ever acknowledged his presence. He wonders, by the looks on some of their faces, if this is their first time finding out, a decade later, that he is Heimerdinger’s assistant at all.
“You want to nominate a man from Zaun to examine the very clearly planted bomb that went off on the bridge? I don’t think so!” Councilor Salo rises to his feet, slamming his palms on the solid table. It absorbs the sound. Seems like they do know who he is, afterall. And that does not bother Viktor, but— “He could tamper with the evidence! He could lie about what he finds!” —that does.
To question Viktor’s ability to do his job, to be loyal to Professor Heimerdinger when that is the only thing he has been capable of proving his worth in for over a decade—
“—these Zaunnites are all the same! Have you forgotten the trial we just held?—”
Elora gives him an alarmed look as Salo goes on. The council members look at one another, some unsure, some waiting for someone else to either speak their agreement or dissent. Heat rises to Viktor’s throat.
“—There is no telling who he is really working for! He cannot be trusted!—”
Boiling steam hits the top of his head, the backs of his eyeballs. He worries his vision is going to stain with red. The pressure builds.
“The fact that he is here witnessing this meeting at all should be cause for worry! You should all—”
Until, finally… it explodes.
“I am not from Zaun,” Viktor snaps, and it echoes off of the high ceiling and walls.
Every eye turns to look at him. Not just the councilors, but the young Caitlyn, too, the enforcers guarding the door, Elora.
“I am from the Undercity,” he corrects, voice dark as he tries to reign in his tone. His breathing shakes with his chest as he tries to temper the steam threatening to billow from his nose and throat. “I have no connections to the nation of Zaun. My family passed long before its independence. Professor Heimerdinger is my only family, and I would do nothing to put him at risk.”
And it is true. Because despite everything — despite the lack of accomplishments, the boredom, the uselessness — Viktor is alive. And he still believes he would be all of those things and dead on top of it, should he have never left the Undercity. The little smog in his lungs is already slowly killing him. Were he to have stayed…
Without a way to make money due to his leg, Viktor would not have lasted into his twenties. Or worse, ended up a lab rat in the basement of a certain doctor Viktor tries not to think about. He owes his life to Professor Heimerdinger, whether he likes it or not.
The Dean caught him in his handmade uniform and gave him a job with a salary. Gave him housing, books, a chance.
Professor Heimerdinger clears his throat after Viktor’s tirade, nodding with a hand on his mustache. “Yes, yes. I would trust the boy with my life!” Boy, as if Viktor is not a man far past his prime years and slowly losing time. “And! Viktor being from the Undercity is precisely why I nominate him! I do fear I lack an understanding of the ins and outs of all of the Undercity’s tricks of the trade. If you’re trying to find foul play, only someone who knows what foul play looks like can help you.”
Salo does not look convinced, but the others nod in interest. Except for Hoskel, who looks to see that Councilor Medarda is nodding first, and then nods himself. Pushover.
“That is a good point,” Councilor Bolbok moves his entire head to look straight at the professor — the only giveaway to his thoughts.
To Viktor’s surprise, Councilor Shoola is the next to speak. “Viktor has been attending our meetings for many years. I see no reason why he would start leaking information now. I vote to have him and Councilor Heimerdinger examine the evidence, just to be sure.”
Her hand goes up in the air.
She’s calling an official vote — barely half an hour into the meeting. Viktor almost cannot believe his eyes. Moreso, he cannot believe his ears. They are giving him an assignment — something actually worthy of his position. Something he is actually interested in doing.
He only hopes that, in the process, he does not find anything he does not want to report.
“That sounds like a good compromise to me,” Councilor Kiramman agrees with a small nod, raising her hand as well.
“Professor? Are those terms agreeable to you? That you will check Viktor’s work?” Councilor Medarda asks before casting her own vote, ever polite.
Professor Heimerdinger continues to rub at his mustache. “Yes, well, I suppose so. Not that he needs it. But four eyes are always better than two!” And with that, his fluffy yordle hand is in the air.
Followed by Councilor Medarda. And then Councilor Hoskel. “Can’t think of any better options,” he grumbles. He should have stopped at “can’t think.” Viktor snorts to himself.
And then Councilor Bolbok’s metal hand is in the air.
They all look at Councilor Salo expectantly. “Don’t say I didn’t tell you so when this ends in tragedy!” He scoffs, and looks off.
