Your steps faltered when the pair of you reached the bridge connecting Piltover to the Undercity. You weren't entirely sure why. It wasn't the structure itself that sent a rush of cold adrenaline through your body (if anything it was a rather peaceful thing - nothing particularly threatening about it.). No, not that. It was more because of the symbolism it held. A space between worlds. Neither here nor there. Once you were over, you were in uncharted territory.

Viktor noticed your hesitation, and cast you a sidelong glance. "Last chance," he murmured.

"To what?"

"To turn back."

You rolled your eyes. "For the person who seemed so desperate for me to come along," you said, mustering as much confidence as you could into your pace out of pure spite, "you seem pretty adamant I don't."

"I wouldn't be able to forgive my-" He quirked his eyebrows as he registered your remark. "'Desperate'? When have I ever been desperate?"

You stifled a laugh, though it quickly sank in your throat as the bridge came to an end.

Into the Undercity.

Perhaps it was just your paranoia, but once over the bridge, you swore the air... changed. It wasn't just the scent of it, though there was a smoky tinge to it that definitely hadn't been there before. It became thicker. Heavier. Denser. It weighed upon you like raindrops on a leaf, threatening to spill and tip you over.

Instantly the buildings grew closer, shorter, shabbier, leering and leaning over passersby. Streets turned narrow and winding, and before you knew it you were completely disorientated.

You kept you chin buried in the fabric of the cloak, eyes fixed firmly to the uneven cobbles beneath your feet. Puddles of concerningly coloured liquid pooled in cracks. Shards of glass littered the floor like snow.

"Are you alright?" Viktor asked.

You jumped and straightened, unaware of how far inwards you had withdrawn until then. You managed a small nod.

You were fine, you tried to convince yourself. It was fine. You were still under the same sun, still only a short distance from the place you called home. Just in a new, different place.

With a considerably higher crime rate. And a noticeable drug problem. And a severe lack of authority.

Fine.

As if hearing your thoughts, Viktor slowed to amble alongside you.

"The area we're going to is safe," he said. "It's not too far in. I know it well."

"You've been here before?" you asked. Though you were grateful for an opportunity to talk, you still kept your voice hushed. The streets were oddly quiet; you'd only seen a few passing glimpses of pedestrians, lingering on corners, ducking down alleyways.

Viktor sucked in a breath, as if to respond, but hesitated. You looked over at him, and saw a slight crease between his brows. The glazed surface of his eyes told you he was thinking deeply about something. When he spoke, his tone was hushed.

"I grew up... here. I'm from the Undercity."

"Oh."

You instantly regretted making the small sound. It had slipped from your lips by its own accord. The silence that followed was suffocating, and you spoke quickly to smother it. "What was it like?"

He gave a small shrug. "Not terrible," he said. "It wasn't as lavish as life in Piltover, naturally, though nothing like what people believe it to be. I had food, a home, the necessities. I was safe, and I was happy." He shrugged, eyes trailing along the gutter that lined the street. "I was a child. I didn't know any better, nor any worse. I didn't know... anything."

You found you face had taken on his pensive expression, too. Never would you have ever guessed the bright, hopeful man could be from a place of such polar opposites. But... was it? Such a stigma surrounded the lower half of the city - crime, chaos, violence. You'd never even thought to question how much of it was truly based in fave until then.

"What lead to you becoming an assistant to Heimerdinger?" you asked.

He hummed thoughtfully. "Luck and time," he said simply. "And pity, perhaps. It wouldn't have looked good to turn away a cripple from the Undercity."

You made an incredulous noise. "Your background shouldn't have anything to do with what opportunities receive in life. I'm sure you were picked due to many- any other factors than pity."

He chuckled ruefully. "Most people would think otherwise."

"And most people wouldn't 'accidentally' discover revolutionary technology," you shot back.

"Co-discover," he corrected quietly. You scoffed and lightly nudged him on the arm.

