heraldofzaun

[heraldofzaun]

//retcon again? no problem

#out of augments #//not alive btw. very busy. i do think this is hysterical though. #//idk man it's officially free game to do whatever you want forever in league lore! have fun with it! don't be sad

[heraldofzaun]

There are no stars in Zaun. They’re smothered by the mind-churning Grey, swallowed up by pride and hubris. Here, in Piltover, they can be seen. They haven’t been drowned out by their artificial counterparts.

“I am,” Viktor replies, eyes cast towards the sky. “It is beautiful.”

Everything has always come to an end. He hopes that it will not always be the case, that stars and lives can shine forever in a better future. But... for now, there is this moment. There is a fading aurora still in Piltover. There are stars still in the sky. Trisha lives on in her city’s streets and memories.

For once, the present may be enough.

heraldofzaun​:

“I am,” Viktor murmurs in reply, reaching towards her. “I am here, with you, and…”

And he hopes it’s enough. He hopes that he can somehow staunch the bleeding of this loss. He hopes that she will never have to feel as alone as he has.

He doesn’t blame her. The future comes before them all, and she’d needed to save Piltover’s. He can’t blame her for doing as he has done. But he’s wished that… things had been different. It’s a selfish thought. They both know that one life can’t ever be worth a nation’s, a world’s.

He embraces her regardless.

He’s soft, under his armor, in a way that very few know. Still human. (Still weak.) He’s warm, too, and beneath his cloak the autumn night is mild.

He’s here. It is enough.

She cries again, for a little while. It’s a selfish thing, maybe, but between grief and gratitude she finds she has too many feelings and they are all fighting for control. But she’s safe, here, in this night-time seclusion. She’s safe with him, to express herself, and to cry, and to find comfort.

Caitlyn has seen the impossible many times in her life. She has stood with gods and kings, she has spoken with death and felt herself shuttled between life by forces of magic greater than most will experience. She has known crooks and stars and Powers and demons and been present - and involved - when the world twists itself into a new narrative. She has been strong her entire life, bearing up under things greater than any mortal should.

Is it any wonder, then, that she should feel weak for crying? It is why she has never done it. She doesn’t have - shouldn’t have - such a luxury. She’s the Sheriff of Piltover.

She’s only human.

It’s easier to stop crying, this time, because the burden is not as heavy, and because he is here. He is here, he is here, he is here. And maybe it’s selfish, but she is only human.

This time is precious. Time is so fleeting. It comes to an end all too soon.

She sighs, and wipes her face with her handkerchief, then looks up at the sky. The star-rods of Piltover are still blazing, but there are some stars to see.

“Look,” she murmurs. Her head stays on his shoulder, her hand stays in his. They can watch the stars. Moments like these matter.

#sheriffcaitlyn #classic | the herald #caitlyn | the peacemaker

[heraldofzaun]

“I am,” Viktor murmurs in reply, reaching towards her. “I am here, with you, and...”

And he hopes it’s enough. He hopes that he can somehow staunch the bleeding of this loss. He hopes that she will never have to feel as alone as he has.

He doesn’t blame her. The future comes before them all, and she’d needed to save Piltover’s. He can’t blame her for doing as he has done. But he’s wished that... things had been different. It’s a selfish thought. They both know that one life can’t ever be worth a nation’s, a world’s.

He embraces her regardless.

He’s soft, under his armor, in a way that very few know. Still human. (Still weak.) He’s warm, too, and beneath his cloak the autumn night is mild.

He’s here. It is enough.

heraldofzaun​:

I hope you have the chance to become close.

What can Viktor say to that? That he hopes so too? Isn’t such a thing too much of an admission, even more than… all of this? To hope is to be uncertain. To hope is to…

He rests his free hand on his knee. “He has made it clear that he will be spending time at my laboratory. I am sure there will be time to talk. Perhaps even about you.”

Is this how one comforts? Being comforted in turn? Or is this just how the two of them interact, out of step with the world of blue-blazing star-rods below? He supposes it doesn’t matter. Especially not now.

“It…” he trails off, tries again. “It is good that you are not alone. That you have your father and the Enforcer and… that you are not alone for this.”

If there are eyes on them, in the dark, at this point, then perhaps it will be noted that Viktor is no longer holding his staff, that there is even less threat now of him sweeping lasers across the city. But Caitlyn is not thinking about what other people may be thinking now. For now, her thoughts are confined in the air between them: the bench, the tree, the night sky, and Viktor. The future can punish her for her selfishness, if it chooses; she will read her sins in the tragedies that unfold, and find herself deserving. But for now… she holds his hand.

“That is good,” she murmurs. “I am glad the two of you have this chance.” 

Because sometimes chances are fleeting. Because sometimes things go wrong. Because she can never apologise enough.

She hears, in his gentle words, the pain that he has never quite left behind. The solitude of a whole world turned against him. Here she was, sitting at the head of a nation-wide funeral as the Sheriff of Piltover, and he… he had to be carried across the border, and he had to sit with her or risk being thrown aside again. And all this to say nothing of what he has known.

