Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Burnt flesh. Motor oil. Hot steel. Singed hair. Blood.

Screams filled the production halls of the Adeptus Mechanicus. 

He did not know what was happening to him. There was pain — so much pain. He could feel the steel merge into his flesh, searing into his skin, melting into his bones. 

He screamed, broken and hoarse. Soon there’d be no voice left to scream with. The man was no stranger to agony. Before, his body had worked against him, fought him every day. Now that he had finally started to fight back, he was here; in the hands of the Adeptus.

He was not stupid. He knew his fate. Soon there’d be nothing left of him. He’d be a hollow shell, his consciousness trapped in a deep dark corner of his mind. More machine than man. 

No, he wasn’t stupid. He knew what was coming. Everyone in Varangantua — this urban hell of a metropolis, this rotten tooth of a shining Empire — knew what happened to the criminals that fell into the custody of the Adeptus Mechanicus, of everyone that ended in the Steel Heights.

If the Emperor held His protective hands over His Empire, well then He must have forgotten Alecto — or just this city in particular. It was heresy, he knew, but as the needle came down slowly, piercing through his cornea, he could not help but to think that somehow, the billions of people wasting away here had somehow slipped the God-Emperor's mind. 

Perhaps the Golden Ones in their high towers of Piltover felt some of His mercy but for people like him, Undercity rats, Zaunites, there was no hope. Not even the Astra Militarum would take them. They were not even fit to be canon fodder for the Xenos. The man knew he’d burn for his heresy. Compared to this, it would have been a pleasure to burn.

The needle in his eye was excruciating as he slipped in and out of consciousness. The screams of others sharing his fate moved like waves in his ears. He could not scream anymore. The device lodged into his throat made sure of that. 

In his fleeting moments of awareness, his still intact eye made out the blurry shapes of Techpriests. Lips parted in a silent scream, he felt something burn into his shoulder. Steel melted his insides, mingling with his organs, fire stripped away skin until he had no idea where he ended and where he began.

The metal tentacles of Techpriests wrapped around his throat, his jaw, the still untouched flesh of his cheek.

The needle retracted from his eye. All he could see was darkness. He sank into the pain, let himself be seared into a machine, felt himself retract into a corner of his mind.

There was no way out.

Chapter Text

The Omnissiah only granted his might to the most worthy. Some of his devotees, worthy of the secrets of the machine, followed his call. Others had to be found through trial and error. The streets of Varangantua's Undercity, Zaun, provided an undying cesspool of potential machine heralds.

Most subjects did not survive the procedure. Others only came to be mindless service machines, the weaknesses of their flesh finally erased. Only very few subjects were fit to be weapons, war machines built to be sold to the Empire and its Galactic Army. 

The creation of these machine heralds was a tricky thing. Only the most experienced Techpriests of the Steel Heights could manage the necessary modifications.

The human mind was a tricky little thing. It needed to be handled with the utmost care, so that the human would still maintain a smidge of control over their motoric abilities. Still, the defiant, independent part of their consciousness had to be locked away. These humans, saved by the Machine God, needed to be the perfect slaves, controlled by steel and released from the weaknesses of the flesh. 

The process of creation was a long one. A frail human body could only take so much before it caved. Piece by piece, bit by bit the human had to be led to the Omnissiah. Creating a perfect balance between man and machine was something reserved for the Techpriests but sometimes, one of the rats roaming the streets of Varangantua proved to be a favourite of the Machine God.

The man lying unconscious in front of the Techpriests had been chosen for salvation. It was unexpected but no one would ever dare to question the choices of the Omnissiah.

This soon to be machine herald had been frail — everything the members of the Adeptus Mechanicus despised about the human race. Worst of all, he had committed his crime against the Adeptus. 

And yet, his mind proved to be strong, his body resilient. No one had had hope that he'd even survive the first modifications. No one had thought that he'd even live long enough to become a simple servitor. But what did it matter if there was one less Undercity Rat? One could barely call that one life less, one life wasted.

And yet, here he was. For years he had fought the modifications. Mind and body working tirelessly to refuse the machine parts that would make him the perfect creation. 

The Techpriests had to be careful. It would have been a shame to waste one of these rare chosen ones and the trials had to be thorough. Man and machine needed to work in perfect unity. A subject's body and soul had to work with their new abilities. 

The extremely few who made it into these trials refused to the last second, the last breath of their worthless lives. They refused the machine, refused the Omnissiah, and for their tech-heresy they paid with their life.

This latest subject proved to be different yet again. Against all odds he clung to life, reluctantly letting the machine be part of him when his frail flesh could not protect him anymore. 

The Techpriests were pleased. Finally, they had a chance at creating the machine herald, the perfect balance between man and machine, flesh and steel — a perfect war machine. 

The physical modifications were almost complete. Another five years and the body would be perfect. 

Breaking his mind was more complicated, more intricate. If there was one thing that humans refused to give up, it was their thoughts. This one in particular.

Somewhere, in a deep dark corner of his mind, this subject's personality still persisted. 

It did not break out often. Only when faced with extreme violence, pain and pathos did the Lane Rat break through.

His glowing iris implants turned off, showing golden brown eyes filled with fear and despair. Sometimes, the armour retracted, the clothes burned through and then there was soft, pale skin and silky brown hair falling into these utterly human eyes, filled with tears.

It was a liability.

A machine herald was not supposed to think, was not supposed to feel. He was supposed to kill and once he'd done his job he was to be deactivated, stored away or to be turned into an equally mindless servitor. A machine herald was supposed to carry out orders. He was supposed to follow, to obey, to serve.

Under all that armour, under all that machinery, there'd always be a heart, there'd always be blood pumping through blue veins.

This last bit of human weakness could not be taken by the Techpriests. That was reserved for the Omnissiah. Lucky for them, the blood of an Undercity Rat was worthless. No one would care if the production halls swam with it. No one cared if the sand was soaked in red after each trial.

As long as they kept that frail flesh heart inside that tragically still human body beating, the Techpriests could do anything to create their perfect machine herald.

Chapter Text

He had forgotten his name. 