"Give yourself some credit. You're a genius, regardless of your heritage, and it's a shame that some people are too blinded by their own mindless stereotypes to see that."

He blinked, a slight ray of quiet happiness peeking through the stern set of his features. "Thank you."

You walked in silence for a while as Viktor diverted his attention to navigating. As it turned out, despite his years of childhood spent in the place and his renowned mental ability, he wasn't the best at directions. More than once you had to double back, or wait as he mumbled to himself, trying to remember the route.

The sun grew higher and higher in the sky, chasing shadows into nooks and crevices. Unlike the carefully constructed, near-identical architecture of Piltover, each building here was different - if some could be defined as a 'building'. No two were the same; some high and haphazard, others barely tall enough to stand upright; ones neat and tidy and a pick and span,others that looked as if they'd been uninhabited for longer than you'd been alive.

You felt as if you were lost in a maze of neglect and abandonment, eyes of smashed glass scrutinizing your every move.

At one point, shouts sounded from somewhere too close for your comfort. You flinched. Viktor paused, foot froze mid-step. They weren't cries of pain or fear - rather the kind that was fueled by cheap alcohol and late nights.

Somehow, that unnerved you more.

The rowdy sound came again. Closer. Footsteps echoed down the street. A clatter up ahead. Too close.

You jumped as someone touched your shoulder, but it was only Viktor. He tapped a finger to his lips and inclined his head towards a nearby alleyway.

You didn't need telling twice.

You had both just disappeared into the grotty darkness when the party of drunkards rounded the corner. You tried to shuffle backwards to make more room, but the alley ended abruptly in a dead end. The space was narrow, barely big enough to stand width-ways.

As Viktor shifted into place, you were completely wedged in; wall on one side, him on the other. You pressed your back against the wall and grimaced. It was slick with grime.

Your attention was diverted from the cleanliness of the space, however, as the people passed by.

Craning your neck forwards, you could only catch brief glimpses of them. Dyed hair shaved or short or tied up in elaborate knots; burly arms drowned in tattoos and crude equipment; scars and bandages and makeshift tourniquets stained red with recent gore.

But what caught you attention most was the tell-tale glint of silver that adorned each person's belt, back, wrist, waist: Weapons. Guns, knives, blades - you couldn't tell, but the sight alone made the pit of your stomach turn cold.

They didn't look like the kind of people to welcome tourists.

"I thought you said this area was safe," you murmured, not daring to raise your voice above a whisper.

"It is," Viktor replied, then frowned and corrected himself. "Was."

"Yeah, clearly."

"It's been years, in my defense."

You couldn't help acknowledge your proximity to one another. Despite your efforts to make room, you both stood nearly nose-to-nose, chest-to-chest. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, hear the slight rasp to his breath. You kept your head firmly turned towards the street - and away from him, not wanting to deal with the problem of avoiding potential Undercity criminals and hiding a blush.

When Viktor deemed it clear and safe to go after an agonizing length of time, you let yourself relax, unaware you'd been stood so tense until then.

Once walking again, you chased those thoughts away. The stomach-fluttering kind. The distracting kind. Locked them in a chest. Lobbed them to the bottom of your mind for good measure. You'd been literal steps away from a gang of criminals, you reminded yourself. No time to dwell on inconveniently pretty mad scientists.

---

You knew it wasn't practical to get your hopes up about the shop Viktor was intending to buy from, but when you got there, somehow it managed to fail even your low standards.

Four walls, a rusty tin roof, a curtain-covered doorway were all it was made up of. It was barely more than a tumble-down shack, wedged between a derelict building and a cluttered courtyard of some sorts. Bins brimming with scraps of machinary clustered around the entrance like eager patrons.

You eyed it warily. "Are you sure this is the right place?"

It was clear Viktor attempted to look hopeful. The slight wrinkle of his nose betrayed his facade. Still, he nodded.

"Would you mind waiting outside?" he asked. "I'm not sure how... appreciative the owner may be of an extra outsider knowing of his business."