Gods.

If only she had known he needed her, when he did. But she had been hardening her heart and becoming sheriff, losing her truest friend and turning all of Piltover against him as a result (her sins and the tragedies that came from them). 

“And you,” she says, quietly, on the verge of tears again. She leans against his shoulder, pulling his cloak around her a little more, holding the familiar fabric between her fingers. “You are here.” A statement which rocks her world, which brings fresh tears to her eyes. He is with her, right now, and they are not alone.

#sheriffcaitlyn #classic | the herald #caitlyn | the peacemaker

[heraldofzaun]

I hope you have the chance to become close.

What can Viktor say to that? That he hopes so too? Isn’t such a thing too much of an admission, even more than... all of this? To hope is to be uncertain. To hope is to...

He rests his free hand on his knee. “He has made it clear that he will be spending time at my laboratory. I am sure there will be time to talk. Perhaps even about you.”

Is this how one comforts? Being comforted in turn? Or is this just how the two of them interact, out of step with the world of blue-blazing star-rods below? He supposes it doesn’t matter. Especially not now.

“It...” he trails off, tries again. “It is good that you are not alone. That you have your father and the Enforcer and... that you are not alone for this.”

heraldofzaun​:

But Viktor does worry. Zaun is a fickle city. He knows this better than most. And Blitzcrank, while beloved, could be one step from…

He shakes his head. “I am sure that he would be glad to know that. That you like him.”

A pause. A thought. A breath. “I do not think you should apologize, either. You have good intentions. I am just…”

Viktor waves his free hand, as if that could explain it all. Maybe it can, to her. He wants to explain that she meant well, and that perhaps it had been his own stubbornness - his own buried fear (own buried failure) - that had stopped him from seeking Blitzcrank out. He sighs instead.

“He is a good person. Better than most.”

“Perhaps I should tell him.” She hums, and rubs her thumb along the edge of his hand. Just enough pressure to be felt through his glove, just enough closeness that won’t burn either of them. “Or maybe you should. In case you need something more to talk about.” Her hum, this time, is closer to a chuckle. “I do not think I would mind being the subject of conversation.” The chuckle doesn’t last long, but it helps to keep the grief at bay.

And there is grief of a different sort as he tells her not to apologise, a pang that twists inside of her. You are worth so much more than you allow yourself to believe, she wants to say. But it will be misconstrued. She does not even know how to say how much she values him, without it being an indictment of where he will go in the passage of time, the projected arc she can see in her mind’s eye as clear as the circling of a falcon.

So she just squeezes his hand as he sighs, and holds the pressure in a way that could be a hug.

“Your good heart mirrored in his,” she murmurs. “I hope you have the chance to become close.”

#sheriffcaitlyn #classic | the herald #caitlyn | the peacemaker

[heraldofzaun]

But Viktor does worry. Zaun is a fickle city. He knows this better than most. And Blitzcrank, while beloved, could be one step from...

He shakes his head. “I am sure that he would be glad to know that. That you like him.”

A pause. A thought. A breath. “I do not think you should apologize, either. You have good intentions. I am just...”

Viktor waves his free hand, as if that could explain it all. Maybe it can, to her. He wants to explain that she meant well, and that perhaps it had been his own stubbornness - his own buried fear (own buried failure) - that had stopped him from seeking Blitzcrank out. He sighs instead.

“He is a good person. Better than most.”

heraldofzaun​:

“It has been… recent,” Viktor murmurs, free hand curling in on itself. “And… your doing?”

Blitzcrank had said that Caitlyn had given him the address. The thought disquiets him - that she would give out information to another, even if it had ended… well. But this is not the time to discuss that concern.

“It is strange. He and I do not fully… understand each other. But he is- it is good to know him as a person, rather than my project. He has changed much.”

Viktor pauses. “It is good that he… has Piltover, if Zaun ever loses its fascination. Thank you for that.”

She breathes a quiet laugh, inclining her head. The gesture is apologetic. “Yes. My doing.” She looks at him, her eyes picking up a bit of light as she remembers the circumstances, though her head still cants to one side. “I know I should have sought your permission, first. Such a thing was an invasion of your privacy, and I did not have the time to properly assess…” She huffs a small breath through her nose. No excuses, Caitlyn. Put aside your pride and accept this. “Viktor? I am sorry. I do things with the best intentions, but even so…” She squeezes his hand. “You do not have to forgive me. I am sorry.”

Apologising twice in one breath, when she seldom says or means the words. Viktor has always been special, in more ways than one. For him, she would apologise until the stars fell into the sea.

Caitlyn is quiet, then, and listens as he speaks about Blitzcrank, and smiles at the ‘know him as a person’. That is what she had hoped for, given the construct’s request, and for the sake of Viktor’s own life. He needed company. He needed friends. He needed to see the good his creation was doing.

And speaking of… “Oh, the citizenship was not my idea,” she says, quietly, smiling. “It was his. He seems to have a knack for politely causing political uproar.” She hums a chuckle. “I like him.”

Mother liked him, too.

