Chapter Text
You tug the eye patch over your eye self-consciously, huddling in on yourself instinctively as the nerves brewing in your stomach threaten to spill over.
Public speaking had never been your forte, although you understood that it’s a necessary evil, you didn’t have to resign yourself to pretend that you are okay with stepping out onto the stage in a moment and pretending that you have your shit together.
You watch as the host starts to introduce the event, eyes glossing over when you see just how many people are in the audience of the theatre.
There is a buzz of energy all around you behind the safety of the curtain, other presenters getting ready, theatre workers running to and fro, and all sorts of noises coming from the projects that will be introduced over the course of the evening.
It doesn’t take much to see that you’re not quite the same as the others here.
Comparatively, you feel underdressed, and less refined despite your best attempts to the contrary. Your clothes are painfully second-hand, fitting well enough to make yourself presentable but very obviously out of season for the rapidly changing fashion of Topside. It's the story of your life, really. A wolf in sheep's clothing, hiding amongst the herd. Or at least, that's the way that the citizens of Piltover had always viewed you.
Many of the other presenters, your peers at the academy, occasionally look over at you and giggle amongst themselves.
You know how this must look to them- a first-year student from the Undercity had been tossed a bone by Professor Park from the Engineering department and is now in over their head at their first conference- but you’re determined to prove them wrong. To make them eat their words.
Anxiously, you fiddle with the edge of your sleeve, picking at a loose thread as the audience gets settled outside and the host makes their way onto the stage.
He's an older, slightly pot-bellied man, also dressed in a nice three-piece suit that's typical to the fashion for men Topside. However, no matter how tightly the coat had been fitted, there is no hiding the round and almost pregnant bump that is his stomach sticking out the front. His mustache is carefully styled, curled outwards into two twirls that look comically like something you'd think of for a circus' ringmaster. His voice, deep and baritone, feels very out-of-character for his appearance as he begins with a welcome message to those in the crowd.
“Holy shit,” you hear one of your peers say a little louder than what they’d probably intended, and you turn back to look at them. “Is that Jayce fucking Talis?”
And you follow their gaze, landing on the man of progress himself standing less than twenty feet from you.
Jayce, like the host, is dressed in a three-piece suit, although his suit is a little laxer in terms of the tightness of the garment. It's a simple black, white, and gold garment, the only real stand-out piece is his tie which is bright red and tied in a simple, and slightly crooked, Windsor knot.
He has several people around him, the girl in the messy bun with the clipboard you assume is his assistant, the man with a headset on is a stagehand, the rest as just as easy to determine their relation to the man, however, there’s one that you have a hard time pinpointing.
He’s dressed in a suit that matches with Jayce Talis, although, it’s a little ill-fitting and the embellishments are much more subdued than what’s on the man of the hour, giving him a much more reserved look comparatively. His crutch makes him stand out like a sore thumb in the crowd and it’s that very item that gives him away- Heimerdinger’s assistant . The co-founder of Hextech. The very reason someone like you- a nobody from the Undercity- had even been given a chance at the University.
What was his name again?
When you realize you’ve been staring, you quickly snap your attention away from them and to the ground by your feet. You had more important things to think about than the founders of Hextech.
This was your moment.
Your chance to prove yourself and your merit.
“She actually came, huh?” You hear someone whisper.
“The rat’s a lot ballsier than I thought,” someone else replies.
You scoff at that, shaking your head slightly in disbelief at the sheer pettiness that your classmates are so boldly willing to show in this moment.
Somehow, their taunts ground you. The spite you feel towards them fuelling you from reluctant anxiety and into a reluctant calm.
As the host finally announces your name and signals with a sweep of their arm in your general direction behind the stage, you can feel the attention of those around you lock onto your back as you climb the steps to the stage as gracefully as you can.
Taking a deep breath to steel your nerves, you gulp down the butterflies as best as you can as the spotlight finds you.
There is a polite round of applause, all eyes fixated on you as you make your way to the podium, and you can barely register any of it because your heart is beating so loud that you can feel it pounding inside your head.
Taking one last look at your notes, one quick glance out at the crowd, you take another deep breath before continuing.
“Thank you, everyone, for your attendance today,” you start with, trying to hide the very obvious shake in both your voice and your hands that are gripping the edge of the podium. “I am honoured to be here and to present to you my team’s work.”
Behind you, one of the stagehands unveils the tablecloth that covers your project.
Briefly, you make eye contact with Heimerdinger’s assistant who has found his way to the edge of the stage and is sitting on a speaker. He has his crutch tucked between his legs, watching you with rapt attention which makes your nerves infinitely worse.
Based on the murmurs that sweep over the crowd, you know what they must be thinking. On a surface level, it just looks like a fan- that you can concede. However, you know the deeper intricacies that the box holds, and you can’t help the grin that starts to spread when you think about the crowd’s reaction to what it can do.
“Although the mechanism may look simple, it’s actually a very complex system that is designed to be able to purify the air in the surrounding area upwards of 500 feet away.”
And the workers dispersed in the crowd slowly help those seated in the audience to put on masks that had been given to them when they’d first entered the theatre. From somewhere behind the stage, far behind the curtain, you can hear the mechanical whirring of the smoke machine being turned on.
You open a latch to the side of the device, opening a panel that lets the audience look inside the machine and the many systems built inside of it.
“Currently,” you continue, “we have turned on a smoke machine so that you may all see our device in action.”