It felt like a lifetime ago, in a different universe, when someone had spoken to him softly, called his name with such joy that it almost hurt. What was left of his skin still remembered warm touches that fought off the biting cold of Polaris, that wiped the blood from his lips and caught his wrists in grips so tight that the bones broke.

Now he could only remember the sensation of the cold mechanic arms that pulled him around, prodded here and there, tore open his skin and broke apart bones. 

In a moment of human weakness, he shuddered. He let his head fall back against the cold wall of his cell. His skull colliding with the metal was the only sound that could be heard in the deep, all encompassing silence of the Steel Heights. 

Immediately, he sat up straight, ignoring the way his still human parts screamed in pain, shoving down that man he buried so long ago, who never learned his lesson and still climbed out of his grave. 

Something was wrong. The Adeptus Mechanicus was never silent.

Cooling liquid dripped from pipes, echoing in the empty hallway where he was kept. In the distance, steam hissed lazily and the smell of motor oil and blood still hung in the air, but the Adeptus was quiet.

There were no machines whirring, no fires blasting and no metal clanking. No one screamed, no guns were being fired. No frantic footsteps passed above or below him. The Steel Heights were quiet.

Blinking his iris implants to life, he looked around his cell. The room was pitch black. His implant picked up the littlest bit of light, so that even in the darkest night, the light of the stars would be enough to guide his way. Now, not even the faint glow of the old halogen lamp that usually lit up his room was registered. 

Something was so very wrong. 

Carefully, he rose to his feet. His clothing rustled and the biomechanical brace that supported one knee hissed quietly as pressure was released. His boots did not make a sound as he walked. Very early on he had been taught to stay in the shadows, to stay quiet. He braced his hands on the wall, leaning his ear against the metal to listen for any hint as to what was happening. 

Deep in the heart of the Steel Heights he could hear frantic footsteps, panicked voices shouting but it was too far away to understand anything. 

Curious to hear more, curious to have an inkling on what was happening, he pressed his ear harder against the wall. The Undercity Rat in him screamed in a distant memory. Shimmer! , he whispered in a hoarse voice as the machine herald dug his biomechanically assisted fingers into the wall.

The door to his cell clicked open. 

He recoiled from the wall. Suddenly, there was light. It was the faint, cold glow of the moon, barely a flicker, but thanks to his implants he could finally make out the layout of his room. He had memorised it to the last atom but there was something comforting about being able to see his own hand. 

He hesitated. The door was open. It was quiet. His still human heart was hammering in his chest, begging for freedom. 

This could very well be a new trial. Something to test his loyalty, to see how well he’d obey his masters. How was he to know that the things he was hearing and seeing were real?

Run, you idiot! , the Zaunite screamed inside his prison. Run, before they break you! As he reached for the door, his hand shook. With a mixture of wonder and horror, he considered it. 

He was machine. He should not be feeling. His heart should not be hammering in his chest. He should not be longing for freedom, but the Zaunite persisted.

He curled his hand into a tight fist, forcing the tremors away. Reaching out again, his hand was now as steady as it should be, as he pushed the door open.

The hinges creaked quietly and he froze where he stood, straining his ears for footsteps that thundered in his direction. The world around him remained silent. 

A gust of wind, barely more than a whisper in the thick air, softly danced through his hair — gentle, reminiscent of a parent’s touch. The Undercity Rat inside him banged against the walls of his prison, shouting for freedom. 

The machine herald was made to obey. Carefully, he pushed the door all the way open and took a small step outside. In a display of human weakness, his braced knee buckled underneath him as the cold air of the night collided with his armour and the few places where his skin was still exposed. 

The Steel Heights were dark. The usual toxic green glow that lingered everywhere was gone. Brutal structures rose high into the night sky that was littered with stars for the very first time since the machine herald had seen it. 

There was a strange tightness in his throat, a pressure behind his eyes as the gentle breeze ruffled his hair and let his cape fly. 

The machine herald stroked a hand through his hair. He sharpened his implants, searching for any indication that someone had noticed him. 

The Adeptus Mechanicus was wrapped in deafening silence. 

He let out a breath he did not even know he was holding. Making sure that his half mask was in place, he pulled his hood deep into his face. Despite his enhanced eyes, the fabric obscured his peripheral vision. It made him uneasy. If the Techpriests saw him neither the Omnissiah nor the God-Emperor could save him — not that he believed in any God any more.

The machine herald sharpened his ears, trusting this single sense if anyone should come after him.

On impossibly silent feet he took his first steps into the night. Into freedom , the Zaunite in him whispered. 

Without the machines and the industrial buildings running, circulating toxic air that would have destroyed his lungs without the mask a long time ago, a fog rose to the heights. It wavered on the bottom, giving way to the machine herald’s steps as he passed production halls, crematoriums and cathedrals. 

Not a single sign of life crossed his path. No birds sang, no rats scurried out of his way. No trees were to be found anywhere in Varangantua, with the exception of Piltover. The Undercity Rat inside him wondered if he would even recognise a tree. Neither of them had ever seen a plant, a flower — a sign of life in this cold Empire. 

The Zaunite plagued the machine herald’s mind with flashes of blinding white snow and unforgiving ice and in return he buried the Zaunite under a mountain of scrap metal and broken bones.

For now, he was quiet in his pile of discarded memories, taking in the light of the stars with a wonder and fascination the machine herald could not afford as he sneaked his way along the dark shadows between the buildings of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

Around him, with nowhere to go, cooling liquid dripped onto the metal floors, echoing in the silence. In various intervals steam hissed as the pressure in the pipes became too great. With no machines pumping the steady stream of toxin being pumped into the river had ceased. 

The machine herald froze. Voices approached, hard soles crashed against the ground, advancing in his direction. He swallowed, feeling his breathing pick up. Even his implants could not register a corner to hide in. 

There was no way out.

Unless, he thought, gaze drifting upwards to finally indulge the Zaunite, the only way to go was up. 

With no more time to think, he jumped against the building wall. His hands and feet easily found little nooks and crevices to hold on to.

He looked down. The light of a torch approached, long shadows covered the metal ground. He scaled the building faster. The light of the torch irritated his implant as it followed him up the building, just an inch below where he hung pressed against the wall. The small beam of light came closer and closer, almost touching the souls of his boot. Picking up speed for a last time, he heaved himself over the building edge, lying flat on the roof. 

