Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He'd always wondered where Silco was after their previous meetings.

The first time that their paths had crossed, they had both been in a rough place. He was enamored by his revolutionary ideas, his strong demeanor despite betrayal and weakness. Despite his disheveled hair that soaked algae had crawled into, the blood that ran down his face, the stained and damaged eye that held so many visions of the future, and the harm he had been dealt, he was such an intricate specimen, capable of scarring those who hurt him. It would be wrong to not offer him assistance.

When they walked into his dimly lit lab, he learned quite a bit before the necessary sedation. First, he was responsible for the hefty majority of Zaun's movement, including the flag's design and team building. Second, he and his previous partner had organized the bridge riots and were guilty of domestic terrorism, by Piltovan standards. Third, his name was Silco, and he rarely surrendered without resistance. It took a larger dose to keep his rather lithe body asleep, even.

While he worked to remove the necrotic tissue and prioritize whatever was viable, he couldn't help but ponder his own life. He slightly glanced at his daughter, preserved so well she'd seem like an art piece. He sacrificed the lives of countless animals at the mere chance of her revival, but unlike himself, Silco was selfless, and did it for near strangers. He'd sacrificed his love, so he'd been told. His legacy was tarnished as the beast walked away to unveil the fragility behind his leadership. And yet, it was progress. Perhaps love and legacy were a worthwhile sacrifice in the name of progress.

Before Silco had awakened, his eye developed an almost inverse hue. The sclera had turned a grim shade of black, unsettling paired with his inability to close it, and his iris had shifted from its cerulean gray to a sharp, blazing orange. He paid no mind to the change, it was minor compared to other reactions he's seen, but he crafted a makeshift eye patch from spare bandages as a precaution.
Experimenting on humans was not common practice for him, but when did, he learned quite a bit about how other people acted around him. They often reacted adversely to their own bodily changes, and acted aggressive or demeaning towards him. It was unpleasant, but not unfamiliar. He preferred solitude, anyways.

Silco was uncharted territory. He was hesitant at the results, after all they were now a deformity reminiscent of betrayal, but he did not direct his frustrations towards him. Silco approached him with gratitude, a form of interaction he hadn't yet formulated a response for.
He felt the pressure of another body against him, a foreign but not unpleasant feeling. He'd never been one to seek out physical affection, but Silco seemed as if he needed it desperately, and he was not going to deny him the sense of safety and comfort. It was quite soothing to his own rampant mind, actually.

Soon enough, it became more familiar. Whilst Silco regained control over himself and the entirety of Zaun, he was retreating to the small bedroom that he bitterly called home. Most nights, they slept with tangled limbs under the scattered crystals that lit the area. It was often the only way he could sleep without thinking about his daughter sleeping eternally just a mere room away, and instead indulged in the security he was providing himself and Silco.
Then he grew more independent, and the previous arrangement was replaced with irregular meetings for Silco to acquire more Shimmer.

Now, he stood at the shore, watching the man float with the same peace he saw when they first collided. His hair was much shorter, and streaks of gray contrasted the usual black. If he wasn't already familiar with the expression of death, he might've been able to convince himself that Silco was just in a deep slumber. But when he hesitantly stepped into the water to pull him closer, the warmth of his once living body was absent. It sent chills through him, nearing the same temperature of the cold water and pricking at his sensitive fingertips.

He loosened the fabric around his jaw and exhaled, noticing the way his breath appeared frosty in the polluted air. The same chill stung his unacclimated, torn lips.
He envied the warmth that the two of them once carried, but he regularly envied as a result of grief.

He carried Silco's body into the rather pathetic cave he held his lab in, his weakened muscles aching and begging for relief. Unlike before, he didn't have the same help needed to support Silco. He wasn't fond of the physical reminder.
Once he'd gotten him on the table, he didn't bother with the restraints and instead went to his desk, scrambling for a specific chemical he'd been working on. Dead people couldn't resist much, only bound by the limits of their weight. They didn't have that same sense of autonomy and moral ground, and although he was hesitant with his decision, it didn't matter much anyways.