The motion passes. Six to One.
Viktor has a job to do. He can’t help but blink silently at the council, mouth slightly ajar. Elora taps his elbow, finally letting go. He’d almost forgotten she was there.
“You will do an excellent job examining the evidence, Viktor. Councilor Medarda and I have utmost faith. Do let us know if you need anything to aid your search. Information, equipment— whatever you need.” Elora smiles at him, conspiratorial, and then she’s off, walking to her councilor’s side.
Is Viktor dreaming?
He decides he most certainly is not when Salo shoves his way out of the council chambers, sneering at Viktor as he passes. “—in over your head,” he just catches as the councilor stomps around the corner of the open doors.
Eyes unfocused, Viktor blinks at the spot. Half of his mind is empty, still in shock, but the other half…
The other half cannot wait to get to work.
He is already wondering what he might find. He was curious about the craftsmanship earlier, but now he finds himself more stuck on how the mechanism might be powered. If it were not mangled, Viktor would simply assume the thing was hiding its tubes and wires. But, unless he simply was not looking close enough, there would be nowhere for them to hide…
“I presume I should leave this with you, then.”
Viktor startles, turning towards the figure that approached him so silently he nearly has a heart attack when she speaks. He pushes a hand over his heart, tapping a few times just to be safe.
“Ah, yes, eh—” Viktor covers a cough by pretending to clear his throat. “Thank you, Officer Kiramman.”
Funnily enough, despite stating she should hand over the evidence, the young woman only watches him with a fiery curiosity, the heap of metal held firmly in her hands. Unfortunately, it is wrapped once again in a brown cloth. Viktor does not get a better look at it up close, here, but it will be in the Dean’s lab for him to examine in a moment. He simply needs to have patience.
The enforcer makes no move to hand him the parcel. Which Viktor is glad for. He does not wish to admit he will not be able to carry it on his own down to his lab. It is quite bulky. Balancing it while using his cane would be difficult.
“Viktor, huh?” she says.
“That is me, yes,” he says back, an eyebrow slowly raising. Is she going to interrogate him before giving it up? Does she have the authority to do that? Viktor looks around as discreetly as he can. The councilors are all having their post-meeting chats, sure to take up another handful of hours since the meeting was nowhere near as long as usual. No one is watching them.
Whether that is good or bad, Viktor does not know.
When Viktor turns back to Caitlyn, instead of interrogating him with those blazing eyes, she suddenly blinks, and they go shiny and lost — the look of a conflicted eighteen-year-old. She looks down at her bundle, and then up at him.
“Would you— could I—” She starts, getting ahead of herself and tripping on her words. She takes a breath and draws up her shoulders in mock authority. “I— I would like to walk this down to your lab for you.” She deflates, ever so slightly, and then tags on, “If that’s alright.”
It is painfully clear how much she is barely an adult. The cracks in her armor are blatantly visible. Whether it be because of his newly lifted mood or their recent discussion of Viktor’s apparently unsavory origins, he strikes.
“Why not simply insist?” He questions. Afterall, she was clearly going to, before she lost her confidence. Her uniform and stately accent must get her everything she could want elsewhere. Would he not be the perfect target to flaunt her position over?
“My mother says using my authority to get what I want is unbecoming.” Caitlyn’s mouth twists, like she’s not sure she believes her mother, and Viktor cannot help but chuckle. Despite the fancy regalia and the fanfare, she really is nothing but a teenager.
They both look at her mother at the same time. Councilor Kiramman, up in her seat, talking amicably with Councilor Shoola. Both women sit with their backs pin-straight, something Viktor is not sure he has ever been able to do.
To think that a woman in such high regard would attempt to teach her daughter humility is amusing, to Viktor. Humility is something that is learned through failure, not success.
With a hum, Viktor turns, deciding that the young enforcer will likely follow. She asked to walk it down to the Academy for him. And it looks as though Professor Heimerdinger is also busy with conversation, talking eagerly with Councilor Medarda and Elora. He will not mind if Viktor leaves without him.
“What you want is to walk the evidence to the Dean’s lab? A strange goal.” He states as the Kiramman girl, as predicted, scampers to follow. Her standard-issue boot heels click against the polished floors.