Sudden light blinded him as he attempted to calm his laboured breathing. It was over. They had caught him. 

He laid there, waiting for them to shout at him, pick him up from the roof and throw him back into his cell. He waited to be punished for disobeying. 

Nothing happened. The machine herald blinked, adjusting his implants to the bright onslaught. Slowly he sat up and took in his surroundings. 

The light that had blinded him was not the torch of the Techpriests. It was Piltover, the district of the Golden Ones from North-Varangantua — a shining beacon of light, a symbol of progress and wealth in this urban hell. 

The machine herald took a dangerous moment for himself, high above the Northern Districts of the city. 

The towers and penthouses of Piltover in the distance were alight, glittering like stars in the darkness. A wall — more symbolic than functional — separated Piltover from Solovei, the northern middle class district with its large living-towers and its jammed streets, although it still belonged to the Northern Topcity. 

And there was the river, poisoned with the Adeptus’ toxins and a bridge that led to Zaun, the Northern Undercity. Solovei was guarded by a high wall with high security gates to lock off the entire district, lest a Zaunite would dare to enter. 

The Steel Heights, much like Piltover, rose high above the rest of the city, standing on mountains that made them their own little world. 

If anyone ever dared to exit past Zaun, they would find themselves in Polaris, a desert made of ice. Most buildings there had been abandoned and it had become a safe haven for everyone who had something to hide and was willing to risk it all. 

The machine herald shuddered, feeling the cold creep into his bones. He stood, lowering his gaze to assess his position.

The Adeptus was still dark but he knew there was not much time left. 

He felt a laugh bubbling in his throat as he saw the gates just a few hundred metres in front of him. The machine herald suppressed any sound that might have left him. Tapping his cheek twice, his full face mask set into place. He adjusted his hood and with a powerful leap, he bridged the distance to the next roof.

The gate and the high walls of the Steel Heights were so close, he could almost smell freedom — or perhaps it was just the absence of that rotting death scent, the absence of steel and fire.

He shook his head, burying these thoughts next to the Zaunite, who laughed hysterically as he saw the gates. 

The machine herald swung himself over the edge, carefully climbing down the last building that stood inside the walls. 

There was no sign of a guard as he approached the gate. The ginormous metal doors stood like a terrible beast against the dark night, rising to threatening heights. The electromagnetic closing mechanisms were powered off and the gates stood slightly open, the usual force field was gone. 

Not daring to touch anything,  the machine herald squeezed through the gap. He held onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, for once in his life he was lucky.

As he descended the pathway that led down into the Northern Districts, the wind blew the hood off his head. He smiled beneath his mask as he felt the breeze in his hair.

The gates clicked shut behind him and the force field whirred into action as machines began to power up again.

A toxic green glow at his back cast his long and dark shadow before him.

Chapter Text

“Jayce.”

Mel Medarda’s voice was tired as she laid in bed, propped up on her elbows as she watched her soon to be husband. 

Jayce Talis stood, hands clasped behind his back, in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Piltover penthouse. He considered the city stretching out beneath him with a critical gaze; taking in the brightly lit streets, shops and restaurants of Piltover, the green trees rocking in the wind, the twinkling headlights of cars in Solovei, people coming from or going to work, the darkness that was Zaun and the horrendous, toxic glowing beast of the Adeptus Mechanicus. 

“Just because you let me sleep in your bed does not mean that you can’t sleep here as well”, Mel said, trying to lighten the damp mood that had plagued them for the last week. 

“I know. I know”, Jayce sighed, letting his head hang in defeat. Mel sat upright, smiling sympathetically although Jayce could not see her.

“It’ll be fine, I promise”, she assured him. “And even if we end up married”, she shrugged non-committedly, “then neither of us will be faithful. Loyalty means nothing anyway.” Mel considered Jayce’s unmoving shadow; the faint green glow and the lights of the streets outlining his form. 

“Still weird”, he said quietly after a stretch of silence. “You’re like a sister to me and I just”, Jayce balled his hands into tight fists, “hate the idea of marrying for power and money.”

Mel had to chuckle at that. “Ever the romantic”, she mocked lovingly. Deep down, she was glad for Jayce’s desire for love. He was a hopeless romantic; not just Golden in terms of money but also when it came to his heart. It broke Mel to see him struggle with his never-ending kindness as he got used to running a monopoly. 

The Talis Tools & Weapons Inc. was one of the most successful industries in Varangantua. They sold their goods all over the Empire and even the God-Emperor’s Armies killed with weapons and bullets made by Talis Inc. 

Contrary to that the Medarda family ran an agricultural empire, selling regular crops like grains and potatoes but also exotic fruits such as peaches, strawberries and mangoes. Now generating more profit than even the Terashova clan every year, Medarda was one of the most essential families of Varangantua. 

Should Mel and Jayce marry and combine their monopolies, they’d be unbeatable. As businesspeople both Mel and Jayce saw the benefits of the arrangement, the power they could hold together. 

As people both hated the idea. The two of them had practically grown up together, were practically brother and sister and never had any ounce of romantic interest in each other. 

“I just wish that money and power were not the only things that mean anything anymore”, Jayce admitted quietly. Mel suppressed the urge to get up and hug him — especially not in front of the window. Even though the glass was mirrored from the outside, one could never be sure that no one was watching. 

The last thing they needed were rumours about a possible romantic engagement. As of now, they could still delay the wedding as much as they liked and no one would care. If anyone saw them in close physical contact, the press would tear into them. Everyone would be demanding their wedding, children to take over the empire some day. 

Mel shuddered at the thought. There was something inherently wrong about having to marry the man one grew up with.

“We’ll figure it out, Jayce, trust me”, Mel said, sounding more confident than she felt. “At this point we can delay it all as long as we wish. Perhaps we can convince people that we should draw up a contract without a marriage.” Mel sighed and turned her gaze away from Jayce’s shadow. Her fingers traced the golden patterns woven into the bedsheet beneath her. “That’s all this marriage is anyway — a contract.”