He'd been developing a formula for immortality, one that had taken inspiration from vampiric myths and utilized an altered cardiovascular system. Quite literally dead men walking. If it worked for Silco, then it had potential for Orianna. Though, nothing was guaranteed, and it was more ideal to use a non-living subject for the best results and little error from resistance. Books were scattered across his desk, along notes of previous attempts with animal organs, beakers and flasks of necessary starters, and a crafted blade from House Talis. He didn't think he'd go so low as to purchase from a shop in Piltover, but the blacksmith was involved in Hextech and was likely more sterile than any in Zaun.

He turned back at Silco's limp body, sighing at the dampened clothing and hair. Topside always had extravagant funerals, and yet he was put to rest in a body of water in whatever he'd died in. He'd taken note of the wounds; evidence of multiple bullets that had gone through his chest and damaged any vital organs they came in contact with. He wasn't sure how they'd heal if the serum actually worked, but perhaps it was just another experimental factor he could tweak or improve.

Turning back to his workspace, he looked at his notebook and the current developed formula. Much of it he'd have to use previous knowledge for, but two ingredients stuck out to him. Firstly, he'd have to use some shimmer, which he luckily had an abundance of. It would act as a temporary replacement for blood while the tissue revived, providing needed strength. Secondly, and in order to provide the tissue with viability, he'd have to acquire blood. It was to be expected, though, the current formula would require him to be fully dependent on blood or he'd suffer in misery yet never taste the relief of death. He usually opted to use whatever failed lab experiments as a source for blood, but whenever healthy, live blood was required, he happened to have a vascular system of his own.

He prepared the main part of the serum in a small vial, putting it aside before grabbing the knife beside him. It wasn't the best, and he'd much rather prefer his scalpel, but it recently broke after a furred beast went rogue and he was led to this alternative. The blade was engraved with a 'T' accompanied with a hammer symbol, and shined nicely in the crystalized lighting. It was quite nice compared to other, overly formal ones produced by Piltover.
He unwrapped the bandages surrounding his forearm, the raised scars and freshly healed wounds noticeable against his skin. Fixating on them was unnecessary when he'd just be creating new ones until he had no use for it.
He grasped the blade by its leather handle before drawing a line across a prominent vein, remaining patient as the blood beaded across the cut. Why so many people were scared of it was lost on him, he was rather unfazed himself.
He set the blade down and picked up the vial, watching the red drip and mingle with the rest of the chemicals. He sat patiently as the glass began to fill to the top while he held a piece of gauze in his other hand, finally soaking up the rest and setting the serum aside.

He rewrapped his arm and cleaned whatever mess was left before drawing a syringe filled with the newfound drug. The needle was sharp and lengthy, aimed to access whatever was still left of Silco's heart.
He cut through the barriers of clothing to uncover his bare, cold chest before finally uncapping the needle.

Chapter Text

He wasn't supposed to be awake.

The previous scene played on loop in his head, almost tauntingly.
He remembers Jinx kneeling in front of him, holding his face while tears ran down her own. She seemed so panicked, haunted by the voices of those she'd lost.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry"  she sobbed.
"Don't cry, you're perfect."
Reassurance was pointless at the time, but all he could do was hope it calmed her as everything went dark. As he succumbed to the dull pain of his wounds.
But everything was supposed to go dark. Why hadn't it?

He sat up, only to be met with pain as it shot up his torso and ached along his canines. Dull along his sharp spine, throbbing across bone, and exacerbated by the chill within his blood.
He took note of the torn fabric, what used to be his top clothing, on the floor as he walked to the mirror. Though it might be a contributing factor, that wasn't the reason for the cold. Making a mental note to grab more clothing on his way out was a decent idea, once he figured out what was happening and where he was.
The "mirror" in reality was a large tube, stained green from years of use and possessing a barely-alive creature within it, yet it sufficed. By now, he knew he was in a lab of some sort, and he was betting on Singed's. It was difficult to tell the pigment from the tint of the glass, but his skin seemed to contrast his dark hair more than usual, almost translucent against prominent veins. Pressing against the artery aside from it, he couldn't feel the rhythm of life that haunted him in his worst moments.