They’re out the double wide doors before she responds, Caitlyn taking double steps and then struggling to slow herself to Viktor’s pace along the way. At one point, accidentally ahead of Viktor, she starts down the hallway to the stairs — only to realize Viktor has stopped at the lift. Her face floods with red, and she quickly bounces back over to Viktor’s side, readjusting her hat and pretending that nothing happened at all.
She shakes her head, silky blue hair pushed out of place, clearing the embarrassment from her face.
“What I want is to talk to you. I have theories,” she says, and Viktor glances at her to find she’s still staring at him with those piercing blue eyes. He wonders just what it is that she sees in his face when she looks back.
However, this cannot be protocol. Surely, influencing the expert on a case is ill-advised. But, he’ll admit, her youth is infectious. Or perhaps he is still riding the high of disbelief that he has been given an actual task to do for the professor, and not more meaningless notetaking. Plus, he is no enforcer, nor political figure. He supposes allowing himself to be swayed is only human. Viktor finds himself too curious to deny her the ability to share.
“Theories?” He asks, as he rings the bell for the lift. It will be at least a few minutes until it arrives.
“Yeah. About the explosion,” she says, slightly annoyed, as if Viktor is slow to catch on. “I don’t think it was an attack.” She says it with such finality, Viktor has to hum with intrigue. An enforcer on the side of Zaunnites. How interesting. He shifts his sweating palm against his cane. He truly cannot help but poke fun at the young woman as she rocks on the balls of her feet, waiting for the second Viktor makes any sign it is okay for her to continue.
“Are you sure this is not tampering with the evidence, Miss Kiramman?” Just as Viktor asks, the lift dings open, far quicker than he was expecting.
The assistant manning the lift today is the silent one, an older woman with equal smile and frown lines, squeezed into the bellhop uniform she has been wearing for the last decade that Viktor has seen her. He and the Kiramman girl enter without so much as a glance from her, closing and locking the grate behind them.
Caitlyn, however, seems bothered by her presence. She shifts her firm stare from Viktor to the woman as they ride the slow lift down. Fidgety— almost flighty.
Her theory is not for company, it seems. Well, they have a long walk down to the academy. Plenty of time for her to speak in more private terms.
Viktor rests both hands on his cane in front of him as they ride down to the first floor in silence. The energy radiating from Caitlyn bounces off the shiny walls — silver so polished Viktor can see his own reflection.
The hunch of his shoulders, worsening by the day. The way the bags under his eyes grow as his sleep worsens, despite doing less with each passing hour. His hair has grown past his ears, something he would have never allowed in his young age. Nor would he have allowed his coat to go so long without being retailored to all the weight he has failed to keep, or his cane polished.
But that was when he had dreams of moving up, of doing more. Of belonging.
That version of himself, young and hopeful, still floats in his mind, and Viktor so often wishes he could go back.
…Not that there would be anything to change. He did everything right. And still ended up here.
Yet, today, he looks younger than he has in years. There is a light in his eyes he is not used to seeing. A chance to do something different.
It may seem silly — benign, almost — that a gnarled hunk of metal would be his saving grace. Perhaps Viktor is having delusions of grandeur. And yet, he cannot help but hope that there will be something there. What awaits him, he does not know. But something, anything, would be better than the monotony that has settled over him like a constantly looming storm.
When the lift chimes that they’ve reached the bottom, Viktor nods to the woman as he always does as she opens the gate for them, trying to hold in his excitement. She nods back, uncaring.
He hurries out, ignoring how his hip twinges and sends rapid signals to his body to slow down. His knee protests next, then his ankle, but the young enforcer has also sped her pace out of the elevator and down to the double wide entrance doors. In their dual excitement, she holds the door for Viktor and he does not even protest.
“I would speak on it more, but…” Officer Kiramman looks around. The streets are busy today. The wind is cool, but not yet chilly. Perfect weather for passersby to roam the open-air of the city, walking from shop to shop or heading from home to work or class.
Viktor nods. It is quite alright. His lungs are struggling to keep up with the speed they are walking at, regardless. Better if he does not have to participate in conversation and slow them down.
“The lab is this way,” he says, instead of pushing the issue. It is a non-insignificant walk, but it could be worse. They are up the academy building steps and in Professor Heimerdinger’s personal lab in no time — Viktor’s seat right where he left it in the corner.