“I don’t think you need to worry about him being a flash in the pan, Viktor. He’s quite beloved on the west end of Zaun.”

#sheriffcaitlyn #classic | the herald #caitlyn | the peacemaker

[heraldofzaun]

//I am alive, but I am also in graduate school... I’d love to write more, but to be frank...

I’m, as mentioned, in graduate school and also work in association with that.

I’m staunchly 2011 Viktor, which is now two Viktors behind the current one. (Let’s not kid - even if 2016 is still the most recent non-Arcane lore, everyone assumes Arcane is canon or will be, and Prototype Viktor being classified in the “Otherroads” skin category, alongside things like Tyrant Swain and Redeemed Riven, does not inspire confidence.) Interest is low.

I’ve unfortunately had some unpleasant experiences on Tumblr, which make me not very inclined to reach out to new individuals that I haven’t seen around or know as a friend of a friend.

I’m not closing up shop, of course, but it’s hard to do blog housekeeping or do updates when you’re trying to get everything offline in order... If there’s worldbuilding questions people have, I’d love to answer, if there’s RPs people would want to have, it’s worth a shot to reach out. I’m just, ah, tired. The last year has been quite intense both from a League and a real-life perspective.

#out of augments

[heraldofzaun]

“It has been... recent,” Viktor murmurs, free hand curling in on itself. “And... your doing?”

Blitzcrank had said that Caitlyn had given him the address. The thought disquiets him - that she would give out information to another, even if it had ended... well. But this is not the time to discuss that concern.

“It is strange. He and I do not fully... understand each other. But he is- it is good to know him as a person, rather than my project. He has changed much.”

Viktor pauses. “It is good that he... has Piltover, if Zaun ever loses its fascination. Thank you for that.”

heraldofzaun​:

Blitzcrank won’t be coming back. Viktor does not know this for certain, but the construct had gone to pay his respects and Viktor had said his goodbyes. Why would he return?

“I do not think he will come back,” Viktor murmurs. His hand squeezes hers. “I think… he will stay with the others.”

He falls silent again, mulling over her words. Talking. Caitlyn wants to talk about Trisha, about the dead, about her grief. He’s heard that it helps. He doesn’t know whether to believe it. If he were to talk about… he doesn’t consider it.

“You could. If you want to. Only if…”

“Oh, but… the Hall will close after my m– after the coffin is set down, so he may well…” He might socialise. He might linger in Piltover. Blitzcrank has every right to, as a citizen. But would he really leave Viktor just… waiting? Would he not want to go back to Zaun with Viktor together? Perhaps she has misunderstood the situation. Her mind is, after all, not… not clear. 

She returns the squeeze. She tries to find the words. “We will wait and see.” She will stay right here with him, as early evening pushes into proper night. “He should come back after the funeral tour is…” 

It’s over. It’s over now, isn’t it? All that is left is to put Trisha’s coffin in the hall, and then in the morning they will put her in the waters and inter her bones.

Caitlyn’s throat locks up for a moment. She holds Viktor’s hand. She breathes until she can speak.

“… I am glad you came together. How… how has it been? To know him again?”

Maybe she can’t talk about her mother just yet.

#sheriffcaitlyn #classic | the herald #caitlyn | the peacemaker

[heraldofzaun]

Blitzcrank won’t be coming back. Viktor does not know this for certain, but the construct had gone to pay his respects and Viktor had said his goodbyes. Why would he return?

“I do not think he will come back,” Viktor murmurs. His hand squeezes hers. “I think... he will stay with the others.”

He falls silent again, mulling over her words. Talking. Caitlyn wants to talk about Trisha, about the dead, about her grief. He’s heard that it helps. He doesn’t know whether to believe it. If he were to talk about... he doesn’t consider it.

“You could. If you want to. Only if...”

heraldofzaun​:

Viktor looks down at her hand, the amber glow of his mask’s lenses spilling across the park bench. He hesitates - there could still be eyes on them, still be people watching and waiting for their downfall - but places his hand in hers regardless.

“It is not,” he murmurs. “Not too much.”

Not if it helps her. Not at all, then.

It’s so quiet here. As if the world itself has stopped to mourn Trisha’s death - in a way, it has. A small part of it is at a standstill right now, paying respects.

“…Is there anything that you want to-” he cuts himself off, shaking his head slightly. “I… do not know what to do.”

It’s a rare admittance from him, from a man so convinced that he knows what to do with not only himself but all of humankind.

It would take very keen eyes over quite a distance at just the right angle to see the hands of the Sheriff and the Herald so closely entwined. It could just be that they are resting their hands on the same space between them. Caitlyn cannot bring herself to think that she does not care if she is seen making such a gesture. She does care, she has to care, she is more title than person sometimes. But today she is a person, a daughter in mourning. She will earn her forgiveness another day, if she needs to. 

She laces her fingers between Viktor’s, and squeezes. 

“I do not know either,” she says, quietly. “We could just… sit. And wait for Blitzcrank.” In silence, together, just herself and Viktor. Nothing new about that, perhaps, though out here? Under the open sky, the wind blowing and the city glowing? New, novel, different, changed.