Maybe he was still dead, the wounds on his chest were very much present, barely covered by tight gauze and painted red; no doubt causing some internal bleeding. Perhaps he was just in purgatory to reflect upon his pathetic imprint on the world. How he took his dream and crumbled it beneath his boot.
He didn't want full tyranny, in the pursuit of independence he failed to acknowledge the rest of Zaun.
He went to inspect his mouth, pale and scarred lips unaffected and teeth still as imperfect as ever. But two were significantly sharper than the others, pointed downward and noticeable with his overbite. The fangs dripped with a clear, slightly sweet substance that glistened in the light, highlighting the threat he now was.
Janna, Singed had really outdone himself this time.

He slicked his hair back and looked around the cave, unable to locate the scientist and confront him. He didn't know what to do with himself, let alone how to live with it. Couldn't be left high and dry as a fucking vampire.
After a bit of searching, he found Singed sleeping against his daughter's—Orianna, if he remembers from the brief mentions—coffin, his expression barely readable but carrying the smallest bit of unfamiliar hope. The idea of hope at the moment tasted bitter on his tongue.

"Doctor,"
No response, just the slightest hint of movement. He seemed so peaceful, like he had little to no trouble in the world. His eyes were heavy-lidded, arms crossed as he leaned up against the walls of the casket.
"Corin." That name hadn't been uttered from his mouth in years, but it seemed to wake the scientist hastily.
The glare that followed— empty white in his eye with the furrow of his browline—was brutal and threatening, but it softened as recognition settled in.
"You're awake," Singed spoke, soft against the deep red gaiter. His slumber was still present on his face.
"Care to explain yourself?"

A bit afterwards, they were both sitting at the desk. His fingers itched to grab at his blade, to use it one last time and demand a reversal. To hold it at Singed's throat and threaten him. But reversing the effects was likely out of the question, and he didn't even have his blade on him.
Instead, he was forced to listen to Singed's explanation and storyline, practically just excuses he didn't want to hear.
What he gathered, with the little attention he was paying, was that Singed had taken him from the water and injected him with an experimental drug to mutate his body and function without producing his own blood. But he'd have to be reliant on other people's blood, otherwise he'd suffer indefinitely.
The last thing he wanted to do was tether his survival off of another individual.
If he had blood flowing through his body, it would be boiling.

He jolted from his seat and found a nearby syringe, full of whatever substance Singed had created this time, and held it to his neck. The point of the needle was mere centimeters from his trachea, it would be so easy to puncture. Watch the air leave the tiny wound as if it were deflating. Singed forced another shitty life upon him, perhaps it should be at the cost of his.
His eyes widened in response to the point at his throat, still remaining dangerously calm.
"No behavioral effects, then?"
He scoffed at the snarky comment. "How the hell are you going to fix this?" 
"I don't believe I can, it's intended to be permanent." He said, swiping the needle from Silco's hand with practiced ease. The smug bastard had always been dexterous, even under threat. He never seemed to buckle when put under stress.
Silco, however, did.

He was raw, oftentimes losing his temper at defeat. It made him feel weak that he couldn't remain stoic at all times, that he was capable of showing emotion. He'd always been jealous of Singed in that regard.
But as Singed carefully cleaned the gunshot wounds on his chest and abdomen—the ones caused by Jinx and her hallucinations—he simply let himself breathe.
"Don't cry, you're perfect"
How would she react if she got a second chance? Would she be upset at him for leaving? Would she change as a person?
His thoughts were interrupted by calloused fingers tracing along his side, almost admirably.
"I did miss what we had." Singed mumbled from beneath the fabric, putting the bottle of makeshift saline down and opting to rewrap the bandages instead.
"You know those times are over." He nearly hissed back, his voice still dripping with resentment.
"Do they have to be?" He asked, standing from his kneeling position and offering a  hand to Silco. He had bandages around his wrist, brown and red from dried blood. Had he been hurting himself?
All too quickly, he yanked his hand and stumbled backward, putting distance between them.
"You used me as your science experiment plaything, and you want to go back to that?" He nearly scoffed, actual venom dripping in his words.

Singed looked like he was trying to explain himself, but he turned his back before he could listen.
He did, however, spot something that caught his attention just before he left.
Tubes had been attached to something, someone, with thick fur and hanging from their arms and shoulderblades.
If he paid too much mind to it, he could almost imagine Vander in the silhouette.
"Blisters and bedrock."
He berated himself for the thought as he walked out.