Bab 385: Mage in the Machine (League of Legends/Arcane - Fate) by TurtSnacko
Shirou from nasuverse finds himself in world of Runeterra aka leauge of legends Arcaneverse specifically this is gonna be amazing need I say anything else???
Words: 210k+
Link: https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/mage-in-the-machine-league-of-legends-arcane-fate.1131397/
(Beneath the radiant skyline of Piltover, in the shadowed corners of The Undercity, Shirou navigates a life marked by loss and emptiness. Once a hopeful soul with dreams that stretched beyond the confines of his darkened world, he now wanders through the labyrinthine depths, a ghost among shadows, haunted by memories of a tragedy that stripped away all he cherished but unable to stop walking forward.
A solitary figure whose existence is a mere whisper against the backdrop of the City of Progress overhead. His days are a monotonous cycle in the murky corridors of The Undercity, where hope seems as scarce as sunlight. That is, until an unexpected encounter with Jayce, a visionary inventor from Piltover, ignites a flicker of possibility in his desolate world.
Jayce, driven by a dream to meld magic with machinery, sees in Shirou an unexplored potential—a key to unlocking a future where the divide between their two worlds could be bridged. For Shirou, this alliance is a double-edged sword. It offers a chance to reclaim a sense of purpose, to fill the void left by loss, yet it also plunges him into a web of intrigue that stretches far beyond the underbelly of The Undercity.
As Shirou grapples with his inner demons, he finds himself caught in a conflict that spans the heights of Piltover to the depths of his home. The project, promising to revolutionize the world, becomes a battleground for forces lurking in the shadows, vying to control the power that could either unite or destroy both cities.)
Chapter 1
The best part of LoL is the lore.
The worst part of LoL is everything else.
This is from my snippet thread and is sort of a fusion between Arcane and the actual LoL lore because the two aren't completely compatible with one another. But I feel as though it's an easy fix for the most part. I think the Arcane versions of the LoL characters are way better then there normal iterations but that's personal taste. Only one that didn't get me is Heimerdinger as he's basically a completely different character in the show then the game.
When I came to, I was on a burning bridge.
The fire around me scalded my skin red, while the smoke tried its best to strangle me. But as I am now, I barely react to it all. Because while I'm the only thing here that still possesses its original form, that's only on the outside. Everything I am, by now, has been devoured by the ghosts left behind in each face I pass as I stumble through the smoke aimlessly.
All around me I hear it, pleas for mercy.
I don't respond.
I step over the soon to be dead who didn't get that mercy.
All around me I see it, the bodies on the ground, seeping from blown open holes in the corpses around me into the stone below them, into my shoes. It's sticky, making it harder to trudge my way through the hell around me. Like the life that remains is dedicated to dragging me to the floor where I'd surely lay down and die with them.
I felt that since I survived, I should live on. I was walking aimlessly, because I thought it would be dangerous just to stay here. I wasn't really concerned about getting burned up like the people lying around me. Though I still moved regardless of it all, one step after the other. I had no hope.
It was already a wonder I was still alive, so I couldn't expect to be saved.
I won't survive.
Whatever happens, I won't be able to escape from this red world.
I stop, finally falling to my scraped knees. I don't look myself over once, the shellshock I'm going through making it hard to care about just how much I bleed from the shrapnel I can feel in my body from the shell that killed my-
…
...Those people I had been looking for.
That was why I was here wasn't it? I had been told to stay away from here.
I should have listened.
My head cranes up on my knees, staring up through the red smoke towards the sky. I stare past the sternly stoic faces carved into the bridge's spires, casting judgment on me and the people around me. And I see it in the distance, the white towers of heaven in the distance, untouched by the disaster around me.
I want to feel hate...
But it just doesn't come.
All I feel is profound sadness.
I will die staring at that unattainable utopia, one that doesn't want me or those around me.
The sadness grows, for me, for the dead, and for the future that will surely bring more pain and terror on the scale of today.