Mel laid her head on her knees, considering the green and lively plants that decorated one corner of the apartment. Her fingers still traced the golden thread in the sheets. Jayce was silent. 

“Mel”, he spoke hesitantly. “There’s something...something is happening.” She heard Jayce step toward the window, heard him put his hand on the glass. 

“Jayce”, she whispered softly. “I know you don’t want to talk about it but —” She could not finish her sentence.

“Mel”, Jayce said again. Stronger this time, trying to get her attention. 

“Jayce, please stop deflecting. Just because we keep quiet about it doesn't mean it’s not happening.”

“Mel”, Jayce said for a third time, not listening to a word she had said. There was something urgent in his tone. Mel sat up straighter. Something was different. Jayce’s shadow had lost strength. There was no green glow. Her next breath got stuck in her throat as she scrambled out of the bed and to her feet.

“The Adeptus Mechanicus is dark”, Jayce mumbled, pressing his nose into the glass. Mel stumbled to a halt next to him.

“What…”, she stuttered. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know but it can’t be good.” 

Jayce’s breath fogged up the glass where his face was pressed against it. Mel copied his stance, neither of them caring if there were any tabloids spying into the window. Breathlessly the two of them watched the dark gates of the Steel Heights reach into the sky like the sharp fangs of a colossal beast.

Chapter Text

When Piltover and Solovei went to sleep, Zaun awoke. Under the cover of the dark people gave into their desires and cravings. The night kept her clients’ secrets — and the Zaunites did too. Down here, they sold drugs, love and dreams. When the night laid its grim hand over Varangantua and the dirty little animals came out to play, even Zaun kept its more fortunate children hidden away. 

In a sea of violence and drugs, The Last Drop was a safe haven. There was no such thing as a clean deal in Zaun. No one knew where the money came from or who’s blood had been spilled to obtain it. As long as a deal had been made in The Last Drop, under Vander’s watchful eye, the deal was not clean by any means but at least it was fair. Both parties of the deal upheld their ends. It was never a good idea to piss off the man that poured the drinks.

As long as one behaved, The Last Drop did not discriminate. All kinds of Zaunites dominated the scene but between the hardened inhabitant of the Undercity one could sometimes spy a masked Golden One, sipping a drink as they acquired barely legal goods or bought a warm body for the night. 

The Last Drop was packed — like almost every night. Vander, the innkeep, stood behind the bar, his watchful eye scanning the tavern for any sign of trouble as he poured drinks and smoked his pipe. 

It was a night like any other — or at least it should have been. In a dark, secluded corner of the tavern, Vander saw the yellow glowing iris implant that belonged to his husband Silco. 

There was no such thing as marriage in Zaun but Vander and Silco had crafted two rings out of scraps the Adeptus Mechanicus had thrown into the Undercity and then Benzo had tied their hands together with a piece of string and spoke some pretty words. As quick as that, they had been married.

Silco usually kept himself in the backrooms where the two lived with their children. Together with their youngest daughter Jinx, he tinkered the day away, selling their trinkets to Topside idiots for good money. 

Vander and Silco had raised four kids — two girls and two boys. In giving them a safe space to live and grow, the two men had succeeded in keeping these kids out of the worst fates of Zaun.

Vi, their eldest daughter, had made a name for herself. In addition to having relations with a Solovei Enforcer, she had made her combat skills profitable as she taught rudimentary self defence to anyone who needed it.

Mylo and Claggor, their two sons, salvaged the water of the river that ran through the backyard of The Last Drop, where the ragtag family lived. With a complicated purification process the two rid the water of Adeptus’ toxins and made it safe for human consumption. 

All in all, Silco and Vander had done well, giving all they could before this city could sink its teeth into their children.

And yet, for the last four years, on this exact night, Silco came out of their living quarters to sip his whiskey in a dark corner. 

Vander knew, when The Last Drop closed out for the night, the two of them would sit there and sip their drinks. They’d try not to cry but would fail and sometimes Jinx would join them, mourning the son and brother they had lost. 

Yes, Vander and Silco had done the best they could. They had saved four lost souls and yet it had not been enough. Zaun always demanded its tributes. On this night, four years ago, their third son had been taken away by Enforcers, never to be seen again. 

Viktor had already been grown at that point — considering all estimates he must have been around twenty at the time as no one had known when exactly he had been born.

He was the oldest of their children, already fifteen when Jinx had stumbled upon him in a dirty back alley. Vander still felt the dread that had gripped him when he had lost a little Jinx — still answering to Powder — in the streets. He had shouted for her, panicked to no end. Vander had almost collapsed with relief when he had found her again, hidden behind a scrawny, injured boy with torn clothes and a heavy leg brace. He had bared his teeth at Vander like a wild animal, willing to give everything to protect that blue-haired little girl he did not even know.

It had taken a lot of coaxing from Vander and Jinx alike to convince Viktor that he was safe. Bruised, bloodied and feverish as the poor boy was, he trusted Jinx enough to follow them to The Last Drop.

The moment Silco had laid an eye on him, he had loved him — and Viktor had adored Silco. (“Singed?”, Silco had asked after taking one look at the boy. Viktor had clenched his jaw tightly, nodding as he considered the dirty ground beneath his worn down shoes.) Vander had loved the boy just as much.

More than once he and Silco laid awake at night, wondering what they could have done differently to save Viktor. They always came to the same conclusion; this city devoured people. Varangantua had sunk its teeth into the boy’s flesh the moment his eyes had seen the blinding white snow of Polaris for the first time. He never had a chance. 

It was a morbid thought but Vander and Silco somehow hoped that Viktor had died. Considering all possibilities, it would have been the kindest. Instead of being given back to Singed or handed over to the Adeptus Mechanicus the poor boy would finally have peace. 

Vander shook his head to rid himself of his melancholic thoughts. He had drinks to pour right now. 

It was a night like any other and in a few hours he’d hold his husband close and they’d comfort each other as they mourned the son they had lost.

It was a night like any other — until Jinx burst through the door, her blue braids flying behind her. Splinters flew from the wood as it smashed against the wall and specks of dust danced in the dim light. All eyes turned to the tiny woman who stood in the doorframe, panting hard. It was dead silent in The Last Drop.