The young enforcer behind him makes a small noise of wonder. The lab is certainly large, and beautiful. Covered floor to ceiling in the amount of stuff the yordle has collected over the years. Bookshelves full of tomes and trinkets, arched stained glass windows strung with plants and glass chimes, large expensive looking equipment worth more money than Viktor will ever see.
He’s used to it by now.
He shuts the large, heavy doors behind them with a thud, and motions her over to his work desk. Most of his personal belongings from his youth made it here, at one point. He used to live, eat, breathe, and sleep in this lab.
Until it proved futile.
There are books lining the edge against the wall, favorite beakers and tools scattered across the surface, drawers filled with Viktor’s own strange collections of wires and bolts and scrap parts over the years. Not nearly as vast or impressive as Professor Heimerdinger’s collection, but his nonetheless.
When Viktor finally sits, it feels like coming home.
He rips his goggles off of their makeshift copper pipe stand and tugs them over his head, setting them in his hair for now. The band makes a creaking sound in protest — stiff from lack of use.
“Well, then. Let us see what we are working with and you can explain to me your theory while I work, mm?”
She nods, and drops the heap of metal onto the table with a loud thunk.
And hops up right beside it.
Viktor opens his mouth to protest, but the moment she starts to swing her feet, he stops. Since when did he care about lab safety? He is turning into Professor Heimerdinger, for Janna’s sake. He huffs a laugh instead and sets to unwrapping the prosthetic.
It is truly something to behold up close.
The different metals intertwine in a long-lost intricate pattern, mangled by the explosion. There are shattered panes in some areas, covering internal parts that are too dark to see through. It’s clear there were once detailed engravings along the metal planes, now incomprehensible. And still… no tubing.
How did it work?
“So the arm is— was new,” Caitlyn starts. She stares at a random corner in the room as she speaks, deep in thought. “She had it during last week’s meeting, but that was the first time we’d seen it. Something happened to her last one, because she didn’t have a prosthetic at all the week before that.”
Viktor hums and nods like he’s at all interested. He flips his goggles down. What he’s really interested in is tearing this thing apart. He picks up his pliers as he listens, ready to get to work.
“It had a weird blue glow to it. And when it exploded the light was more bright blue than bright white, and there were these weird floating, blue, sparkling particles after. So it must have been the fault of whatever was powering it, right?”
This, Viktor is interested in. Because that means there really was something unique powering this thing. The most common chemtechs from his childhood were all gaseous in nature. And the liquid ones would be easily identifiable by an enforcer, well known by even the most blind-eyed Piltovian. Shimmer was a recent addition, though relatively under control now that Silco is in charge of its crack-down. That is a name Viktor is familiar with. Some things never change. It is nice to know there are still things about the Undercity Viktor understands.
“Something blue, you said?” Viktor asks as he pries a broken panel off the heap as gently as possible. “And you are sure there was no liquid or gas?”
There couldn’t have been, but Viktor asks anyway. He still sees no tubes, no glass chambers. No entry points into the nerves, even.
“I’m sure,” the young Kiramman says it with so much certainty, Viktor accepts the lack of parts for such a thing along with her story as the final say. But that begs the question… what else could it possibly be?
With a frown and a hum, Viktor digs through his desk drawer for a notebook long forgotten. His notebook. Leather bound and as old as he, his father’s sketches filling the first pages, Viktor cracks it open to the more recently-added pages. It got rather thick for its britches, before being abandoned. It feels good to finally make use of the handful of newly-white pages he stitches in at the back.
At the top of a fresh page, Viktor jots down what he knows so far. Then, he stops for a moment.
He should really sketch the design out before tearing the thing apart. Maybe he can work out what it used to look like between that and what he discovers underneath the wreckage.
Viktor drops his pliers entirely for his pen.
“Was this all there was to your theory? That it wasn’t an attack?” Viktor asks as he continues to carefully document the scrunched pile of metal plates. As he does, he finds it making more and more sense, despite being an exploded piece of equipment. He can make educated guesses as to which plates were the bicep, the tricep, the brachiallis. The golden lines follow the planes of silvery plates like the framing of stained glass windows — delicate and precise. Each once precisely shaped. Even some of the fingers have retained their intricacy in the mangled wreck. Detailed metal work once loved dearly by its creator with filigree gaps and expert soldering.
Definitely not something intended to be a weapon. Or a deception. It was clearly loved by its maker.
