Chapter Text
It was in the thick of summer when Viktor lost everyone. Death has many faces—slow and cruel, or sudden and sharp. It hurts all the same. For his father, it was sudden. One morning, he left for his usual mining shift and simply never returned. His pajamas stayed folded in the family’s shared closet, his spot in their bed untouched. They waited, hoping.
In their cramped one-room home, Viktor and his mother sat by the faint glow of a candle, the shadows flickering on the walls. They were a strange comfort. If Viktor squinted just right, he could almost see his father sitting with them, his honey-gold eyes crinkling as he laughed, his voice warm and steady. He could hear him asking about their day, always checking to make sure everyone was happy. They still had hope.
Until the news came. A miner from his father’s unit—a survivor—knocked on their door. An earthquake had struck deep underground, crushing the tunnels and the men within. There was no body to recover, no way to give him the traditional river burial. He was just... gone.
They didn’t have a photograph to remember him by, like the ones Viktor’s mother often spoke of from her own childhood. She would describe the walls of her grandmother’s home, adorned with images of the departed, a place to honor and pray to them, even talk to them when the silence grew heavy. In their home, they hung his Sunday shirt instead—the one he joked about wearing only on Viktor’s birthday, to keep it clean. It still smelled faintly of him.
That night, Viktor’s mother held him tighter than usual, her arms trembling as silent tears streaked her freckled face.
“We’ll be fine, Vikina,” she whispered, her voice steady despite the grief weighing it down. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll just go back to work.” Her short hair framed her head like a halo, and her determination shone even through her tears.
Viktor wanted to help, but what could he do? His crutches slowed him down, and exhaustion came too quickly. His gadgets—his pride and joy—barely worked most of the time, just scraps of broken metal no one wanted to buy. He hated feeling useless.
At least his mother’s health had improved. The cough that once wracked her body had faded, though it came at the cost of nights spent hungry. Without his father’s income, there were days when they didn’t eat. But her cheeks no longer looked hollow, her skin no longer ghostly pale. That was something.
The next morning, she dressed for work. Viktor didn’t know what she did—only that she always looked beautiful when she left. She stood before the cracked mirror behind their door, carefully applying lipstick that made her lips bold and striking.
“Like the actresses on topside posters,” Viktor thought. He imagined her walking in gowns and glittering jewelry, winking from billboards. Maybe that’s what she did.
She let him walk with her partway, saying it would be good practice with his new crutch. It was slightly too big, but she assured him he’d grow into it, and she never lied. They moved slowly through the grimy streets, her pace deliberately matching his. Viktor couldn’t decide if he felt grateful or ashamed. Stumbling to match her slow pace.
As they approached the district with bright red lanterns strung above the shops, the air grew warmer, almost inviting. The glow softened the rough edges of the world. Viktor noticed women standing outside, their outfits more revealing than he was used to. Some were older, some younger—he even spotted a few men among them.
When they reached a building with pink-tinted windows, his mother stopped. Laughter spilled from the open doorway, and the faint scent of perfume and incense wafted out. Inside, Viktor glimpsed colorful rugs and bright lights.
He wanted to ask what kind of work she did here. Why the women—and some men—had bruises hidden under their painted smiles. But he didn’t. Something in the way his mother’s shoulders stiffened told him not to. Instead, he gripped his crutch tighter and prayed, in all his naive, childish hope, that she would be safe.
His mother's departure over the Rainbow Bridge came slowly, like a storm you see forming on the horizon but are powerless to stop. He saw it in her eyes, once a vibrant blue, now dulled and gray, their light extinguished. He had seen it coming for so long, yet he could do nothing to change it.
His machines still wouldn’t work, and there were no other jobs he could take—only ones more dangerous, ones he couldn’t survive. They needed to keep their small room in the towering labyrinth of the flats, the only home Viktor had ever known. They needed food, too, and no matter how hard he tried, he simply wasn’t ready to provide for them. He couldn’t stop her.
The changes in her were stark and undeniable. Her body thinned until her bones seemed to carry her alone, her movements slow and weary. She was never made for the long, grueling hours she now endured. Then came the cough—deep, wet, and monstrous, shaking her frail frame as though it would tear her apart.
Still, every morning, she pulled herself from their shared bed with a resolve that frightened Viktor. She applied her bold makeup with trembling fingers, even as it smudged during her coughing fits, which left her leaning against the doorframe, gasping for breath, wiping sweat from her brow.
