Chapter Text
Viktor sighed, returning the apparatus to the workbench with a faint thud.
“It isn’t unworkable as such,” he said diplomatically, “but with the materials I have on hand, I can’t repair it… good as new.”
The woman sitting beside him, already overwrought, shrunk further into herself at the words. “So, is there… I mean, can you…?”
Her eyes probed at him, searching for assurances he couldn’t provide. Viktor, managing a deep breath, did his utmost to weigh his pity against his practicality.
“I can manage a… stopgap measure, you could say,” he said after a pause, “it won’t fix your daughter's lungs, but it should slow the wear and tear.”
The woman relaxed ever so slightly at that, but it clearly wasn’t what she had hoped to hear. “Anything you can do, I’ll…” her voice grew thick, fighting back tears. Viktor pressed back against the frustration he felt at the sound, the knowledge that with even a fraction of the resources he’d once had, he could’ve…
He shook his head briskly, turning his attention to the respirator once more. Removing the cover plate had revealed an obvious, infuriating culprit; a singular gear in the mechanism, crafted from an overly malleable material, had worn away until it provided no friction to its adjacent parts. The replacement parts he had on hand would alleviate the issue for a few weeks, a month or two at most, but then…
Again, he willed the thoughts from his mind, reaching for his smallest set of tweezers and setting himself to the relatively simple task of replacing the gear. The cover plate clicking back into position moments later, he handed the device back to the woman next to him, still struggling against her emotions.
“This is the best I can do for now,” he said, mournful, “find me if it malfunctions again. I am sorry.”
The woman managed a tired smile, gods bless her, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We’re all grateful to have you,” she said, “you’re a miracle.”
Viktor startled at the praise and quickly stopped the woman as she reached for her purse, finding himself in a brief argument about the cost of materials and the value of his scientific acumen before she finally acquiesced. When she left his workshop, it was with a faint smile, wet gratitude in her eyes.
Viktor sunk back into his chair, a sonorous sigh escaping his lips. This had been his bread and butter for years now; makeshift solutions to issues so pervasive they threatened to overwhelm him if he ever considered their full magnitude. Needless suffering, hunger, fear, and for what?
His thoughts turned, as ever, to Piltover. The city of progress, endless parity and equity. Where no one need go without food in their belly, or a roof over their head, or clothes on their back. Where the elite crooned about their conscientiousness as the multitudes in the city below starved and hurt and died. How a single piece of silverware, snatched from the kitchens of some Piltovan socialite, could’ve paid to rebuild that girl’s respirator from scratch. Given her a chance to reach thirty.
He was jerked from his thoughts as the door of his workshop was thrown open. Turning his chair towards the entrance, his eyes widened as a truly imposing presence entered his shop.
She stood statuesque, features carved from stone, short-cropped hair framing chiseled contours and a disinterested scowl. A poncho thrown over her shoulders did little to obfuscate the heft of her body, the muscle underneath.
The woman took a few steps into the workshop, floorboards creaking in protest, paying Viktor no particular mind, eyes scanning across the myriad shelves and tabletops cluttered with tools, schematics, and spare parts of varying degrees of usefulness.
“Can I help you?” Viktor managed after a moment’s hesitation.
The woman nodded, casually throwing the fabric of her poncho over one shoulder to reveal a prosthetic arm, a curious contraption of copper and brass, its workings intricate even at a glance. With no further ceremony, she seated herself on the footstool a distressed mother had occupied moments before, metal arm falling heavily against the worktop.
“Elbow joint’s sticking,” she huffed. Her sulfurous eyes pored over him, as if probing for weakness. Viktor paid it no mind, scooting his seat closer to hers and letting his gaze fall to the arm in his hands. It would’ve been easier to detach the prosthetic at this point, but he knew that wasn’t happening. He’d seen this type plenty of times before, where the need to intimidate was nearly instinctual, and the best deterrent was the masque of disinterest that Viktor usually found himself slipped inside anyway.
He held the upper and lower arm in his hands, slowly actuating the joint, noting a slight hitch near the eighty-degree angle.