A shadow falls over me from behind, and I don't bother to look away from that ever-distant utopia. It, and the people around me are now burned into my soul, they'd never leave me alone now.
I stare straight at the dead corpses burned into my vision. Super imposed over heaven in the distance, facing me and blocking its view from my eyes.
I stare straight at the dead.
And their weight lands on my back.
"Hey..." I hear the shadow behind me speak. His voice is... so tired, but he still makes the effort to be as kind as it can be. I barely hear him, even though his voice is familiar to me. I turn my gaze back down to the hell in front of me, searing ever body into my mind and adding to the weight. This is wrong, I'm only hurting myself further.
But at this point, is it no less than I deserve? Surviving where they hadn't?
"Shirou..." the voice says again, his voice harder, more worried. It's almost like that worry is another dagger in my riddled body. I feel like I start to bleed out ever faster than I had before in response. Like my body instinctively wants to die for inconveniencing someone with worry about someone like me. "Son... look at me-"
I can't... I can't look away from the nonchalantly retreating forms of the men who perpetuated the slaughter of the people around me. Their eyes twin pools of crimson as they stomp away in unison. If my tears hadn't already stopped falling due to exhaustion, I imagine they would have doubled at that point.
Why did this have to happen?
Couldn't this have been avoided?
Why didn't someone stop this?
I feel a strong hand reach around and forcibly grab my chin. I don't react, the image already burned into me to the point I can't unsee it. I see a familiar man; someone I know from... from somewhere my mind won't allow me to access because to do so would be to break and die in this moment.
I see a large and muscular middle-aged man with grey eyes, dark hair, and a neatly trimmed greying beard. His eyes are tired but focused, staring straight at me while I stare straight through him. In his arms, he holds two girls that also seem familiar in that moment, one with pink hair and the other with blue. But I still can't place it.
I still don't want to place it.
All three look down at me, their expressions all taking a range, but all of them reflecting the same general emotion.
Horror.
"S-Shirou...," I hear the one with blue hair whimper. I don't know what my expression is like, but it must be something utterly inhuman. The pink one says nothing, her tear-stained cheeks simply growing more tear-stained. The man holding them both says something I don't really catch, something I continue to not catch until his face is directly in mine, completely blocking my vision until I can only focus on him.
The dead fade, so long as he's here.
"Come on... let's get you home." He says, glancing over at the pinkette and giving an imploring look. She slowly nods through her own tears, before I feel her reach for me and help the man carry me while he's carrying the blue one.
Home...
…
...I'm not sure what that word would mean to me after today.
____________________________________________________________________________________
…My awakening is dark.
Perhaps I just don't dream much, but unless something really special happens, I always seem to have the same dreams. They're either about the day that gave birth to half of me, or...
…about swords.
I don't know why it is, but this is the only thing that comes into my mind. There's no meaning or reason to it. It may just be one of the aspects making up the one called Shirou. For me, there are no dreams to dream.
Only actions I need to take.
"…Hm," I groan, smelling the stale air of my bedroom.
I wake up to see the filtered light that manages to shine through the acrid dust and smoke of the undercity flowing in through the window. The singular feature that made my houses location worth the exorbitant cost of purchase. It used to be exorbitant rent, until Vander had a talk with the land owner. Something I was and still am embarrassed to think about.
I don't want to be looked out for or treated specially, that's why I moved out on my own two years ago. That wasn't so he could step in the moment I mention I'm having a small bit of trouble with the rent when he pressed me on how I was doing on my own.
It wasn't anything I couldn't handle, I just needed to work a little harder.
The sun may have just risen as it's still a bit dark outside. But what do I know about that, it's always some level of dark here. I won't know for sure unless I check my clock or open my window, which there is no way I'm doing. Stale air is preferable to the stink of the Undercity.
"I'm really not good in the mornings," I groan to myself as I get up, trying not to be defeated by the morning chill, and quickly fold up my futon.