Viktor writes this down, too.
“Well— no, but,” she hesitates.
“But what?” Viktor prompts, patient as he details the curve of a piece he believes was once the thumb.
“You’re going to think I’m daft.” The words are steady, no hint of self-consciousness. “But you have to believe me.”
Viktor has to believe her? This teenage girl, sitting on his workbench getting in the way of him thoroughly enjoying picking apart this expertly made, unique machine? He thinks not.
But… he is curious. So he says— “Go on. I won’t judge. Or, ehh— I will try not to.” He even manages to smile. Crookedly, but it seems good enough for Caitlyn. The girl squints her eyes as though she does not believe him (And she shouldn’t. Smart girl.) but she speaks anyway.
“I believe it was magic.”
This makes Viktor pause. He raises an eyebrow, finally lifting his eyes from his work.
Does she think him daft?
“You think it was a spell? That there was some sort of sorcerer present? In Zaun?”
“Not— not like that kind of magic!” Caitlyn rushes to say. “I mean— there was this boy,” ah, fantastic. For every good story by a teenager starts with ‘there was this boy’, “I used to hang out with him by the bridge when I was really little and my mother would tow me along for diplomacy. And he had this strange blue rock with a symbol carved into it— he used to swear he would create magic with it some day. And the symbols on the prosthetic, the blue glow— it all looked oddly familiar.”
…Okay. A leap, for sure, but perhaps there is something to it. The concept of manufactured magic certainly piques Viktor’s interest. So, instead of laughing in her face, he raises an eyebrow.
“And do you still know this boy?”
Caitlyn shakes her head. “I stopped joining my mother for diplomacy when the riots started. Too dangerous.”
Viktor resists the urge to roll his eyes. How convenient for Piltover, to simply be able to hide the children somewhere untouchable when the fighting started.
But that is hardly Caitlyn’s fault.
Instead, he hums, and lets her continue to watch him work. At this point, Viktor abandons his notes. His sketch is sufficient, as are his written observations. He leaves out Caitlyn’s contribution, positive that his notes will end up in council possession and they’ll cry fowl play if Caitlyn is cited in his work.
Finally, Viktor reaches towards the metal heap.
The first brush of his fingers against the metal is surprisingly warm. He’s used to the cold, sharp bite of metal. Tools left for too long, braces after laying by his bedside at night, sapped by the air around them. But this metal feels as though it still hums with the aftermath of human touch. Recently held, not hot, but warmed. The comfortable human-body temperature heat that a tool gets after a long day of holding it in his hand, as though it has become a part of him.
Viktor thinks it is perhaps the blanket it was wrapped in, held in Caitlyn’s hands all that time, but then his fingers skim the blanket and it’s cold. Like the crisp air outside the academy they walked through, and the low temperature Professor Heimerdinger prefers to keep in the lab despite Viktor’s complaints about his joints.
Strange.
Viktor hums again, grasping for what seems to be a central piece of the mangled arm. He picks up his pliers, and gets to work.
He bends and pulls and unscrews and snaps. Slowly, the arm comes apart in pieces. The bicep, the internals, the fingers — all separated into neat little piles. He draws as he goes, adding anything new. Just like Caitlyn said, there are hatchings in the metal. Symbols, not letters, and certainly not in a language Viktor recognizes. Not his own or his parents’ or any of Runeterra’s more common alphabets, for certain.
The shoulder plate seems to have the most. When he pulls it back into what he assumes is the correct shape, careful not to disturb the underside that seemed to be the connecting hub to the rest of the arm based on the sheer number of gears inside, Viktor begins to turn it over in his hands. The symbols spiral inwards in a pattern that is clearly repeating but Viktor cannot tell how. He turns it and turns it again and again trying to make sense of it when— something catches the light weird. Viktor pauses. Caitlyn sucks in a breath. So she must have seen it too, yes? Viktor turn the plate back in the opposite direction, and sees it again. He leans in close, fumbling the push down a magnifying lens on his goggles.
He shifts the plate back and forth, back and forth, until— there! There’s a tiny gap, weaving its way through the symbols. He shifts the shoulder plate once more and this time, this close up, he can see that it sparks.
Viktor swallows. He gingerly, very gingerly, sets it back on the table.
“What was that?!” Caitlyn tries to lean in closer, but Viktor stops her with a hand on her shoulder.