One evening, she didn’t come home. Viktor found her crumpled on the cracked, uneven stairs outside their building. She didn’t even have the strength to climb them. He dragged her up to their room, inch by painful inch, thinking—hoping—that if she could just rest, she might get better.
But Viktor knew better. She needed a doctor. He knew how expensive they were in the Lanes, how out of reach their help was. If they called for one, they might lose their room, their last bit of safety in a world that had none to offer.
That night, a high fever ravaged her body. Tremors seized her, leaving only when exhaustion claimed her. Her voice was faint, her words slipping into delirium.
Still, she cradled Viktor’s face with a hand as light as a feather. “It will be okay, Vitoušku, just you see,” she whispered, her lips curving into a hopeful smile that didn’t reach her dim eyes.
“Mám tě rád, maminko,” Viktor muttered, barely above a whisper, too scared to believe in hope.
She took her last breath in the early hours of the morning. Her face softened, the lines of pain easing as peace finally settled over her features. Her freckles, once so vibrant, seemed to have faded, too.
Viktor screamed into the silence of their too-empty, too-cold room. His voice cracked and broke until he was hoarse, his throat raw and aching. He had cried out all he could, but it changed nothing.
He couldn’t fix it. He never could.
At least he could give her a proper burial. Dragging her body through the filthy streets, Viktor noticed how no one paid him any attention. It was just another scene in the Undercity—a mother lost, a son grieving. A few people spared him fleeting, sentimental glances, but no one stopped to help. Everyone had their own burdens, their own battles. To pause would mean risking everything, letting the city consume them, leaving only twisted remnants behind.
He had dressed her in her best clothes, the patched-up gown she’d inherited from her grandmother. Despite its wear, it retained an elegance that once made her beam with joy. Viktor could still hear her laughter as she spun in it, her delight so pure it made the decaying world momentarily brighter. Now, that same gown would carry her into eternity.
The water behind the Undercity was used for burials. It wasn’t the water they drank—or at least Viktor hoped. It was better this way. Better than leaving bodies to rot in the streets, inviting sickness to ripple through the already struggling population.
Wading into the icy waters, he felt strangely lighter. The liquid made it easier to manage his limp, the dragging weight of his leg. His mother’s body floated beside him, cradled by the gentle current. She looked peaceful, as though the water embraced her, a wave-born matriarch finding her place among the elements. Viktor shivered against the cold gnawing at his skin, but it didn’t matter. His mother had always moved like a force of nature, as unstoppable as a tsunami. She belonged here.
He tried to recall everything his parents had taught him about burials. He couldn’t get it wrong. She deserved more than this ramshackle ceremony, but it was all he could give. Taking a steadying breath, he began.
“Máš, má ovečko, dávno spát
Už píseň ptáků končí
Kvůli nám přestal i vítr vát
Jen můra zírá zvenčí
Já znám její zášť
Tak vyhledej skrýš
Zas má bílej plášť
A v okně je mříž
A můžeš hřát,
ty mě můžeš hřát
Vždyť přijdou se ptát
Zítra zas přijdou se ptát
Jestli ty v mých představách
Už mizíš.”
He wasn’t much of a singer, so he spoke the words instead. His mother’s favorite song—a lullaby for her journey. His voice cracked as he recited the final verse. By then, the murky waters had claimed her completely. Her short hair, which had once framed her face like a halo, disappeared beneath the surface. He stood there, trembling, fighting back tears, but they came anyway.
The sobs overtook him, shaking his frame as he clutched his arms around himself. The cold water mirrored the numbing chill inside him, and he let it seep in. For a moment, he thought about staying, letting the waves swallow him too. Maybe, just maybe, if he waited long enough, his parents would come back for him.
He reconsidered. His parents wouldn’t want him to join them so soon, not like this. They would want him to keep fighting, to persevere with the same fierce determination his mother had shown every day of her life.
Not long after, he lost their small apartment. He’d tried to hold onto it, working tirelessly on the streets, selling his metalwork. But after just two months, his earnings fell short, and he couldn’t make rent.
With no choice, he packed what little he could carry. The rest he sold for food, prioritizing useful items and a few sentimental treasures: his mother’s lipstick and his father’s Sunday shirt, both carefully tucked into his worn backpack.