It's five thirty.
One of my strengths is waking up at this time, no matter how late I go to sleep. I do sometimes make mistakes and wake up late, but I usually wake up early. I think alarm clocks are degenerate, though I've never needed one. Back when I lived at The Last Drop, I'd always have the others to wake me up if I was late.
...It's only been two years since I struck out on my own, why does it feel like it's been so much longer than that?
I push my way through the house, glancing at my kitchen with a small bit of longing as I pass. It's honestly depressing just how little I've been able to use my own kitchen since I got this place. And it's not because I don't want to, I love cooking, I used to do it for everyone back then when Vander was too tired to do it himself. But since I turned eighteen and decided to start living on my own, I just haven't had the time.
For how messed up the Undercity is, finding a halfway decent living area in a safe-ish area isn't that hard. It's just cost of living in those areas is pretty high. And for someone like me, who, granted, lives on his own most of the time so the costs aren't insane, they're still more than what I can make without throwing as much time as I can into work.
It honestly kills me a little, knowing I have to buy my meals more often than I can find the time to cook them. I keep telling myself once I'm more stable, I'll dedicate more time to it but...
It's been two years, and that time hasn't come yet.
But that's my fault, not anyone else.
I need to get to work.
I quickly change my clothes and grab my tool bag, pushing my way out of my home through the front door and as always, temper the sudden vertigo I was thankfully expecting. I step out onto the raised platform my home sits on, attached to one of the Undercities cavernous walls that box it in below those in the upper city. I step up to the poorly made railing made of rusted pipe and sheet metal, nose twitching at the familiar but no less awful smells of the city, and I look down.
The city is shrouded in green all along its long and narrow streets that all flow in the same direction. I see hundreds of people and know thousands more occupy the places my eyes don't reach. There are countless places for people to hide away due to the nature of the location. The Undercity, Lanes, or Zaun as I still hear some people who can't let go of the past call it, is a place built in a large crevice underneath the more open and objectively prosperous city of Piltover.
Over what? I can almost hear Violet sarcastically say in my head.
My cheek aches, the bruise that resulted from our last talk having long since healed. But the sting remains endlessly. Hopefully it will fade during the walk. I turn away from the city below me and start making my way through the winding platforms that lead down to the streets below. Not that they're my destination, I just need to get to the lift that'll take me down to the lower slums. That'd be the quickest way to Benzo's shop.
I recognize some faces I pass and offer nods and small waves, but no more than that, I have to get to work. Benzo would almost assuredly forgive me for being late, but I don't want to accept that as a reason to start being tardy.
I live in the Entresol level of the city, the middle section separate from the top and bottom districts of the fissures. It's a level of the Undercity situated just below the Promenade: the notional border between Piltover and here. Deep In this district, brokers, dealers, traffickers and entertainers mingle in cliff-dug trading posts and workshops. A hub of cosmopolitan commercial arcades, supper-clubs, recital halls, joy houses, and "everything goes" type clubs, making it one of the most populated districts of the cities.
Even so, it's tough to consider it flourishing even with all of that. It's just testament to the stubbornness of the people here that things keep going at all. I've realized that a long time ago.
This is where the smoke and smog of the city, or as it's affectionately called, Lane Gray, tends to linger most. People living here would claim this level is where the majority of the work that allows the city to function takes place.
I flap a hand in front of my face as I pass through a cloud of smog, my feet clanging against the structure beneath me until I finally make it to the actual streets. Twin roads going up and down the walls with bridges connecting the two sides of the city. I keep my hand on my tool bag, conscious of any thieves as I quickly make my way towards one of the lifts on my side of the city.
I'm headed down into the slums a minute later, hand holding onto one of the ropes hanging from the wooden lifts roof to keep me from falling off the side. Ramshackle it may be, but it's probably the one piece of machinery I'd trust to always be kept in as weel condition as it can be. The city would, with no exaggeration, die without these lifts between the districts.