Is waiting enough? Mother wouldn’t have pressed her presence into the discussion without a reason. She wanted this.

Caitlyn inhales, exhales, slowly. “Maybe… talk? I could talk… about her.” That is how grief is processed, isn’t it? Through words?

#sheriffcaitlyn #classic | the herald #caitlyn | the peacemaker

[heraldofzaun]

Viktor looks down at her hand, the amber glow of his mask’s lenses spilling across the park bench. He hesitates - there could still be eyes on them, still be people watching and waiting for their downfall - but places his hand in hers regardless.

“It is not,” he murmurs. “Not too much.”

Not if it helps her. Not at all, then.

It’s so quiet here. As if the world itself has stopped to mourn Trisha’s death - in a way, it has. A small part of it is at a standstill right now, paying respects.

“...Is there anything that you want to-” he cuts himself off, shaking his head slightly. “I... do not know what to do.”

It’s a rare admittance from him, from a man so convinced that he knows what to do with not only himself but all of humankind.

heraldofzaun​:

She is quite possibly the only person in Piltover to think that. But Viktor leans against her side regardless, arm half-resting across her back, and stares out at the road stretching into the city. The lights flicker and twinkle, and he finds himself reminded of a flowing stream. One of stars.

“I… it is good that I can be here,” he murmurs.

It’s beginning to get colder. Fall is approaching, and with it does cooler nights. He looks over to her in her shirtsleeves, picking up the edge of his cloak and draping it over her shoulders.

It’s far from enough. But it is something, and perhaps that is more important.

It’s something. It’s more than just something. It might even be enough.

“Very good,” she agrees, leaning into Viktor. It’s dark enough that it doesn’t matter. No-one can see that they are now sharing his cloak. “I’m going to have to hug Blitzcrank for that very fact.” She manages a small croaking chuckle, her throat still tense from crying, as she thinks about how the steam construct had barrelled across the border.

Blitzcrank had proven how fast he was, less than a tenday ago. Mother had whooped and cheered and made notes and told him to come back again anytime for more races. He said he would; he moved very fast, today. 

Caitlyn leans against Viktor. She’s tired. Tired from grief, from grieving, from the long day of being laced up and in control. She feels very small and very weak, but he’s here, and the relief is giving her strength.

“Can you hold my hand?” She asks, quietly. “Or is that… too much?” She turns her hand palm-up, laying between them. Look at her, offering physical signs of affection in multiple ways today.

#sheriffcaitlyn #classic | the herald #caitlyn | the peacemaker

[heraldofzaun]

She is quite possibly the only person in Piltover to think that. But Viktor leans against her side regardless, arm half-resting across her back, and stares out at the road stretching into the city. The lights flicker and twinkle, and he finds himself reminded of a flowing stream. One of stars.

“I... it is good that I can be here,” he murmurs.

It’s beginning to get colder. Fall is approaching, and with it does cooler nights. He looks over to her in her shirtsleeves, picking up the edge of his cloak and draping it over her shoulders.

It’s far from enough. But it is something, and perhaps that is more important.

heraldofzaun​:

She would rather cry privately, and yet he is here.

Viktor folds his hands on his lap. “I would not know. I-”

He hadn’t met Trisha. That… disquiets him, somehow. She had known his work, known it enough to use it for her husband’s arm, and had never known him. Now she never will. He never will.

“I am sorry,” he murmurs again. It isn’t the type of condolence usually given, the type that says ‘it’s horrible that this happened’.

It’s the type of sorry that comes from someone who feels responsible. And he is, isn’t he? Over a decade of work, and nothing to show for it but his arm, his legs. Symptoms of the disease. Death is still inevitable for them all.

He squeezes his eyes closed, trying to will away the thought. He is here, not in Zaun. He is here to comfort and to mourn.

He is part of her privacy, of her private life, in a way that few others are.

She hears the weight of his apology, of the burden he tries to take when he does not need to. She finds herself humming, softly, then turning the sound to a soft shush. He doesn’t have to do that. He doesn’t have to take the blame.

It’s dark out here. The train of mourners following the road carry lights - hexphones, candles, torches (of either glassbulb or fire) - to guide their way towards the illuminated City of Progress. Starlight, glimmering: as above so below. But here, on Baker’s Hill, the Sheriff and the Herald have the benefit of a cloak of darkness, just a few dim lights for themselves alone.

She leans against Viktor, just a little more. Her head resting on his shoulder. There is a part of her that is not quite exhausted from the tears, a part of her that still hasn’t quite processed all that has happened to her. To the sight of Trisha, collapsed at her work-desk, as though she were napping mid-idea. To the sound Aaron and Elliot made as they exited the elevator behind her, and saw the scene. Trisha wasn’t old, she had more life to live, surely; techmaturgy shouldn’t have burned her out this soon, should it?

Caitlyn feels her eyes stinging again. “I am so glad you are here,” she says, her voice weak, shaking.