“A spark.” A blue spark. Viktor stares quizzically at the prosthetic. What could have possibly made that? All he saw under the carapace of the shoulder was a mountain of gears.
Whatever is in there… it must be the thing powering it. Viktor hasn’t seen any other pieces yet that could possibly be the source of the arm’s movement abilities.
And as much as Viktor has enjoyed the young enforcer’s company, he thinks that perhaps he would not like to be responsible for blowing up the Kiramman family’s heiress.
“I think it is time for you to go,” Viktor says, as softly as he can with authority he does not have. “I will keep your theory in mind. Please do come see me if you find anything of note.”
She eyes him warily, but doesn’t protest (a fact that surprises Viktor) as she hops off of the table and back onto her feet.
“I’m going to track down that boy,” she says with finality, as if that will be the easiest part of her day. “Try not to blow yourself up.”
And with that, the young woman sees herself out, enforcer blue disappearing out of the Professor’s double wide office door.
Try not to blow yourself up. Wise words. Thank you, Miss Kiramman. Viktor will do his best without wasting another second not digging into the meat of this machine.
The moment the door clicks behind her, Viktor is forcing his pliers into the gears under the hub, completely ignoring her advice. Gear by gear, he untangles the interior of the shoulder. Not nearly as slowly as he should. It comes apart like butter, despite the sorry state the shell was in. Viktor almost feels bad dismantling it. He does his best to memorize their placement — to understand why they were all necessary.
He thinks he has the schematics all stored in his head when—
There it is.
There’s a contraption in the center of the shoulder, buried beneath the mountain of gears. It glows blue.
It tilts back and forth, ever so slightly. A tiny gyroscope of spherical metal bands engraved with the same strange symbols, tilting back and forth to keep the center piece steady. And that center piece contains a gem. A small, fingertip sized shard of blue crystal.
Viktor should have asked Caitlyn to draw him the crystal and symbol that boy had. He is certain the enforcer would have remembered it clear enough to be worth being in his notes.
Carefully, like his life depends on it (and it very well might), Viktor uses a pair of thongs to secure the gyroscope. He pinches around the spheres of metal, hoping to pull the whole contraption out in one go. Except, the second he pulls, there’s a giant, blue, crack.
The shock starts in his hand. It tears through his knuckles, ravaging the muscle underneath with a renewed energy Viktor has never felt. A split second of weightless, painless electricity. It shoots from his fingertips to his elbow in mere milliseconds, leaving loose muscles behind.
Viktor immediately drops the thongs.
They clatter down onto the table, Viktor holding his own hand by the wrist, staring in equal parts fear and fascination.
He swears he saw his own bones. It was like… like…
Like magic.
Viktor needs to show this to Professor Heimerdinger. Right now.
Viktor braces his hands on the table, pushing with a woosh of breath and is about to stand when… he hesitates.
What if it is magic?
For the first time in his life, Viktor thinks to himself: What would happen if he didn’t go get the professor at this new discovery? Or, more importantly, what would happen if he did?
Suddenly, Viktor is picturing himself back in the Council chambers. Its members are lifting their hands to vote. Professor Heimerdinger declares the object too dangerous to study, Salo claims the use of magic an act of war.
The worst happens.
Slowly, Viktor lowers himself back into his chair.
Clearly, this arm was created by someone with knowledge of something new, of something greater. If Viktor could just find him…
It’s then that Viktor realizes that Salo was right. He was a terrible choice for the job. Because Viktor has an opportunity in front of him he cannot pass up: knowledge of something new, something greater. It has turned him into something younger, something more adventurous. A version of himself he thought long dead.
A version of himself that had dreams. Ambitions.
His last dreams died a flower in a glass jar when Professor Heimerdinger refused to pass his thesis on to the Academy Board for lack of large-scale evidence. Viktor could not produce large scale evidence without the Academy Board.
Here, in the lamplight of the Professor’s lab, he decides he will not make the same mistake again. If Heimerdinger wants evidence first, Viktor will produce it. The yordle will just have to make due with a little bit of Viktor sneaking around in the meantime. If he cannot do it the Council’s way without fear of losing this chance, then he’ll do it his way.
So, instead of getting Professor Heimerdinger, Viktor drafts a letter. Short and simple.
To Officer Kiramman.
I need everything you know about the boy from the bridge. -V