As the green ambience of the slums gets closer and closer, I can't help the small smile that grows on my face as the lift jolts to a stop at the bottom, letting me off into the place I was raised in. I may live a district above, but I'm as much of gutter rat as everyone else down her.
"Oh! Shirou, there you are!" A merchant I know as Beck calls out from across where the lift set me down. I'm in the middle of one of the few market districts on this part of the city.
This is Undercity's deepest level, past the reaches of the Gray-filtered light, where the environment turns grim, increasingly disorderly, and poorly lit; it is densely cramped with piping and discarded items. Most of the working class live here or just above it where I live. The depths of Undercity are amongst the most squalid yet vibrant parts of the city. The Lane Gray has its origin here, rising from rank waterways or venting from corroded grilles.
It's... as close to home as I can get these days.
"Beck, anything new?" I ask the man as I step off the lift into the wet mud and stone that makes up what we call the Sump layer of the undercity. I walk up to his stall, one of many in the market, while making sure not to bump into anybody. That's a quick way to get a knife in your chest. Thank goodness for the scarcity of guns down here.
He shrugs his shoulders with an easy going grin. His dirty skin and greasy hair something I've long grown used to. While I make a point to bathe every day, I can't judge those who don't, or rather, who can't afford the water to do so.
I wouldn't wish the polluted waters of this city on my worst enemies. I'm pretty sure they're only a few PH off of becoming straight acid.
"Nah, not on my end, but if you mean on your end, then yeah!" The merchant says overing me a skewer of questionably sourced meat. I take it, not even grimacing for once. Food is food, you really can't afford to be picky. I bite into the meat and ignore the taste as I quirk a brow at the merchant. "Vander told me to tell you he wanted to talk to you, seeing as you pass me every day, he asked me to pass the message along."
"If Vander wants to talk, he can come to me or Benzo's." I tell him, almost on reflex. "It only causes problems when I go back to The Last Drop. As much as I like the place, I don't want to ruin the good times of the people going there with the inevitable arguments."
"Oh, still feuding with that girl of yours?" Beck asks me, making my expression flatten. He stares at me like he didn't just say the stupidest thing I think I've ever heard. I don't say the sarcastic biting remark I'd like to, because he is a nice guy, just clueless. "What's the beef now, come on, let's gossip a little?"
"Violet is no one's girl, don't let her hear you say that," I start with a warning, before shaking my head. "And... When are we not feuding over something? She- You know what? I'm not even going to get into it."
"I guess that's true..." Beck says, looking thoughtful. "... but come on, you can share with your pal Beck, can't you?"
"Not this time, pass my message along to Vander next time you see him alright?" I tell him, finishing off the skewer and handing it back to the merchant for him to reuse. I was careful to not let it touch my tongue, teeth, or lips. He sighs, but takes it back before waving me off.
Seriously, that brute? Even calling her a girl is being too polite. I can only hope Powder doesn't take after her. And I can only hope Mylo is leaving her alone. Gods know I've spent more than my fair share of time having to mediate.
…
It has been a while since I've stopped by The Last Drop, hasn't it? A month or two I believe. Maybe I can ask someone if they've seen her inside? If not, I could maybe check on Powder, Mylo, and Claggor while seeing what Vander wants? I need to make sure Violet hasn't dragged them into something they have no business doing.
It's just one of the things we don't agree with each other on.
As I continue to consider this, I find myself stopping outside an alley. My ears perking up at the sound of laughter and loud complaining. I glance to the left, directly down the dirty space between buildings. I see a group of people, maybe a year or so younger than me. It's three guys and one girl, they crowd around a fifth guy who sits in the middle of a familiar contraption.
It's some sort of wheel with a seat in the middle, like some sort of unicycle but motorized. It's clearly custom built, and I know that because I know who built it. The guy who sits in the chair curses, messing with the buttons and trying to get it to turn on. My expression darkness, I feel it.