#sheriffcaitlyn #classic | the herald #caitlyn | the peacemaker

[heraldofzaun]

She would rather cry privately, and yet he is here.

Viktor folds his hands on his lap. “I would not know. I-”

He hadn’t met Trisha. That... disquiets him, somehow. She had known his work, known it enough to use it for her husband’s arm, and had never known him. Now she never will. He never will.

“I am sorry,” he murmurs again. It isn’t the type of condolence usually given, the type that says ‘it’s horrible that this happened’.

It’s the type of sorry that comes from someone who feels responsible. And he is, isn’t he? Over a decade of work, and nothing to show for it but his arm, his legs. Symptoms of the disease. Death is still inevitable for them all.

He squeezes his eyes closed, trying to will away the thought. He is here, not in Zaun. He is here to comfort and to mourn.

heraldofzaun​:

“I am,” Viktor murmurs. “…As are you.”

He looks up to the stars, shining cold overhead. Unreachable. Untouched by human concerns over love and loss.

It must be nice, to be that distant. To be that constant.

“I am sorry,” he adds, dropping his gaze back to the ground. “I… you should not have to be here. Blitzcrank was the one who wished to attend. I thought that it would… cause… what it has. But he insisted.”

He runs a hand along the surface of his staff, feeling how the metal pieces interlock with one another. The Hex Core glows a faint blue in the night. Not at all like Piltover’s star-rods, its hextech, which burn against the darkness.

“As am I,” she echoes. And for a moment, they can just sit in silence, and watch the stars, and say nothing at all. 

She assesses her grief, and finds that in the aftermath of the sobbing and the howling she feels much better. Tired, yes, and she wipes her face and nose again with the handkerchief to clean herself up, but she needed that. 

“You have nothing to apologise for, Viktor,” she says, and it feels significant to say his name on Piltover’s soil. “I am glad you both came. I am glad that we are here now.” She pockets her handkerchief and pushes her hair from her face. “I could not have made it back to the city,” she adds in a murmur. “I needed to cry, but I do not…” She falters. She was with her family. But the eyes of Piltover were on her, on that cart. So what is the word she is looking for?

She closes her eyes, and takes a slow deep breath, and a slow shuddering exhale. “I would rather cry privately. Mother understands that.” Her throat constricts slightly. Viktor never met Trisha.

#sheriffcaitlyn #classic | the herald #caitlyn | the peacemaker

[heraldofzaun]

Reunion

There is a knock at Viktor’s door at exactly 9 in the evening. It is not the right day, or time, or even the right series of knocks; just one thud that rattles the doorframe. He acts calmly, he is calm, as he secures his mask and drapes his cloak and cowl across his shoulders.

This address is supposed to be a secret, albeit one kept by those around him. (Having one of Zaun’s resident madmen in your neighborhood is, after all, an excellent way to have the value of your property decreased.) But supposed to is not an assurance, not in Zaun, and so when he strides to the door he does it under the amber-orange glow of his third arm.

The front door’s hinges squeal against the heavy air. Viktor looks up into the smog – and into two searchlight-bright eyes.

“HELLO,” Blitzcrank begins, “CREATOR.”

Viktor attempts to close the door. Blitzcrank puts one gold-plated finger between it and the frame.

“I APOLOGIZE FOR NOT PURSUING THIS MEETING EARLIER. I DID NOT WANT TO CONTACT YOU AT YOUR PLACE OF WORK.” Blitzcrank’s voice quiets by an order of magnitude – an attempt at a whisper, Viktor thinks. “AND DOCUMENTATION OF YOUR RESIDENCE WAS DIFFICULT TO FIND.”

“That is the intention,” Viktor replies, hand gripping at the doorknob. “I am difficult to find. Leave.”

The construct’s massive shoulders sink, steam hissing from his joints. “I DO NOT WANT TO.”

Across the street, warm light spills from an open doorway. A small silhouette stands bathed in it, until a taller figure ushers them away. It is a cardinal rule of Zaun to mind one's own business, or at least to be sophisticated about one’s gawking if the subject is not public-domain fodder. The door shuts with a thud.

“How did you find the address?”

Blitzcrank’s shoulders perk up once again, even as his voice drops another decibel-count. A whisper, to attribute human actions. “SHERIFF CAITLYN HUXLEY OF PILTOVER.”

Viktor steps back. He can’t close the door. “Why?”

“I REQUESTED IT IN EXCHANGE FOR ASSISTING HER AND ENFORCER VI WITH THE CREATION OF A BLACK MARKET.”

“A black market?” A streetlamp buzzes bright, the bulb bursting as it burns out. It will be replaced next week, if someone makes mention. “I do not believe you.”

“IT IS FOR ZAUNITE HOMESTEADING. ENFORCER VI’S IDEA. THEY WILL BE SELLING ROOT VEGETABLES AND SEEDS.”

The street is dark. Blitzcrank stands, hands clasped, in front of a doorway too small for him. He is too noticeable, too loud, too painstakingly obvious in every imaginable way. Viktor’s knuckles are white on the doorknob, although unseen beneath his glove. The robot should know better than this. He should know, in a way Viktor had to learn, because it was his knowing that led to their respective current ends.

