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You have always known the cold; there has never been any other option. It wraps around you, coils around every crevice until the flames and destruction around you serve as white noise. Life began after Viktor—his radiant mind and selflessness fed you. You were created to be left abandoned, but it was a young-faced Viktor that plucked you from the dirt and claimed a home for you. Warm hands, warmer than you have ever known, cradled you. It was then you saw the brilliance of humanity and all its curiosity.You wanted it; you craved it, even. It’s a sensation unfamiliar and all-encompassing. You wanted to see the world through him. He pressed you to his chest where you offered an exchange and he murmured a promise. All it took was a bit of blood to seal the bond. You took care of that easily. Here, within the fireplace of his home, you now live. In return, you merged with him, kept silent as you watched the world through human years. You kept him alive in return for the gift of knowledge.
“Some say he’s quite handsome,” a woman giggles, thick curls of hair frame reddened cheeks and lips. She waves a pale handkerchief lazily in the air. A gentleman in a carriage soon slows down in front of them. “Well, they’re liars,” another quips. This woman swipes off the invisible dust on her purple gown with a gloved hand. “No one has ever seen him before.” “How can you be so sure of that?” “The council isn’t particularly subtle.” Her waving stops when the driver climbs off the carriage to assist them. There’s a smile on his face, one that fails to reach his eyes. A destination is said offhandedly. The gossip at hand is far more interesting than the poor man with a limp.
“They’re still after him?” “Of course, that man is practically all magic. I think Talis is getting close.” “So I’ve heard.” She parts her lips in a loud sigh. “I wouldn’t mind being whisked away by him.” “How scandalous.” “It’s simply a dream, silly.” “You’re engaged.” A hum is given in response. A finger twirls around a strand of hair. The man does not look their way and neither do the ladies. The chatter of the streets is muted by the clacking of horseshoe against concrete. “Part of me hopes they never catch up to him.” “Oh?” “It’ll take away the mystery!” They lean in each other’s spaces and titter as the man guides them through the streets. Their laughter is like golden bells on Sunday morning: rich, melodious, and innocent. Children in skirts and trousers gather around in circles to play cards and instruments. Claps accompanied by cheers tear through the dull exchanges of businesses. Firm handshakes between new-bonded partners are hardly deterred by the dancing of people, young and old, a mere yard away. The driver reveals his skill in navigating Piltover’s streets by carefully guiding the two horses around every crowd. In the place of greenery, buildings tower among the folk and blimps cast temporary, stretched out shadows with each of their passing. Once they slow to a stop, the driver guides them down with an extended hand. With the other, he uses a wall of the carriage as support for himself. He says nothing. Though, he does wait on the payment with a raised brow when their chatter fails to cease. Gold coins are deposited to the open, gloved palm of the man. A curt thank you is offered before the two women glide into a parlor. The last he hears from them is the click of heels before their silhouettes disappear behind a door. The man pockets the change. He turns his heel back towards the carriage and takes it to the corner of Piltover, at the edge between glitz and mundane. It’s quiet. The carriage is left tucked behind a tree. He pats the animals affectionately before letting them roam the field that marks the end of Piltover. White mountains are seen on the horizon. The sun does little to melt away the constant frost that coats the higher lands. Blossoms of yellow and red and blue decorate the wide canvas of bright green. The area is decently untouched; the resources Piltover seek are located in the Underground. The man heaves a heavy breath, now impatiently stumbling to get to the water that flows for miles. His forehead has a sheen of sweat. The driver’s eyebrows are pinched. He regards the still, murky water with a scowl before arranging sticks, leaves, and rocks on top. Circle, line, circle. It is far from a perfect picture of the required sigil. It will do. The man holds his breath before dipping his head first, then plunges the rest of his body with little thought. He surfaces from water with a gasp before sighing. Immediately, pale shoulders slump at the warm water encompassing him. The replicated sigil—far more intricate—is carved at the bottom of the bathtub instead of built upon accessible material. The color of the water is purple, unsurprisingly. A stem of lavender sticks to his ivory glove; bubbles coat his uniform. Warm sunlight pours in from the cracked window. The soft creaking of the house only lulls him to a comfort. It’s the sound of movement. Viktor thinks of you with appreciation; there, in the fire pit just below, you buzz with endless energy. Eyes of gold follow along the wild rune patterns in the corners of the bathroom. Viktor removes his gloves and tosses them to the floor. Pinkish, pale skin is revealed.“Blitzcrank,” he calls, tilting his head back as he hears the clunking of metal. The wooden door opens. He finally allows his disguise to melt away in the safety of his house. Brown hair lengthens back to his neck; machinery intertwines with human skin; his leg brace is now visible to the eye. There is no one here to see, anyway, not anyone human. A hand lifts: purple and gray consume freckled flesh. It fades upon reaching his biceps, but it resumes where his heart would be. The entirety of his right leg is also wrapped in robotics. His appearance isn’t what he would label as, ah, subtle. The round robot swings his arms at Viktor’s lack of command. It’s reminiscent of a child.“Don’t—” bottles knock over from giant, iron hands. Eyes close. “Never mind. Only I’m to blame for,” he gestures airily with his hand, “that design choice.”Blitzcrank remains standing by the door. Giant, glowing eyes stare straight towards the man soaking in his bathroom. “Can you get me my things? We have a visit to make.” His back and leg scream of discomfort. They demand his attention. The clothing he wore out sticks to him in the water; it only weighs him down. His nose wrinkles. “Later. Much later, preferably.”
Blitzcrank makes a series of noises before making his exit. There’s a loud thump in the hallway. Viktor makes the valiant effort to ignore it. He doubts the little creation has yet to learn the house’s blueprint despite the many years it has wandered its floors. He cannot bring himself to change him, however. It was his first creation, and it feels as though he would be wiping away the evidence of a memory.