“The Steel Heights are dark.” 

Chapter Text

The tension was so thick in the air, it was hard not to choke on it. No one dared to move a muscle as the smoke of burning cigarettes curled into the still air.

“The Adeptus Mechanicus is never dark”, a deep voice rumbled, a condescending chuckle in their tone. Jinx’s eyes scanned the room, grinning slightly as her gaze passed Vander, one of her fathers, and found the voice’s source — a masked Piltie, thinking they knew the Undercity better than any Zaunite. Jinx clicked her tongue playfully.

"Unless…", she trailed off knowingly, letting her focus wander to a dark corner of The Last Drop.

"Unless someone shut them off", Silco's voice drawled through The Last Drop, smooth as velvet. The iris implant that replaced the eye he had lost glowed dangerously to anyone who did not know him but Jinx saw the playful twinkle. 

And just like that, The Last Drop came back to life. Drinks were hastily emptied, cigarettes put out as everyone scrambled up from their seats. 

As the first few dates to rush outside, Jinx slipped into the tavern. Keeping to the wall and away from the crowd that quickly rushed past, she inched herself to Silco's secluded corner. 

"Hello Jinx", he said softly and yet, over the clamour of everyone fighting to go outside, Jinx had no trouble hearing him. 

"Hey", she replied just as softly as she slid on the chair beside him and cuddled into his side. Together, they watched the last people scramble out of the tavern to see this once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.

Sometimes even Zaunites got lucky.

As the door fell shut, Vander's heavy footfalls echoed through the empty tavern. He leaned against a wall slightly behind his husband and daughter. The smoke of his pipe curled past Jinx's ear, towards the door where a slight draft went through the room. 

It smelt like tobacco, whiskey and sweat. The scent made Jinx feel safe. It smelt like home and with the warm presences of her fathers, she could almost believe that the world was okay. Almost.

"I miss him", she sighed, pulling her knees to her chest. Silco pressed a kiss to the top of her head. 

"We do too", he mumbled into her blue locks. A warm hand laid heavily on her shoulder — Vander.

"Then we can't miss this absolute spectacle, can we?", he said gently, deep voice rumbling comfortably in Jinx's chest. 

"Do you think it's a coincidence?", she asked as she slowly uncurled herself. Silco released her so that she could stand.

"There is no such thing as a coincidence in this world", he said darkly.

"Way too lighten the mood, darling." Vander managed a half-smile as he put his muscular arms around his husband's slik shoulders. Silco leaned heavily against Vander and Jinx slipped her hand into his as they made their way to the backdoor.

Jinx could not help but to think of the brother she had lost. The one who had tinkered with her, who showed her how her bombs and grenades would finally work. The one who did not complain when she drew all over his stuff in neon colours. 

She loved Mylo and Claggor, of course she did. But the one she lost, the one whose name she would never say again, held a special place in her heart. 

The backyard was dark and the river flowing through was still. A shadow stood at its bank, hands clasped behind their back as they considered the dark, looking presence of the Adeptus Mechanicus that reached for the stars.

"Vi! There you are", Vander breathed in relief upon seeing his eldest daughter. "Where's Cait? Mylo and Claggor?"

The words were muted in Jinx's ears as she stared up at the night sky littered with stars for the first time in her life. Between the glow of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the always-on broken propaganda screens and the neon lights of Zaun, no one down here had ever seen the moon and stars.

"Cait's asleep. Haven't seen Mylo or Claggor", Vi answered her father, somewhere far away. "Or Ekko." Vander sighed exasperated and pinched the bridge of his nose as he stood beside Vi.

"Wow", Jinx gasped without even meaning to. "I bet you can see the stars anywhere in Piltover."

Behind her, Silco chuckled softly. "The only place where you can see stars in Varangantua is Polaris."

Gently, he pulled her along to stand by her sister and father. Even through the beauty of the stars, the colossal fangs that constituted the gates of the Adeptus Mechanicus sent shivers down her spine as they obstructed the moon.

"I've never been to Polaris", Jinx mumbled deep in thought. Everyone — no matter if Piltie, Soloveian or Zaunite — had heard of Polaris. Quillon Drask's most famous case, busting the cannibalistic Cult of Terra, had given Polaris a grim kind of fame.

"Trust me, you don't want to go there. Ever", Vander said and his tone of voice left no room for discussion. As much as Jinx liked to argue and antagonise her fathers, Polaris was never the subject.

She remembered it as if it was yesterday when she would ask her lost brother about the rumours. Had he really escaped from the Cult's clutches? Had he really survived the lockdown of the sector?

Jinx would never forget the emptiness that would enter his eyes upon her probing and it always made her heart do funny things. Later she would only ask him if he was really from Polaris and he'd nod and tell her about the stars one could see at night.

"I know", Jinx said, tearing her gaze away from the sky. "He just always told me about the stars of Polaris."

Vander and Silco drew in pained breath; the stars above them a reminder of their failure.

"Do you think he's still out there?", Vi asked as she took a pebble from her pocket and threw it into the river. There was no current to carry it away. A slight fog rose from where the pebble had sunk.

"For his sake, I hope not", Vander confessed with a heavy heart, pulling Silco into a comforting hug. Silco and Jinx had been the most affected by the boy's disappearance. He had latched onto them the most and with endless patience, Jinx had successfully learned how to tinker with the scraps.

She slipped into the shadows. Under something that had once been a bush but was now nothing more than an array of dead branches, Jinx pulled out her newest project — a small, steam-powered boat. It was the first thing her lost brother had shown her — or rather Jinx had watched as he had worked the night away on the little toy. Since then, she had tried to build it herself, getting better year by year.

"I made this", she said sheepishly, holding the little boat out to her family. "The one he made for me is still by my bed but I wanted to make one for him." Jinx sniffed, blinking away the tears. She saw Silco and Vander smile those sad smiles adults tended to have and Vi gritted her teeth, hands balled into fists by her side.

"Let it sail, Jinx", Silco encouraged, inclining his head slightly as he gestured towards the river.

Under her breath she began to sing Dear Friend Across The River — a song every child down in Zaun knew. Every time the Enforcers had come to raid, she had huddled together with the others, hands clutched over her ears as she sang to calm her hammering heart. 