The landlady had clearly wanted to help him—her face heavy with sadness as she watched him go. She’d been a friend of his father’s, but life in the Undercity didn’t allow for generosity. She couldn’t afford to keep a non-paying tenant, no matter how much she wanted to. Her embrace was tight, her whispered apologies genuine. Viktor could only nod in understanding.
His new home was a damp, shadowed cave—a small recess that offered some shelter from the biting wind and relentless rain. It wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t the worst outcome, either. He’d carved a shallow trench to stay dry and laid out an old sleeping bag for warmth. It was enough to survive.
Each day, he roamed the Undercity, scavenging scraps of metal and discarded cogs. He still believed he could make something of himself, that his skills would see him through.
His latest invention was a crude gun. He hated the idea of violence, but he had no choice. A lone, crippled boy living in a cave was a tempting target for thieves and worse. If anyone discovered his situation, they wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of his vulnerability. He couldn’t let that happen.
Maybe it was fear that made him act so quickly—or maybe desperation. The need to protect the one small refuge he’d carved out for himself in this godforsaken world. The moment he heard the crunch of gravel and a faint whistle, he sprang into action.
It was late at night. Viktor grabbed his crutch, the one his mother had insisted he’d grow into. She’d been right, though now it was almost too small, barely reaching his hip. He moved silently, inching toward the corner that concealed his hideout from the cave’s entrance. Pressing himself against the damp walls, he tried to blend into the moss-covered stone as his eyes scanned for the intruder.
A thin man stood at the entrance, smoking casually. His layered clothing, patched together from various fabrics, marked him as someone from Zaun. He looked relaxed, his features calm as he leaned against the stone wall, gazing out at the sprawling Undercity below.
Viktor froze, his makeshift gun clutched tightly in his trembling hand. Should he shoot? Could he even take the chance?
“I can see you, you know?” The man’s voice broke the silence, smooth and amused. “You’re not exactly a master of stealth, kid.”
Startled, Viktor acted on instinct. He raised the scrap gun and fired.
The weapon worked—but a little too well. The blast knocked Viktor off his feet, sending him sprawling onto the slick cave floor. When he looked up, the scene was chaotic. A sizable chunk of the wall next to the man's head had been blown apart, leaving a smoking, blackened hole. The man stood frozen, his wide eyes darting between Viktor and the still-sizzling stone.
“Well,” the man finally said, flicking his cigarette away. “That was... dramatic.”
He approached slowly, his movements deliberate and calculated, hands raised to show he carried no weapon. His voice was calm, measured. “Stay calm. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Viktor instinctively tried to crawl away, but the impact from earlier had sent his crutch skittering out of reach. Sprawled across the swirling, cracked floor, he could do little to stop the stranger from coming closer.
Something about the man’s voice—or maybe it was his piercing blue eyes, a shade so eerily similar to his mother’s icy gaze—made Viktor hesitate. His grip on the gun faltered, his finger slipping from the trigger. For the first time, he wasn’t sure he wanted to fire.
The man crouched beside him, his sharp, calculating eyes scanning Viktor and the scene around them. There was an intensity in his gaze that reminded Viktor of a raven—keen, observant. Maybe it was also the dark hair pulled into a neat bun at the back of his head that solidified the comparison.
“You built that?” the man asked, nodding toward the makeshift gun in Viktor’s trembling hands. His tone carried genuine curiosity, almost wonder. Viktor managed a small, hesitant nod, too terrified to speak. He braced himself, expecting the man to lash out, to beat him, or worse—steal his hard-earned creation.
But instead, the man leaned in closer, his breath catching. “Fascinating,” he murmured, the word drawn out like a revelation. Then, to Viktor’s surprise, he grinned—a flash of warmth on a face otherwise sharp and angular. “Are you hungry?”
Viktor flinched at the question, his instincts screaming at him to mistrust the stranger. Was this a trap? A ploy to lower his guard? He squinted, leaning back slightly, studying the man’s expression. But before he could form a refusal, his stomach betrayed him with a loud, insistent growl.
The noise startled him, drawing his attention to just how long it had been since his last meal. The last batch of scrap metal hadn’t sold well, and skipping meals had become second nature.
The man smirked, his long face crinkling with amusement. He stood, extending a hand toward Viktor. “Let me offer you dinner,” he said, his tone almost casual. Then his eyes flicked to the gun again, gleaming with curiosity. “And in return, you let me take a look at that. It’s fascinating, and I’d love to figure out how it works.”