“A minor issue,” he said, matter-of-fact, “we’ll lubricate the joint, look over the fastenings, and—”
“Got a job for you, actually.”
Viktor froze as the dots connected in his head. A vaguely remembered description clicked in place at the sight of the woman in front of him, like aligning the focus on a microscope.
“I’m quite content with my current arrangements, actually,” he murmured, letting the arm fall from his grasp and shuffling his chair backwards again.
“You haven’t even heard the offer,” she said with a tilt of her head.
“I know who you work for. I can guess.”
The woman exhaled sharply, her eyes wandering the shop again before settling on him. “Your heart’s in the right place, far as I can tell. You’re actually trying to help people.”
“I am helping people,” he asserted, meeting her gaze.
“Sure,” she shrugged, “but you know this is a drop in the bucket. You could be doing so much—”
“Forgive me, I’m losing my patience and have matters demanding my attention,” Viktor said with an air of finality, turning back towards his worktable. “Tell your employer I’m uninterested, I’m confident you know the way out.”
The woman paused a moment, scanning him from head to toe once more before rising from her seat with an indignant sigh.
“You’re lucky he told me to be gentle with you.”
“Close the door behind you,” Viktor said, unfazed. She crossed the room in brisk steps, following his instructions as the door slammed against its hinges.
Viktor rifled a hand through his unkempt hair, double-checking the position of the pistol taped to the bottom of the table. An ill omen shivered through him, a promise that whatever had started today was far from over.
_-_
The next few days passed as usual, enough for Viktor to cast the unpleasant encounter from memory. He could’ve been mistaken, after all; that woman could've been anyone, really. A bored drunkard, a shimmer addict, a…
Hope as he might, his worst fears would prove true.
He rolled his eyes at first, as the door threw open again and that same immense woman went to occupy the center space of his workshop.
“I thought I told you—” Viktor began, before his breath caught in his throat.
“You told her, yes,” a baritone voice rasped behind her, “I’d like you to tell me.”
He was a lithe presence, stalking into the workshop with the air of a predator, choking the air from the room with each step. His form came into view slowly, then all at once, dwarfed by the woman beside him but so much greater. The king of the Undercity was as the rumors said; sharp features, beaked nose, one eye icy blue and the other a fiery abyss, deep scars raking across one side of his face. His nimble form, dressed in finery that was rare in Piltover and utterly unthinkable in Zaun, gave him an otherworldly air as he stood towering, expression betraying nothing, mismatched eyes boring into Viktor, physically pressing him into his seat.
Viktor swallowed hard, eyes flitting between his two visitors. “The answer will be the same.”
The man seemed amused by this, the faintest quirk of his lips visible for a split-second. He took another few steps towards Viktor, leaning forward to match his height as he sat in his chair.
“Do you know who I am?” He asked in a husky voice.
Viktor met his gaze for a moment before letting it fall to the floor. “Obviously.”
The man, emboldened, took yet another step forward, within arm’s reach now.
“So, who am I?” he wondered, rising to his full height.
Viktor rolled his eyes, playing at indifference as he leaned an arm back against his workbench. “You’re… Silky? Solko?”
That got a rise out of him, eyes narrowing infinitesimally, one corner of his mouth tugging into a snarling grin. “That’s cute,” Silco purred.
“Adorable, I’ve been told,” Viktor shrugged, casually turning to place the pistol under the desk within reach, “so, are we done here? I have actual work to do, so…”
“Oh, but I’ve been longing to make your acquaintance, Man of Progress,” he crooned, and all at once Viktor’s trepidation gave way to anger.
“That’s not me”, he huffed, locking eyes with the Chem Baron.
“Too lofty a title for a sumprat,” he supposed venomously, “no, I must be thinking of your… partner, aren’t I? Piltover’s golden boy?”
Viktor’s pulse quickened as years’ worth of frustration and doubt and eventual heartbreak was thrown back in his face. “You’re mistaken, yes,” he bristled, “so go bother him.”