The night her brother had been taken, he had sung to her before, making her promise to stay hidden. Jinx had done as she was told. Covering her ears to drown out the screams, she had almost choked in her sobs as she kept singing to herself.

The little boat sprang into action as soon as it touched the water. A column of steam rose from its funnel as it happily drifted down the river, blind and deaf to the plight of its maker. 

The sudden, toxic green glow was almost blinding and the building current took the boat away. As the stars gave way to the lights of the Adeptus Mechanicus and the water was fed with poison again, Jinx remained on her knees at the river bank, humming to herself. 

Chapter Text

The streets of Zaun were safe — at least for someone like him. 

The sun had started to rise when he had roamed the streets of Solovei. His shadows had begun to stretch out in front of him when the Zaunite came out of his stupor. Run , he had whispered with desperation, or else you’re done for!

Piltover had not been an option. Deep in his heart, the machine herald knew that there was nothing for him in the Topcity. Down in the Undercity, though, his machinery would not bother anyone. The scum that infiltrated the streets of Zaun had seen it all — and even if he somehow was a target, no Zaunite would ever make a deal with an enforcer of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Instead, they would attack him face to face. The machine herald knew how to fight — it was what he had been built to do. 

Zaun was the only safe place on Varangantua. 

With his mask securely in place, the toxic and heavy air would not touch his iron lungs. His iris implants navigated themselves through the harsh neon lights of the broken propaganda screens, replaying the same video over and over again. The Zaunite in him knew every single word by a heart the two of them did not have anymore. 

For the very first time since he had taken over, the machine herald was glad to have that Zaunite still fighting. Even if he did not know his own name anymore, he knew the streets of the Undercity like the back of their biomechanical hand. 

Down here, in the deepest, darkest and most abandoned alleys the Zaunite could find, not even the sun touched the broken cobblestones, and yet, the Steel Heights were ever present.

In this corner of the Undercity, the tiniest bit of blue sky that could have been visible, was obstructed by the colossal, fanged gates of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Even in broad daylight, there was a green hue. The air around the gates wavered through the force fields and the machine herald shuddered, remembering all the horrors that they had experienced behind those walls. 

Briefly, he wondered when he had regained his ability to feel. 

We never lost it , the Zaunite whispered. Here, just one alley away from the hectic business of the Undercity, his voice was loud and clear, impossible to drown out. 

The machine herald heard the millions of footsteps going about their business, voices making dirty deals, the cat that was carefully pawing over barren pipes and the fight that had broken out two streets away. It smelt like gunpowder, food, waste and just slightly underneath, motor oil. None of it was enough to drown out his voice.

The machine herald rarely felt exhaustion. The Techpriests had him up for days, run for miles and fight for hours on end for his legs to buckle and then finally give out underneath him. 

Now though, in this empty back alley, he felt compelled to lean against the wall and let his head hang low. He gave in to temptation and allowed himself another moment of weakness as he pushed his hood off his head, running his fingers through his hair in the process.

“Liar”, he whispered into his mask. His voice was robotic, rough from the years he had not used it. For the very first time in his life, he responded to the Zaunite. 

“You might be able to feel, but I don’t”, he mumbled as he slid down the wall to sit on the cold ground. He shuddered at the metallic grinding that laced his word. 

The Zaunite chuckled. You and I, we are the same , he said gently. We were one until they forced us apart. You’re just a lonelier version of me.

The machine herald considered the cobblestones beneath his feet, tracing its patterns with his biomechanical hand. “I’m…sorry”, the machine herald mumbled. 

I know . There was no anger in the Zaunite’s tone. He was gentle, almost understanding. It’s not your fault. We did what we had to do to stay alive . 

The machine herald scoffed. He resisted the urge to spit out. Not even here in this secluded corner did he dare to reveal his face. 

“You can hardly call this living”, he said, conveniently pushing away the fact that he had no idea what life outside the Adeptus Mechanicus meant.

We’ll figure it out together , the Zaunite assured, before he retreated into his secluded corner of the machine herald’s mind. 

He sat there for a while, just listening to the sounds of the Undercity, until his body started to itch from the lack of movement.The machine herald thoroughly cracked his joints before he slowly rose to his feet, being careful not to make any sounds. He could fight, yes, but he’d prefer it if his skills weren’t put to the test. 

The Zaunite was silent as the machine herald pulled his hood back over his face still covered by the mask, but there was a warm, comforting feeling where his heart would have been. 

The machine herald had no destination, and the Lane Rat was eerily quiet as he started to wander. He supposed, after their truce, he should cease to call that man inside of him, in this pile of discarded memories, a rat.

He had no destination but everything was better than staying in one place. If he kept away from the noise, he might be able to enjoy a few more days of peace. 

Rationally, he knew that the Adeptus Mechanicus would not give him up that easily. They would try to hunt him down, would pull him back no matter how hard he fought. The Techpriests knew his weaknesses and they would not be afraid to exploit them. 

A shiver ran down his spine and he curled his biomechanical hands into tight fists to get a hold of himself.

He trembled.

His entire body, biomechanically enhanced or not, shook at the thought of the Steel Heights. He stopped and took a deep breath.

Around him, the Undercity life continued. Pipes dripped. Inside the buildings couples argued, furniture broke and children cried. Someone, somewhere smashed a screen and a dog barked in the distance. The machine herald took it all in as he attempted to put his mind as far away from the Steel Heights as possible.

And then he heard it. Softly, underneath all that noise, there was the running of water. Here, in this lifeless urban hell, in this metropolis that devoured everyone and everything, there was the smallest sign of life.

The machine herald sharpened his ears to locate the sound and then his feet started moving on their own, following the sound of the water.

A tightness built in his chest as the river came closer and the sounds of people faded. The warm sensation the Zaunite had caused, slowly disappeared.

The machine herald walked on and soon, the broken cobblestones gave way to something that had once been a green and grassy river bank. Now it was a toxic wasteland. No grass or tree would ever grow here and the contaminated river rushing past would never be home to any fish. 

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. A reminder of a life long gone, of something or someone else that had been here.