Viktor stared at the hand for a long moment, torn between suspicion and the gnawing ache in his stomach. He hesitated but eventually reached out, clasping the stranger’s hand. His fingers were calloused, steady.
As the man helped him to his feet, Viktor found himself wondering—was this luck, or the start of something far more dangerous?
The man helped Viktor retrieve his crutch, and together they began weaving through the narrow alleyways of Zaun. Viktor appreciated the slower pace the man set, mindful of his limping gait. After climbing several sets of rusted stairs and passing through a dimly lit tunnel covered in graffiti, doodles, and creeping weeds, they finally arrived.
The place had a welcoming charm. A warm orange glow spilled onto the cracked ground in front of a small, uneven building. The sign above the door read *The Last Drop*. Viktor hesitated, suspicion bubbling up once more. Was this a trap? But the man didn’t so much as glance back to see if Viktor was following. With one hand in his pocket, he casually pushed open the creaky door and stepped inside. Viktor stumbled after him, his nerves on edge.
The interior of the inn was quiet, almost serene. It was clear the place wasn’t open. Chairs sat empty, their legs stacked against tables. There were no customers, no loud chatter—just the soft hum of a song from the jukebox in the corner.
Only two people occupied the room. The bartender was busy putting away dishes, his movements methodical. A woman sat perched on the counter, her legs swinging lazily back and forth.
“Good evening, everyone. I’m sure you missed me,” the man called out, drawing their attention. Viktor immediately ducked behind him, unused to being the center of so much attention.
The woman slid gracefully off the counter, brushing off her skirt. “Well, look who’s back,” she said with a teasing smile. “Vander and I were starting to wonder if you’d show up for dinner.”
Her gaze shifted to Viktor, and her expression softened. She offered him a kind smile. “And who’s this? What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“It’s... Viktor,” he replied quietly, stepping closer to the bar. Her warmth eased some of his tension, but he still kept his distance, wary.
While Viktor lingered, the man—Silco, as he later introduced himself—was already deep in conversation with the bartender. Viktor noticed them pointing in his direction, and he instinctively hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself as small as possible.
The bartender chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “Let me get this straight. You found a kid in some cave, nearly got your face blown off by a laser gun, and just decided to… keep him? “He paused before smiling ‘ Yeahy, That checks out. Sounds like exactly your kind of madness.”
Silco sighed in annoyance, his tone dry. “You make me sound like a lunatic. He’s not a stray. He could prove useful... in the grand scheme of things.”
The bartender smirked but said nothing, while Viktor remained rooted to the spot, uncertain whether to feel relieved or even more wary of his new companion.
Silco moved behind the bar, rummaging through ingredients while Vander continued putting away dishes. They worked in tandem, not looking at each other yet moving with a seamless rhythm. Neither bumped into the other nor caused any interruptions.
Viktor watched in quiet wonder. They fit together like cogs in a perfectly oiled machine.
After a while, Silco placed a plate in front of him. Simple sandwiches—warm bread with slices of meat—but to Viktor, it smelled like a feast. “Here you go,” Silco said, sliding the plate toward him. Viktor hesitated for a moment before placing the gun on the table. They exchanged it quickly, almost wordlessly.
The atmosphere shifted slightly. Vander stilled, his eyes darting warily to the weapon. The woman, still leaning against the counter, also paused her swinging legs to glance at the exchange. But Viktor handed the gun over without hesitation, his trust in Silco beginning to solidify.
“I’m surprised you didn’t burn Vander’s kitchen making that,” the woman quipped, her purple braid swinging as she threw her head back in laughter. Her teasing grin widened when she saw the expression on Silco’s face.
“That was one time,” Silco replied dryly, leaning on the counter with a pointed glare in her direction. “For your information, I am capable of cooking. Thank you for your concern, Felicia.”
Felicia only smirked, clearly enjoying his irritation.
Ignoring her, Silco turned his attention to the gun in front of him. He examined the mechanism with the same sharp focus Viktor had seen earlier, his long fingers carefully turning and inspecting the components. For the first time, someone was truly studying Viktor’s work, and the look of genuine interest on Silco’s face made pride swell in Viktor’s chest.
This was his first fully functioning invention, and for a moment, he forgot the room around him and simply basked in the rare feeling of being noticed—not as a stray or a liability, but as a creator.