“Why did you leave?” Silco asked incisively, a harmless sequence of words that sent wires coiling around Viktor’s guts.
“Difference of opinion,” he replied in a clipped voice, attempting to appear unbothered and falling woefully short.
“Quite the difference,” Silco mused, unimpressed eyes falling across the decrepit interior, “to whisk you from the good graces of the university to… this.”
Viktor sneered. “As I told your… companion, I am quite content here.”
“Is Julia content?”
Again, something constrained in his chest. “How—?”
“That’s her name, isn’t it? The little girl with the breathing machine? One of the multitudes of wretches getting by on scraps around here, if—"
Before he knew what he was doing, Viktor grasped the cane perched against the worktable and hoisted himself to his feet, standing unsteady but staunch against the man in front of him. His height barely reached Silco’s chin, but some misplaced protectiveness bade him ignore this, let alone the mountain of a woman that could likely break him over her knee like firewood.
“I will not be intimidated,” Viktor hissed, “and if you think to threaten my customers—”
“I am threatening no one,” Silco shook his head faintly, “I’m offering to assist you.”
“Assist?” He repeated, incredulous.
“You want to help. That’s admirable, truly, but you lack the resources. You’re reaching a fraction of the people you could, and we both know you have designs beyond fixing old ladies’ toasters or whatever else you do.”
Silco’s tone brokered no argument, Viktor wincing at what he knew to be true. Finally, he relented. “So, what are you offering?”
“An upgrade,” he said simply, “bigger facilities, access to higher-grade tools and parts. Assistants, if you’d like; I have one in mind that would be interested to pick your brain. Time and money to pursue your bigger projects.”
“And in return?”
Silco made a wry face. “I scratch your back…” he trailed off. “I have a recurring need for weapons maintenance, mechanical repairs, basic things.”
“And,” he added innocently, “I have an interest in HexTech.”
Viktor’s already high-strung nerves reached a fever pitch. “No,” he spat.
This, too, seemed to amuse Silco. “Such loyalty,” he jeered, “to the people who used you up and spit you out.”
“I’m loyal to Zaun,” Viktor asserted, shifting his weight further onto his cane, “and I won’t doom it by delivering HexTech to the likes of you.”
“You wound me,” Silco replied, his tone conveying nothing but toxic amusement, “but no matter. You’ll come around, I don’t doubt. In the meantime, I have other projects to occupy your attention.”
“I’m not helping you,” he snarled, “and this conversation is over.”
“I’m being polite, boy,” the Chem Baron said, the smirk on his face quickly stealing away, “this is an offer that—“
“That I’ve declined three times by my count,” Viktor noted, shaking his head with a grimace, “no one likes a man who can’t handle rejection.”
“I urge you to reconsider,” Silco warned, his voice steely.
“And I urge you,” Viktor said through clenched teeth, “to go fuck yourself.”
They stood for a moment, Viktor’s pulse pounding in his ears, Silco unreadable, the woman behind him as still as she had been since she first entered. He knew this was stupid, borderline suicide, but couldn’t bring himself to care. The thought of another preening man deciding his future for him had struck a foul, all-too-familiar chord.
Finally, Silco sighed, his expression approaching disappointment. “Remember that this conversation began cordially.”
Viktor was about to offer an indignant retort before a swift kick to his cane sent him sprawling to the floor.
His leg screamed in protest as its brace rattled against the floorboards, only barely shielding his face with his forearms. He worked to scramble to his feet, his spine shooting jolts of pain across his torso, only for a knee pressed between his shoulder blades to force him back down, flattening him fully against the rough wood. A hand reached across his scalp, grabbing a fistful of hair and jerking his head upwards.
“I’m afraid you’ve called my bluff,” Silco seethed, his body mostly hidden from Viktor’s view yet keenly felt, “this isn’t a negotiation, or an offer. The decision’s been made.”
Viktor reached desperately towards the back of his head, futilely clawing at Silco’s hand, resistance so vain his assailant barely took notice. “As it stands,” he continued, “you have two options. One, you get to your feet and accompany Sevika and I to your new workshop.”