You confirmed you'd be fine to linger, not wanting to get on the bad side of another person.

As Viktor slipped under the ragtag curtain, you leaned against the wall of the building. It creaked concerningly under your weight, and you quickly straightened. Accidentlly destroying a shop wasn't on your agenda for the day. Then again, neither was 'hiding from Undercity thugs in a grimy alleyway with one of Piltover's top scientists'. But you didn't want to take any chances.

From inside, you heard the faint mumble of conversation. It didn't sound particulary aggrovated, which you were glad of. There was a tinge of tension to it, but it seemed closer to barter than threat.

You were so preoccupied in your listening, you didn't acknowledge the lurking figure across the street until a hulking shadow fell over you.

"Look 'ere," said a gruff voice. "Wha's a prissy thing like you doin' so far from home?"

Gods. Please don't let this be happening. Even on a good day you weren't good at social interaction, but now-

You looked up.

You froze. Literally. You could almost feel ice run through your veins, pool in your stomach, thaw in your throat.

A bolder of a man stood over you. He was all width and burl. Broad shoulders. Wide chest. Arms as wide as your thighs. His skin was stained with scruff and scars and filth. A ragged scar ran down one weathered cheek, from cheek to chin. Another divided his right eyebrow.

He couldn't be talking to you. He wasn't talking to you, right? You looked around, and found you were alone. No one else. Just you and him.

He was talking to you.

Shitshitshitshitshitshit.

"Ay?" he continued when you stood gawping in response in response,. He stepped forwards for emphasis. You stepped back. "I know a Piltover prick when I see one. Whatcha doing?"

He had a ragged looseness to his speech that skipped over the 'h's and 'g's, and ran all the words into one, long jumble of syllables. His breath was acidic and eye-wateringly sharp.

And you knew an alcoholic when you smelt one, you thought.

You automatically exhaled a brief laugh at your witty thought, then stopped. Big mistake.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

"Somethin' funny?" the man spat, mood switching rapidly. "God, I fucking hate you Piltover lot. Thinkin' you can waltz in here an' act like you're the shit." He aimed a glob of spit at the floor. You stepped backwards, and felt the wall promptly meet your back. Cornered.

"I'm sorry," you stammered. "I'm not- I didn't mean to-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Heard it all before. I asked you a question: whatcha doing 'here?" He left a pause between each word, growing closer with each syllable.

You gulped, attempting to clear the raw fear that had began to clamp your throat shut. "I was- I'm here to-" Suddenly, conveniently, your brain went completely blank. "I don't want to cause any trouble, really. I just-"

"Lookie here," he interrupted loudly, swaying on his feet with the force of the action. "You're on my turf, you are, and when I tells you to get out of my turf, you get out. Uhuh?"

You didn't want to correct him by saying that he'd never told you to 'get out his turf' in the first place. You bit your tounge. The taste of iron filled your mouth, mingling with the suffocating flavour of terror.

The swiped at his mouth, wobbling slightly, and suddenly coughed, bending double. When he straightened after a considerable amount of hacking, his mood seemed to have changed again.

"Tell ya what," he said, voice lowered in an attempt to be conspirical. "I'll leave you be, I will, in exchange for a little... something."

You swallowed. Your voice was pitchy and close to breaking when you asked, "...What?"

"Ya know what I mean," he said, slapping you on the shoulder the way a person might do an old friend. Only harder. And not as friendly. "You lot up there are loaded, what with your big ol' fancy houses an' all that. C'mon. You must have somethin' to cough up."

You blinked, suddenly feeling very much on the verge of tears. You had nothing. You'd come empty-pocketed that day. The object of most value on your person was probably the cloak you wore - which wasn't even your own.

"I don't have anything," you said. "Nothing. I don't- really, I don't." Then: an idea. "I'm here with someone else- in the shop. There. If you let me go and talk to him, I'd be able to get some-"

You attempted to slowly inch towards the entrance, but with unnerving speed the man shot out a hand and grabbed your arm. Hard.