He knelt at the river bank, water almost touching his knees. The machine herald let the shadows of his hand glide across the waves, wiggling his fingers in a silly little dance. He giggled to himself when a slight noise caused him to freeze.

Bravely fighting the waves, a little steamboat made its way along the river. It was soaked, beaten down as though it had been travelling for a while.

There was a knot in his throat, a tightness that made it hard to breathe. Something burned behind his eyes as the Zaunite upheaved the pile of discarded and broken memories. 

The machine herald let his mask retreat back into his biomechanical skin, hood still pulled deep into his face. He reached a hand up to examine the wetness that coated his cheeks as he watched the boat chugging along the river.

The machine herald, down on his knees at this barren and lonely river bank, was crying. 

Chapter Text

Caitlyn Kiramman was a young and promising enforcer of Bastion U. Working with known names like Symeon Noctis and Quillon Drask, she learned from the best. With just a bit of time, Caitlyn could soar the ranks and be the head of the Bastion.

But, just like the ones she learned from, she was unconventional and had her own morality. That was the thing about being one of the best in Varangantua — you had to play by your own rules. 

Kiramman had left her heart in the Lanes. A raid gone wrong had sent her straight into the arms of a pink-haired woman who called her cupcake. (Though there was nothing straight about the two of them.) That had been a few years ago and Cait and Vi had been partners in crime and crime fighting ever since. No one in the Bastion knew, with the exception of Noctis and Drask. While Drask had sworn off love, Noctis had his own taboo relationship.

During an investigation, he had fallen for one of the investigators for the Adeptus Mechanicus, Rho-1-Lux. Lux had been hesitant at first but now they were inseparable, although their relationship had to be kept a secret. Love was a weakness in the eyes of the Techpriests.

Cait had never seen them together — the Adepts of the Steel Heights rarely left their high castle. She was a professional at controlling her emotions — that came with the job. And it was the only reason she brushed right past Noctis and Lux kissing each other in the dark hall that led to Cait’s office. 

She had just started to fill out some paperworks relating to her last case (a drug-related hit and run) when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in”, she called, chewing on her pen cap as she scribbled down her signature. Noctis and Lux entered her office.

“Probator Kiramman, I can explain”, Symeon Noctis said hastily, almost choking on his own words. 

“No need, Noctis”, Cait answered without looking up from her paperwork. “Keep my secrets and I’ll keep yours.” 

The shadow of a smile fell over Noctis’ face. “Thank you”, he spoke quietly before he turned on his heels and left Cait’s office, leaving her alone with Rho-1-Lux. 

“What secrets does Symeon keep for you?”, the Adept asked softly, her eyes fixed on the door through which her lover had just left. 

“If I told you, it would not be a secret anymore now, would it?”, Cait responded, clicking her pen and laying it on her desk. “Now, what can I do for you, Lux?” Cait leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hands. 

Rho-1-Lux took a deep, fortifying breath and Cait tried not to let her curiosity show. The Adeptus Mechanicus usually dealt with their own issues. 

“This case requires absolute and full discretion. There’s only a select few Probators you can work with on this”, Lux said gravely and in moments like this — staring into cold, dead eyes — Cait wondered how much humanity was left under all that machinery. 

“Like whom?”, Cait challenged,

“Drask and Noctis. No one else.” Lux spoke her lover’s name without any emotion, pretending as though Cait had not just caught them making out like two teenagers. Cait nodded and Lux seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. 

“The Adeptus was ... sabotaged ”, Lux started, choking on the last word. “All machinery had been shut off — a truly impressive crime, I must say, even if it is techheresy and punishable by death.” She made a pause — if for dramatic effect or if she wanted Cait to comment on the crime committed was unclear.

"This has also affected our cell blocks. All security personnel, of course, was rushing to set everything — "

"Cut to the chase, Lux, I don't have all day", Cait interrupted. That was a lie. She practically did have all day but she could not care any less about the inner workings of the Steel Heights. She was only interested in why exactly the Steel Heights sought out the help of the enforcers. 

"Fine", Lux huffed and Cait resisted the urge to grin at this small display of human emotion. "Some of our unfinished servitors escaped. We need you to find them and kill them. Without making a scene, of course”, Lux instructed.

“Of course”, Cait chuckled, unable to resist rolling her eyes. Lux stepped closer to the desk, leaning towards Cait as she steadied herself with her hands.

“There is one that escaped”, she said gravely, “that is not a servitor. He is unfinished but he is the Omnissiah’s finest creation. The techpriests are in the process of ensuring his full and undivided worship. Unfinished as he is though, he is uncontrolled and dangerous.” Again she paused, waiting for Cait’s reaction. There was none. 

“He is your number one priority. You can subdue him anyway you need but the Adeptus Mechanicus needs his heart to be beating.”

“What a weird way to say you want him alive”, Cait mused with unmasked distaste for the task she had been set.

“Not alive, no.” Lux shook her head. “He is machine, not human. His heart beats and his blood flows but he does not feel — he cannot. He is not alive.” The unspoken not anymore hung heavy in the air between them. A cold shiver ran down Cait’s back.

Chapter Text

The machine herald had become one with the lanes. He hid in the shadows, followed the lead of the Undercity Rat’s voice at the back of his mind. They had grown somewhat fond of each other – after all, they were all they had on this wretched planet they had to call a home. 

The machine herald had not exchanged a single word with another beating heart since he had been created. Somewhere deep, deep down he remembered screaming, he remembered pleading and begging for mercy, only to fall on deaf ears. 

The voice inside him was the only thing he had. 

No one had dared to bother him, no one had even spared him a glance. Too focused on their own survival, their own safety – or what one could call safety down here – they could not be bothered by the strange figure looming in the shadows as long as he did not make any sudden moves. The machine herald held himself back but he was watching. Always watching. 

There was no colour, except the always present toxic green hue that wavered over from the Adeptus Mechanicus in the alley that the machine herald had chosen as his shelter. There was no colour, no movement, no noise beside the hissing of pipes and the steady drip of coolant. 

A swift movement and a flash of blue – Blue? Jinx! – sent him to full attention. His machinery silently whirred to live, all circuits in action – on guard. His eyesight sharpened, his pulse slowed, his breath evened out and his biomechanical muscles flexed ever so slightly. 