“Option two,” he said, adjusting his knee just enough to where he could wrench Viktor’s body further off the floor and crouch down to breathe the words directly into his ear, “I beat you until you can’t move and have Sevika drag you there.”
Silco’s voice crackled like embers, scorching against the shell of his ear, his gravelly voice casting barbed tendrils throughout his system. “You cannot run from me. You cannot hide from me. You certainly can’t fight me. You’re mine.”
Viktor had continued his struggle despite himself, nails digging into the rough skin of Silco’s hand, sputtering curses and pleas to get off. Finally, at those last words, he surrendered, arms falling limply at his sides, tearful frustration surging in his eyes.
“So, what will it be?” Silco asked casually, releasing his grip and sending Viktor’s body back against the floorboards.
_-_
The walk to the workshop passed in silence, the few passersby scrambling the other way at the sight of Viktor’s companions. They proved amicable enough to match Viktor’s languid pace, his already unsteady gait slowed by Silco’s ministrations.
In his mind, Viktor still searched feverishly for an escape, taking stock of his options, remembering the hidden knife he had installed in his cane some time ago. Ultimately, of course, he knew Silco had been right; his fate had been sealed the moment the Chem Baron first took an interest in his work. The humiliation of that, Viktor realized, hurt worse than the anxiety, or the fresh bruises that he knew would dot his body come morning.
“Here we are,” Silco said eventually, indicating what looked to be a small warehouse at the end of a winding street, thoroughly unremarkable except for the conspicuously hefty lock that secured the door and the metal grates that barred the windows. Whether these measures were to keep burglars out or Viktor in, he couldn’t say.
The door opened with a series of tactile clicks and Silco continued inside. Viktor hesitated briefly before a pointed nod from Sevika urged him inside, the woman’s hulking form following closely behind.
The lights flickered lazily for a few moments before the room came fully into view. It was sparse; one corner of the room was occupied by a worktable not unlike Viktor’s own, an array of tools lining the adjacent walls. Next to that stood a sturdy filing cabinet, an amenity that he had to admit was sorely missing from his current workspace, and a small row of shelves that appeared to house a variety of spare parts. That aside, the room was still mostly empty.
“It’s… roomy,” Viktor supposed, voice echoing significantly as if to prove the point.
“I’ll arrange to have your things brought here,” Silco said, and the reality of the situation washed over Viktor again. That he was here to stay. “There’s a small living quarters through that door,” he continued, indicating the far wall, “basic, but it should suit your needs.”
Viktor swallowed hard, giving voice to the burning question at the back of his mind. “Am I your captive?”
Silco turned to face him, quirking an eyebrow, a vaguely patronizing look of disappointment settling on his features. “Hardly. You’re welcome to continue staying at your old apartment, use your old workshop even. This,” he said with a toss of his hand, “is me accommodating you. A show of good faith.”
Viktor sneered. “Good faith,” he spat. “You threaten me, abuse me, and now we’re… best friends?”
Silco’s features hardened as he closed the distance between the two, leaving less than a foot between them. Viktor urged himself to meet his gaze, staring defiantly up at the icy blue and fiery red of his eyes. A moment passed like that, and just as Viktor was resigning himself to another show of force, Silco’s lips curled into a wolfish grin.
“We both know where we stand,” he said simply, “there’s no reason we can’t be civil. And I do expect great things from you,” he added with surprising sincerity.
Viktor scoffed and went to turn as a hand seized on his collar, wrenching him back around and bringing him inches from Silco’s face.
“But I will say this once,” the Chem Baron’s rumbling voice laced with venom, “I enjoy you, boy. But do tread carefully. Understand?”
Viktor’s mind raced with the iron grip holding him in place, the smell of tobacco, fire-frigid gaze that rooted him to the spot, this overwhelming proximity that made him feel like… prey. It was all he could do to manage a mute nod.
“Words,” Silco’s voice rumbled low in his throat, dangerous.
“I u-understand,” Viktor mumbled in a voice he barely recognized as his own.
_-_