Ekko and I will be having words about locking up his stuff better once I get to Benzo's
But first...
"Trace..." I start, my hand wrapping around the metal baton I keep in my tool bag. The baton hardens to unprecedented levels, and I turn into the alley. I'll have to get that back for him, nobody should be stealing from a kid. "...On."
Looks like I'm going to be late.
Chapter 2
The pulse in my veins beat like a drum as I eyed the four thugs. Between them sat a bike, cobbled together with parts that screamed Ekko's handiwork. I stepped into the alley; my boots silent against the wet pavement. But that doesn't stop the group from noticing me as I stalk towards them, back straight and eyes as hard as stone.
"Look what we got here, boys," the apparent leader sneered. He looked me up and down, sizing me up. I'm not the tallest or most intimidating person out in The Lanes. So, I doubted he was very impressed with what he sees. Nobody is at a first glance, not that I really minded. Though most of the older toughs at least knew my face through Vander.
These guys looked to be around my age though, the hierarchy outside Vander most likely not having been fully burned into their minds. He notices the way my eyes flick from him to the bike, and he snorts. "What, you want the bike? Well, I could give it to you, for a few gold cogs?"
I didn't waste words. Talking never was my thing and it's not like I'd give them money for stolen goods, even if I had it. I studied them – their grip, their stance – calculating my odds.
"I just want the bike," I said, my voice steady. "You stole that, and from the looks of it you don't particularly seem to be struggling more than the rest of us. So, hand it over and I'll return it to where it belongs."
"You think you can take it from us?" He laughed, a sound that grated on my nerves. In that moment I'm not staring at the laughing face of the thief, but a tough face of a familiar girl with pink hair, one side shaved low and the rest falling over the opposite side. Violet snarls at me, incensed by what must have been a biting rebuke by me.
...It's just my mind playing tricks on me, but I can still feel the frightened stares of Claggor, Mylo, and Powder as they watch the two of us scream at each other. This wasn't the time to reminisce, however, no matter how guilty I feel for not setting as good as an example as I should have in the past.
Before the thief finished his sentence, the biggest of the lot charged, a hefty pipe swinging towards my head. I dodged, feeling the rush of air as the pipe missed me by inches. My counter was a punch, swift and hard, into his stomach. His breath left him with a huff, and he stumbled back. My mind drifted to the baton I keep in my bag, the one I grasped moments before.
An extra precaution, should the odds I think I'm against show something surprising.
I'm not going to kill anyone, not if a simple show of strength will suffice.
"A good boxer isn't just someone who can hit hard; it's someone who knows how not to get hit," I hear Vander in my ear, reminding me as his fists lightly tap me between the open areas of my guard. "Keep your guard up, eyes open, and always be aware of your opponent's next move."
The next one reveals a long chain, moving quicker than I expected. I grabbed a discarded metal lid from the ground, deflecting the chain's bite. Metal clanged against metal. I twisted, my arm swinging the lid like a makeshift shield, crashing against his wrist. The chain dropped with a clatter. One precise, powerful kick to his knee, and he was down with a cry.
I could have taken his leg off had I swung my baton, this was the better way.
"Every opponent is different, and what works against one might not work against another. Learn to read the fight, adapt your style, and be versatile in your approach."
Now the other two, uncertainty in their eyes, attacked together. One slashed a knife; the other tried to circle behind me. I retreated, keeping them both in sight. As the knife came at me, I caught his arm between my arm and side, yanking him forward while my elbow smashed into his face. The sound it made was oddly satisfying.
"A well-placed and well-timed punch is far more effective than a hundred wild swings. Work on your technique, precision, and timing. It's not just about how hard you hit, but where and when you hit."
As he reeled back, I let him go and glared over my shoulder at the last of the four underlings, a girl who was about to grab me from behind. I felt it in my eyes, the spark of something mystical, visible to the world. She sees this and hesitates, giving me just enough time. My foot connected with her unguarded midsection, her breath leaving her in a whoosh.