“You should not be here. You should not be saying these things. There are others–” something is buzzing in his head, “there are– Leave. Please.”

Blitzcrank doesn’t move. Twin curls of steam rise from his back.

“I WANTED TO TALK WITH YOU.”

“You have.”

“WE HAVE ARGUED, WHICH IS A SUBSET OF TALKING. ARE YOU UPSET TO SEE ME?”

“I cannot be upset,” Viktor murmurs, a reminder. He forces his shoulders down. “If we are to talk, we will talk in the backyard.”

Blitzcrank removes his hand. Viktor closes the door. He takes a moment, after double-bolting it shut, to stand there. Then he turns on his heel and heads to the back door. The backyard, like the front, has no grass. There is concrete and rocks and soft imported dirt that soaks up the light, but no grass. The original owners of the house had never put much stock in lying to themselves.

There is a wrought-iron gate set into the brick fence that marks the property bounds. Blitzcrank stands outside of it. The next yard over is dark.

“WE ARE IN THE BACKYARD,” Blitzcrank states, opening the gate and side-stepping through.

“We are.”

“SO WE WILL TALK NOW.” The cue isn’t meant for its speaker.

“...We will. Say your piece.”

“I HAVE BEEN LOOKING TO TALK TO YOU FOR APPROXIMATELY A DECADE. I HAVE LEARNED THAT MOST FLESHLINGS DO NOT WANT TO KNOW THE EXACT TIMING. WOULD YOU?”

There is something clutching at his chest. Viktor shakes his head. “No. Continue.”

Blitzcrank puts his hands together, as if pleased at correctly reading the situation.

“I DID NOT WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU AFTER THE TRIAL. I COULD NOT HAVE, AS YOU DISAPPEARED, BUT I DID NOT WANT TO REGARDLESS.”

There is a script to every interaction. Viktor knows this, as he wrote the vast majority of the initial social scripts for Blitzcrank’s intelligence. He was good at it. Jan had always said that he just winged such things.

Jan has a prestigious position at one of Zaun’s finest universities. Viktor can’t recall which one, or the job title. The memory of newsprint slips like oil from his mind.

Viktor finds his place, hollowly. “Why not?”

“I WAS,” another lowering of volume – had Blitzcrank been louder before? “...UPSET.”

He taps his fingers together with a clank. Viktor ohs, as that is what is expected in these times.

“I HAD JUST BEEN GRANTED PERSONHOOD. I DID NOT WANT TO TALK TO INDIVIDUALS WHO DID NOT AGREE WITH THIS. I–”

Something grinds in Viktor’s head. “What?”

Blitzcrank begins again. His intonations are the same. “I HAD JUST BEEN GRANTED PERSONHOOD. I DID NOT WANT TO TALK TO INDIVIDUALS WHO DID NOT–”

“I agreed with that ruling. I– did not say as such at the time, because I was. Otherwise occupied.”

Otherwise occupied are two very neat words to describe the aftermath of being declared a fraud. A surgical suture for a still-bleeding wound.

“YOU DID NOT. YOU WOULD NOT HAVE SUED CHAIRMAN PIDIDLY IF YOU AGREED WITH MY PERSONHOOD.”

“That case–” Viktor stops, clenches his right hand. “That case was irrelevant to your ruling. They are disconnected. If you have come here at his behest, tell Chairman Pididly that I– that I–”

He sucks in a breath.

“That I do not want to talk. That I am not that man. Now leave.”

Blitzcrank cocks his head, an oiled motion of brass and rubbered joints. “I AM NOT HERE AT CHAIRMAN PIDIDLY’S REQUEST. I DO NOT KNOW WHY YOU ASSUME SO MUCH ABOUT ME. IS IT BECAUSE YOU ARE MY CREATOR? THE CASES ARE RELEVANT. IF YOU HAD BELIEVED IN MY PERSONHOOD, YOUR LAWSUIT WOULD HAVE CLOSED.”

“Why.”

“CHAIRMAN PIDIDLY CREDITED YOU FOR THE DESIGN OF MY CHASSIS, AND THERE IS NO REASON TO ARGUE OVER WHO CREATED AND HAS OWNERSHIP OF A PERSON.”

Viktor’s head aches. Blitzcrank’s eyes aren’t dimmed at all by his mask, just colored amber. “Speak plainly.”

“PEOPLE SUE FOR POSSESSION OF IDEAS AND OBJECTS, NOT OTHER PERSONS. YOU HAD BEEN CREDITED FOR MY CHASSIS. IF YOU TRULY BELIEVED IN MY ABILITY TO SELF-IMPROVE AKIN TO FLESHLINGS, THEN THE QUESTION OF MY CURRENT STATE’S OWNERSHIP IS POINTLESS AS I HAD GONE BEYOND YOUR INITIAL PARAMETERS. THEREFORE, YOU DID NOT BELIEVE M–”

“Stop,” Viktor manages, holding a hand to his head. “You… misinterpret.”