It was more of a feeling than anything else. The feeling that someone was there. He could be convinced he had imagined the flash of blue were it not for that damned feeling of being watched. 

The voice he shared his mind with knew this sensation all too well – it was one of the reasons why he had made it until the machine herald took over. Together, they were even more alert, more sensitive to the presence of other beings in their vicinity. Being locked up alone for so long had its effects. 

The machine herald was still, almost lazily leaning against a wall as he pretended to not have noticed anything. He listened to the silence, to the drip of the pipes, the bustle of the streets far away, the hissing of steam and somewhere, underneath, a heartbeat and a breath, let out as quietly as possible. 

Had it not been for the modifications the Adeptus had forced upon him, the machine herald would not have noticed. He was almost impressed with whoever tried to remain hidden. Still feigning ignorance, the machine herald leaned a foot against the wall behind him, ready to bolt if needed. 

For a while nothing happened. Both waited for the other to make the first move. The machine herald was patient. He felt neither hunger nor thirst nor the bone deep exhaustion the Zaunite had been prone to. He could wait – and so he did. 

There was a faint creaking of pipes as the one watching him rocked back and forth from where they were perched on the drainage. 

The machine herald had half a mind to challenge them, tell them to jump down and face him. Like a real Lane Rat , the Ghost of the Undercity whispered inside of him. 

Something akin to a laugh wanted to worm its way out of his throat but he remained silent and unmoving. 

He had just begun to count the minutes when he heard a huff from the drain pipes. The metal screeched and footsteps echoed – featherlight, belonging to a person much smaller than him. 

The machine herald straightened, signalling to whomever had tailed him that he’d fight. 

“This might be fun after all!”´, the unknown entity exclaimed. High-pitched and a bit hoarse – familiar. 

Something within him moved, hurt – like a heart that was breaking. It could not be his own. The machine herald did not have a heart. But that thing inside him did – and whatever remained there was a liability.

Stay dead and buried where you belong! , he roared in his head and any semblance of an established truce – fragile as it might have been – shattered into a million pieces. Inside his mind, the Ghost of the Undercity did what ghosts do – he faded away.

Chapter Text

Blue flashed in the corner of his glowing eyes, the smell of motor oil and gunpowder tickling his nose. Both familiar — for different reasons. The machine herald stood still, listening to the air flowing around him as someone — someone very small — moved quickly in the shadows. The machine herald could not help the quiet, dark chuckle that left him. A cat and mouse game? Oh, he was all for games — the Adeptus Mechanicus knew how to play the cruellest of games, playing with lives and souls, hearts and minds, trading organs for gears. Not too long ago, he had been the jackpot. 

Someone giggled and quietly, ever so quietly, the machine herald could hear the click of a gun. It was a sound he knew all too well. The ghost of a ghost stirred within him, a remnant of a different time when the machinery had been his to mould and not the thing that moulded him. 

Something moved above him and he sprung to action. His biomechanic hands grasped something warm and soft and he was tempted to let go. Let go so fast as if it burned him, as if it had seared the artificial muscles and nerves. As if the simple softness of the human skin beneath fingers that were not quite his own had poured water on his circuits. And yet, he persisted, he held on and faster than a human eye could follow, the herald had wrestled this soft and warm, fleshy thing against the wall. 

He towered over the blue shadow that had followed him, implants glowing with orange fire staring down at… her . 

She smiled at him. Open, teethy and big as though he was the most delightful thing she’d seen. He narrowed his enhanced eyes, pupils zooming in, scanning every inch. Canines exposed with her smile, she looked like a predator grinning at her prey. The herald bristled at that 

He was the predator. Created to be the perfect machine, the perfect crossover between flesh and steel. Created in the fires of the Adeptus Mechanicus to surpass the weakness of the flesh, erase the human condition from his mind. To surpass nature and become the pinnacle of evolution — to erase it entirely. To rule over what the universe had destined. 

The machine herald was the predator and he refused to be anyone's prey. Never again , a phantom inside him whispered and for once, he was inclined to agree. 

He tightened the grip he had on her throat, still not choking instead just holding her, and she gasped, grinning wider. Pink eyes — so painfully human, filled with emotions he no longer had — stared into his implants. Blue hair, separated into two neat braids, hung to the floor, her skin filled with the usual sickly pale of Zaun. 

The herald felt his artificial muscles tightening. The feeling of recognition itched under his skin, begging to be let to the surface but he refused. He’d killed one ghost, what was another? The herald forced it down, the sensation simmering beneath enhanced skin. Skin so thick that millions of cuts couldn’t scar it, that burns wouldn’t stick, acid wouldn’t bite through. Skin that was still sensitive in ways that his heart, still so awfully human, was nevermore. 

He coiled tight like a venomous serpent with teeth just as sharp and poison in his veins. Whatever she would do, grinning like nothing was more delightful, he was ready for it. If she was hired to take him back to the Adeptus, he’d annihilate her. There would be nothing left but the ammo cases that adorned her braid, the metal caps of her boots. He wouldn’t go back. He’d burn through his processors, rip off his skin, and twist and tear at his metal parts before he would ever step foot toward the Steel Heights again. 

So maybe, the herald had lied. He still felt something. Deep within him, a hate burning so bright, so aggressively that nothing would ever snuff it out. A hate so hungry it would never be satiated, not until he’d torn through all the techpriest, brought down the jaws of the Adeptus and spat directly into the Omnissiah’s face. 

Perhaps then, he could truly be without emotion. Perhaps as long as he had a heart, he could never truly surpass the weak remnants of his fading humanity. Perhaps he had gotten out before they could rip the last shred of someone he’d long buried from him 

His fingers twitched as the girl tilted her head to the side, curiosity written so clearly on her face. 

“ Damn ”, she laughed. “You look like scrap!”

It was the herald’s turn to tilt his head, this time with confusion. He wasn’t sure if his mask was able to convey facial expressions but nothing changed about the girl’s grin. 

“Get it?”, she asked, finger gunning at him. “You look like crap, but you’re made of metal — so scrap. Ha! You look like scrap!”

The herald released her.