The leader, now alone, let fear replace his bravado. I stepped closer. "Last chance. The bike. Now."
He nodded, fear clear in his eyes, and scrambled away with what remained of his pride. He heads to the groaning forms of his friends, my eyes following him for a moment before glancing at the four I beat. They'd be fine in an hour or two, but where I hit them is definitely going to bruise.
Gods... this never felt good, the adrenaline, the ache in my body as I pound flesh into the ground.
I hate fighting...
But it's the way of life down here. If you can't fight or don't have somebody to protect you... you just get taken advantage of. It's the thing I hate most about the Undercity, especially because I can't blame them for being like this regularly. It's not like we have what those in Piltover do. Human beings just want to live when you break it down to brass tacks.
When they are forced to fight over what life we're allowed to have here, why wouldn't they fall to being like this. I don't fully believe in the general sentiment that Piltover's prosperity is the reason for our suffering below but... I suppose it's not helping our situation either.
Before that day at the bridge, I had always looked across the river at that ivory city with awe. I could even remember those rare times I had been able to even wander it's streets. The first time I laid eyes on Piltover, it was like stepping into a daydream. The sun hit the high towers in such a way that they shimmered like pillars of light, rooted in clouds rather than concrete. Every street buzzed with the melody of progress - gears turning, steam hissing, and the hum of the people resonating in a symphony of advancement. It was so different from where I'd come from; it felt like a leap across realms, not just cities.
As I wandered through the bustling avenues, my eyes couldn't help but dart from one marvel to the next. The people seemed to walk with a certain pride, adorned in fine clothes, their eyes set on horizons I'd only ever imagined. It wasn't just the machinery or the tall buildings; it was the air itself, charged with a sense of boundless possibility.
I remember thinking to myself, 'This is it. This is the future.' Here, in the heart of Piltover, lay the very pinnacle of human ingenuity. A place where problems seemed solvable by the mere twist of a wrench or the flick of a switch. Where every new invention held the promise of a better tomorrow. I saw opportunity in every corner, a chance to be part of something monumental. It was like standing at the edge of a new world, ready to leap.
But as I spent more time there, weaving through the crowds, listening to snippets of conversation, and observing the interactions that weren't meant for tourist brochures, I began to realize the intricate complexities beneath this glittering surface. The sparkling façade hid shadows in its alleys, and the smiles masked stories untold. The disparity between those who walked the golden paths and those who lurked in its fringes became glaringly apparent.
It hit me then, with a gentle but unignorable force – Piltover wasn't just a city of dreams and progress. It was a city balancing on the scales of intricate social and political dynamics, a place where light and shadow played a continuous, intricate dance. For every marvel of technology and every testament to human achievement, there seemed to be a hidden cost, a story of struggle, conveniently tucked away from the gleaming main streets.
It was a lot more complicated than I had initially thought. The city that I saw as a beacon of hope was also a puzzle of contradictions, challenging the simplicity of my initial admiration. The realization was sobering, yet vital. To really understand Piltover, I had to see beyond its shining surface, into the depths of its heart and the stories it held.
Even after that day on the bridge... I still believed that on some level. Even with what the city across the pond has taken from me and those I love around me.
...I can't hate it, or the people there, who don't deserve to suffer just because I have suffered. I just wish there was a way to make both cities get along, because finding that would help so many people.
I don't have the answers though, and neither does Vander. So, all I can do, is what I can. He'd always been more interested in helping those in the Lane's build what life they could for themselves. A passive stance that, since that day at the bridge, has kept the Lane's safe, if not satisfied. Something I've always admired in him, while Violet openly disliked.
In many ways, Violet's contempt for Piltover isn't misplaced. I understand her anger, her frustration. But fighting with her never made things better. Her words, sharp as knives, sometimes cut too deep.