Blitzcrank, to his credit, stops, his voice cutting off immediately. Silence hangs heavy in the air.

“There is still a point to credit,” he begins, voice low, “for an initial state. It proves an ability to replicate the base achievement in the future. Even if the end results would be different, as you no doubt understand. There is still a point, and it was my work. You were my work. This knowledge can coexist with personhood.”

“YOU DID NOT SAY THIS AT THE TIME. YOU CLAIMED THAT ‘any advancement that Blitzcrank has made is due to my work’.’”

Viktor freezes at the sound of his own voice. Blitzcrank isn’t listening, no one is listening, no one has ever listened, and that is why everything will end.

“OH. I DID NOT INTEND THE UPSET. I WAS QUOTING YOUR OWN WORDS.”

“Most people do not quote by mimicry,” Viktor manages. He’d almost lost himself. He puts his hand against the brick fence. “I did not speak rationally then. I did not… expect the interpretation you have decided upon.”

“WHAT WAS THE EXPECTATION?”

“That… I would be– that people would understand that I was the one to credit for your initial state. I did not think about any future states at the time, because I…” he breathes out, squeezing his eyes shut. It doesn’t help. “...did not consider that far ahead. But that does not mean that I did not acknowledge you as a person. Things can have multiple states.”

“THINGS,” Blitzcrank prompts.

“Individuals.”

There is a small humming and crackling from the construct as he rocks back on his heels. Steam puffs from his back.

“I UNDERSTAND NOW,” he declares. “FLESHLINGS ARE SO ILLOGICAL. I HAVE LEARNED MUCH SINCE MY CREATION, BUT I AM STILL OFTEN PUZZLED BY THE FAULTY LOGIC EMPLOYED BY THEM.”

“...You understand?”

“YES. WE MISUNDERSTOOD EACH OTHER, BUT WE DO NOT ANY LONGER. THIS IS GOOD.”

Viktor nods tiredly. Blitzcrank turns to leave, closing the backyard’s gate with a finger.

“Was that all you came here to do?”

“I CAME TO RECONNECT. WE HAVE SPOKEN AND WE HAVE COME TO A MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING. MY AIMS HAVE BEEN… ACCOMPLISHED.”

Blitzcrank stands there, on the other side of the fence, with his hands half-clasped and body perpendicular. Neither staying nor going, but standing. Waiting? Viktor cocks his head.

“You do not want anything else?”

“I HAVE CAUSED YOU DISTRESS.”

Viktor curls his fingers against the brick of the fence one-by-one. The texture drags on his skin. He looks back to Blitzcrank.

“You said that you know where my laboratory is,” he states. “I grant you permission to visit during working hours.”

The robot stands for a moment longer, then turns back to face Viktor. “I WILL SEE YOU TOMORROW THEN, CREATOR.”

#writing | journals stored away #classic | the herald #blitzcrank | the project

[heraldofzaun]

“I am,” Viktor murmurs. “...As are you.”

He looks up to the stars, shining cold overhead. Unreachable. Untouched by human concerns over love and loss.

It must be nice, to be that distant. To be that constant.

“I am sorry,” he adds, dropping his gaze back to the ground. “I... you should not have to be here. Blitzcrank was the one who wished to attend. I thought that it would... cause... what it has. But he insisted.”

He runs a hand along the surface of his staff, feeling how the metal pieces interlock with one another. The Hex Core glows a faint blue in the night. Not at all like Piltover’s star-rods, its hextech, which burn against the darkness.

heraldofzaun​:

There are always eyes on them. It’s the cost of being something to a city, bearing its legacy or its lunacy, and yet as they sit here on what passes for neutral ground Viktor hardly thinks of the spectacle.

He has never been one for grief. No one is, and yet… perhaps he should be, with all that he has to grieve. Perhaps he should know of a phrase or two that would lessen the pain. Everyone else certainly thinks that they know - I’m sorry, it was time, they’ll always be with you, at least it was peaceful - but they don’t.

The words mean nothing. They mean less than nothing; they mean a fundamental misunderstanding of what it is to grieve.

He puts an arm around Caitlyn, touch so light that it’s hardly one at all. He doesn’t look at her for more than a half-moment at a time. No one wants to be seen like this. There is a part of Viktor that says to leave, to let her be alone, alone as he had been. That he is an intruder, an interloper, a spectator to a grief that has been seen enough by Piltover.

He pushes the thought away. He stays.

Her senses return to her, little by little. She is exhausted: she has exhausted herself. She is tired, and headachy, and her throat is raw. Yet, for all that, she feels… less burdened. Lighter. Not yet entirely free, no, of course not. But she can at least take a shuddering breath, and straighten up. Her senses are returning to her, and she realises his arm is around her, and she is grateful all the more.

It is dark by now, fully dark, on this little hill with its tree and its bench and its two guests. Perhaps the only lights come from Viktor’s third arm and his staff.