And as you speak you can see the smoke start to reach the stage, kissing the backs of your ankles and slowly starting to fill your nose with the harsh smell. You bite back a cough as it grows more intense, burning your nostrils and throat, but growing up in the Undercity had prepared you for this. Hardened you over the years to the point that you actually feel a little embarrassed that the smoke is affecting you to the extent that it is.
Clearing your throat, you lean into the microphone a little, “as you can see- the smoke is rather… intense.”
Already you can see the people in the front row start to shift a little in their seats, their Piltovian lungs not built to be able to withstand the discomfort the smoke brings despite the masks covering their faces.
“And what you’re feeling right now,” you gesture vaguely around you at the smoke to punctuate your point, “is only a fraction of the living conditions that those living in the Undercity face every single day.”
As you turn, you can see the assistant, still sitting off to the side and out of view of the audience but you freeze for a moment when you see he isn’t wearing a mask either.
In fact, he looks almost calm despite the conditions, eye on your device as though he’s trying to pick apart exactly how it works.
You tap your jaw, making those watching in the crowd instinctively reach up to feel the masks secured around their heads, “however the residents of the Undercity don’t have the same luxuries that you are currently indulging to help their discomfort.”
Immediately, you can see that there are those who seem to be offended by what you’re saying. It’s no surprise to you, Topside never did like to be called out for their privilege.
From the corner of your eye, you think you see the assistant smirk.
“Which is where my device will come in,” and with that, you cross the stage and flick the switch on the back of your machine. It comes alive instantly, the fan inside working overtime to gather the smoke that had built up in the confined space of the theatre.
You can see the relief before you feel it for yourself as shoulders lose their tension in the rows before you and you can see those closest to you take their first deep breaths since the smoke machine had been turned on.
“I propose the implementation of one of my devices at every major factory in the Undercity, where pollution is most severe and the air quality at its most critical,” you state as people in the crowd are finally able to take off their masks.
You’ve got them. You can see it in their eyes as they look up at the stage in bewilderment at the lack of smoke in the air.
“Not only will we be improving the quality of life for the workers but eventually, with more time and research, my team and I hope to be able to take this project to a larger scale.”
You gesture to where your team sits on one of the balconies, smiling at them before continuing, “all we need is your support.”
And with a little chopping motion to your neck at one of the stagehands, you hear them shut down the smoke machine just as you turn your own device off.
“For a brighter future!”
Any nerves that had still been kicking around in your stomach die out entirely as the crowd breaks out in applause, some of the more enthusiastic in the audience standing up as your speech draws to a close. Although the reception is mixed, you catch a few people who remain completely still in their seats, your body floods with relief that the presentation is finally over.
You take a bow, letting the workers wheel your machine off the stage behind you as you exit.
Immediately, one of the workers is handing you a cup of water.
You look around for a moment, wondering where the assistant went, but your train of thought is cut off as the stagehands start to babble to you excitedly.
“That was amazing!” He tells you, and you smile at him as you swallow down the sip you’d taken.
“Thanks,” you reply, “to be honest I was really nervous-”
“But you shouldn’t have been.”
You whirl around to the person that had interrupted your train of thought and immediately lock eyes- well, eye - with one that you distinctly know. The very man who had been watching you with more focus than you’d ever felt on you in your entire life from the side of the stage.
He’d been too far away for you to get a good look before but now that he’s speaking directly to you, standing as close as he can while still maintaining polite distance, you can see his uncovered eye perfectly,
Golden, honeyed orbs lock onto yours, and the way they widen just a fraction gives away to what extent he must be feeling the same shock that is currently coursing through you as familiarity washes over his features.
“I didn’t think there would be anyone else at this conference fighting for change in the Undercity,” he admits.
Your eye follows his movements as he shifts to lean a little further on his crutch, both hands gripping it, and the way his knuckles bleed white give away how tightly he is clenching the metal.
“That’s the only thing I want to fight for,” you confess, “the only thing I have been fighting for since I came here.”
He quirks a brow at that.
“Born and raised in the Undercity,” you continue, “had to fight tooth and nail to get up here.”
He smiles, again, a spark glittering in his bright amber eye at your words.
“As did I,” he breathes.
“I must admit,” he continues, “I was very impressed with your presentation. The machine you and your team have come up with is rather ingenious.”
You laugh a little under your breath, cheeks heating up a little from the praise, “it’ll only be as effective as it is funder though.”
He nods sympathetically, your problem probably being one he is well acquainted with.
“It’s fine though,” you sigh, “that’s the point of this entire thing isn’t it?”
“True,” he concedes, “believe it or not even our new endeavors are subject to the necessity of investors and their interests.”
He takes your wide eye look in with a small laugh.
“As charming as Jayce is, the arcane is still something that they view as… eh- a little risky.”
That gets a laugh from you, a genuine one, which also has a few heads turning to look at the two of you with curious looks and hissed reminders to stay quiet while other people are presenting.
“Well, for what it counts,” you tell him in between giggles, “I think you’re plenty charming yourself.”
His eye trails from where you extend your hand as you tell him your name and up to your face, resting with a curious tilt of his head to your eye patch. Although he doesn’t say anything about it when he clasps his much larger, calloused hand in your own with a firm shake, you know that he’s probably on the same page as you are about what is hidden under there.
“It’s Viktor.” He tells you as you shake hands.
“Viktor,” you repeat with a slight quirk to your lip in a crooked smile.
He returns the gesture, the edges of his mouth curling upwards as your hands finally separate.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”