He barked a laugh, and you flinched.

"D'you think I'm dumb?" You winced as spittle flecked your cheeks. You arm was beginning to throb. "Gah, I can't stand the nerve you lot. Can't fucking stand it."

You were trapped. Cornered. Stuck. You couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Your heart drummed so hard it was almost painful as it rammed against your ribcage like a captive animal.

You opened your mouth to yell, shriek, cry out - anything - but he caught on too quick, and slapped a hand over your mouth. You choked back a cry, suffocated by grime and sweat and flesh. To your horror, you saw the glint of brass knuckles adorned across his fingers. Sharp. Rusty. Blood stained.

You brain was collectively in overdrive and just. not. working. You couldn't think past the haze of primal fear fogging your mind. Waves of hot-cold adrenaline coursed through your body, itching to be put to use.

So you did the first thing you could think of.

A last, final attempt.

You drove your knee up with all the strength you could muster.

And kneed him between the legs.

The man swore loudly. He reached out to aim a punch at you, but in doing so dropped your arm. You took your chance, ducked under his arm, and ran. You were running in the wrong direction - away from Viktor - but you were officially on autopilot. Any path was an appealing one if it was away from that brute.

The piles of clutter surrounding the shop front made it almost impossible to move quickly. You'd barely made it ten steps away when a brass-tipped fist collided with the back of your head.

Stars. Spots. Sparks.

The blow sent you tumbling, black swirling sickeningly across your vision. You were met with additional bump to your forehead as you hit the cobbles. The world spun, shifted in and out of focus, upturned and overturned. You could feel your brain ricocheting around your skull from the impact.

Everything was blurred and dizzy and not entirely real. Your head throbbed. Your heart pounded. You felt sick and weak and scared and terrified and-

Through the storm-cloud swirl of your vision, you saw boots approach you. Boots connected to legs. Connected to a torso. Connected to the head of a very strong, very pissed (in both ways) man.

He grumbled something slurred and incoherent. "... you lot..."

He raised a boot.

The world slowed.

You managed to muster enough strength to cover your head with your arms in one last feeble move.

And-

Thwack!

You shrieked. Tensed. Waited for the pain to come. Waited.

Waited.

... Waited.

Something heavy hit the ground beside you. Not a shoe, or a fist. Bigger. It landed with a whumph, then... a groan?

Shaking, you unwrapped your arms from your head and looked up.

The man lay sprawled on the floor, head lolling, a purple welt already forming on the base of his skull. And stood above him, hands shaking, cane raised, was-

You let out a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

Viktor blinked, staring wide-eyed at his hands clenched white-knuckled around the length of his walking stick, as if only just coming to terms with what he'd done. A smear of red stained the polished wood. He stared at the heap of a man face-down on ground, then at you.

You blinked away the tears and grit from your eyes. "I-" was all you managed to say before your voice threatened to crack, and you clicked your jaw shut.

Viktor appeared to regain some of his senses, and carefully extended a hand, which you grasped weakly and stood up. He was shaking, too. Instantly you stumbled, and he shot out an arm to support you. You felt as stable as a young tree sapling, as if one gust of wind could bowl you over.

It probably could.

Something hot and honey-like crept down the back of your neck, which was beginning to throb. You gingerly raised a hand, dreading but knowing what you'd see. Your fingers came away sticky and red.

Oh.

Viktor pressed a hand to his brow, eyes glossy. His mouth opened and shut for a few moments before words finally came out.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice rough, sounding as shaken as you felt.

"It's not your-"

"I'm sorry," he repeated, lightly squeezing your hand. You hadn't realized he hadn't let go yet. You didn't want him to. "We- we need to go."

You managed a small nod. "Let's go," you said, voice breathy from the shock.

Then the darkness became too much, and you promptly passed out.