She fumbles a handkerchief from her pocket, turning her head away to wipe her face and blow her nose, before leaning back, into his arm, into the bench, her head craning back to look up at the sky. There are a few stars visible. The city drowns out much of them, given how bright it glows, but the major constellations and many other clusters still fight for prominence.

She stares at the stars for a moment, at the distant anchored lights that burn regardless of what happens on Runeterra, before she manages to turn her head and look at Viktor. “You are here,” she notes, barely a whisper. It is a fact that makes her smile, though her eyes are still shining, her skin puffed from weeping. 

#sheriffcaitlyn #classic | the herald #caitlyn | the peacemaker

[heraldofzaun]

There are always eyes on them. It’s the cost of being something to a city, bearing its legacy or its lunacy, and yet as they sit here on what passes for neutral ground Viktor hardly thinks of the spectacle.

He has never been one for grief. No one is, and yet... perhaps he should be, with all that he has to grieve. Perhaps he should know of a phrase or two that would lessen the pain. Everyone else certainly thinks that they know - I’m sorry, it was time, they’ll always be with you, at least it was peaceful - but they don’t.

The words mean nothing. They mean less than nothing; they mean a fundamental misunderstanding of what it is to grieve.

He puts an arm around Caitlyn, touch so light that it’s hardly one at all. He doesn’t look at her for more than a half-moment at a time. No one wants to be seen like this. There is a part of Viktor that says to leave, to let her be alone, alone as he had been. That he is an intruder, an interloper, a spectator to a grief that has been seen enough by Piltover.

He pushes the thought away. He stays.

heraldofzaun​:

It has been a very long day. Viktor thinks back to the procession, to crossing the border, to seeing Blitzcrank once more, and to… before. To the aurora above Piltover.

The city’s star-rods burn blue against the sunset. He forces himself to look away from it all. To look back to Baker’s Hill, back to the bench, back to Caitlyn. He’s why she is here. He’s why she has to stand watch outside the city, instead of…

“I-” he begins, and thinks better of it. He sits down beside her, resting his staff against the bench’s wrought-iron arm.

There’s nothing to say in these times. He knows that well.

There is a moment where she does not know anything. She does not know she needs to pull herself together, she does not know that even in the relative privacy of distance and night that there will be eyes on them to make sure Caitlyn is not harmed by the Machine Herald, does not know that she needs to thank Viktor for making this perilous journey to enemy territory and for sitting with her now, does not know that there will be repercussions or how to plan for them. All she knows, in this moment, is the grief that has been building up in the last day - the last few days - is all that is of her. 

The noises that escape her are wild and unfamiliar, groans and hiccoughing sobs. Sounds of grief that has only the outlet of pain to vent itself through, and tears that blur her eyes and choke her mouth and nose.

In her helpless weeping, she leans a little against his side. Head still between her knees, staring at the ground, the side of her body presses against his. He’s here, and that’s a comfort that she seeks. He is trusted enough to see this moment of weakness. The Sheriff of Piltover has never broken like this; Caitlyn has never broken like this.

#sheriffcaitlyn #classic | the herald #caitlyn | the peacemaker

[heraldofzaun]

It has been a very long day. Viktor thinks back to the procession, to crossing the border, to seeing Blitzcrank once more, and to... before. To the aurora above Piltover.

The city’s star-rods burn blue against the sunset. He forces himself to look away from it all. To look back to Baker’s Hill, back to the bench, back to Caitlyn. He’s why she is here. He’s why she has to stand watch outside the city, instead of...

“I-” he begins, and thinks better of it. He sits down beside her, resting his staff against the bench’s wrought-iron arm.

There’s nothing to say in these times. He knows that well.

#classic | the herald #caitlyn | the peacemaker #sheriffcaitlyn

[heraldofzaun]

Zaun’s skies are clear tonight. Not completely, never completely, but if Viktor were to step outside, he would be able to see the light of the moon as something other than hazy and diffuse.

He is working when he feels it. There is a tugging at his chest, as if the ligaments that hold his sternum in place have had their fibers picked up and pulled. For a moment, he fears the worst - eyes wide, hands clenched - and then it passes. A strange coolness crosses his scalp. He gets to his feet.

When he stands outside, eyes unfiltered by amber lenses, it’s more than just the moon that glows. He looks up, tracking his eyes across an imaginary starscape, and stares. To the northwest, there is an aurora. It shines pink and purple and leaf-green, and its curtains shimmer and flap in an otherworldly wind. Beneath it, he knows, lies Piltover.

Cold prickles his head. The evening is greenhouse-warm from what still remains of the smog. He becomes aware of the fact that he isn’t the only one in a backyard, in the street. There’s a soft sigh of amazement. A child’s delighted cry. The street lamps stop their ever-present flickering, just for a moment.

And yet he feels as if something terrible has happened.

Viktor goes back inside and waits for something unknown.

#writing | journals stored away #classic | the herald #caitlyn | the peacemaker

[heraldofzaun]

i love when tragedies are like “the love was there. it didnt change anything. it didnt save anyone. there were just too many forces against it. but it still matters that the love was there”

#aesthetic | imagery and ideology #caitlyn | the peacemaker