"We can't just sit around and let them treat us like dirt!" she'd yell, her fists clenched, eyes blazing with a fire I wish I could quench with reason.
"We're just going to end up dead if we start a war with them, Vi!" I'd shoot back, trying to inject some sense into her heated logic. "Think about Claggor, Mylo, Powder… think about what would happen to them if we're not here!"
She'd scoff, her lips twisted in disdain. "So, we just keep taking it? Keep our heads down and thank them for not stepping on us too hard?"
"That's not what I'm saying, and you know it," I'd argue, feeling the strain in my voice. "There are other ways, ways that don't end with us lying in the dirt. We've got to be smart, Vi, not just strong."
But she wouldn't listen, or maybe she couldn't. Her heart, so full of hurt and anger, had little room for patience or cautious strategy. And there I stood, understanding both sides of a coin spinning wildly out of control, unable to choose one without betraying the other.
Shaking off the memory, I glance back at the bike. It's just a bike to some, but to me, it's a reminder of everything tangled and twisted between us, the Undercity, and the gleaming streets of Piltover. It's more than cogs and wheels; it's about respect, ownership, and the tiny bit of control we have over our lives here.
I heave the bike upright, feeling the weight of more than just metal and rubber. Each cough of the engine as I ride back will be heavy with the thoughts of my city, my people, and the precarious balance we maintain in the shadows of Piltover's brilliance.
I know I can't fix everything. Maybe I can't fix anything at all. But I won't stop trying to find some middle ground, some way to ease the tension without lighting the fuse that could blow everything apart. Maybe one day, I'll find that path. Maybe one day, both cities can coexist without one consuming the other.
Until then, I keep moving, keep fighting, keep hoping. That's all any of us can do.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Benzo's workshop appeared almost mystical in its organized chaos, a testament to both function and creativity. As I, stepped through the slightly ajar entrance, the sight that unfolded was one of captivating clutter and vibrant ingenuity. The initial area served as both a greeting space and a front desk, manned by no one at the moment. Papers, sketches of mechanical designs, and various tools were strewn across the desk's surface, each item suggesting a story, a project, or a dream momentarily paused.
Beyond the desk, a sturdy door stood slightly open, leading to the heart of the workshop. A faint, rhythmic thumping of music hinted at life in the otherwise quiet space. Curiosity piqued, I moved towards the source, letting the aura of the place wash over me.
Passing through the doorway, the larger room behind it unfolded like a hidden world. Here was where the real magic happened. Towering shelves laden with neatly arranged yet eclectic components lined the walls. From gears and bolts to more arcane parts that whispered of possibilities beyond my ken, each piece seemed carefully selected, waiting for its turn to become part of something greater.
In one corner, piles of scrap metal and broken gadgets hinted at past projects or future potential, each item offering a glimpse into the mind of their collector. Amid this treasure trove of tinkering stood various workbenches, each cluttered with tools and half-assembled machinery. The air was heavy with the scent of oil and metal, a perfume that spoke of hard work and relentless creativity.
Amidst this organized disarray, I spotted Ekko, lost in his own world. He was hunched over a workbench, his focus entirely consumed by the intricate piece he was assembling. A small, battered radio by his side played a steady stream of music, the beats merging seamlessly with the workshop's ambient sounds of clinking metal and whirring machines.
The rhythm of the music seemed to guide his movements, each motion deliberate and precise, as if he were conducting an orchestra of tools and components. The entire workshop was a reflection of Ekko's mind – brilliant, chaotic, and endlessly inventive.
Each tool, each piece of scrap, spoke of a relentless quest to build, improve, and innovate. Here, in this sanctuary of metal and melody, Ekko was more than just a craftsman or an inventor; he was an artist whose canvas was the very fabric of possibility.
And to think, he was only twelve years old.
He hummed as he tightened the screw on the gadget in his hands, his darker skin turning orange in the candle light we usually work in. His small form is seated on a stool, letting his white fuzzy hair absorb more of the light.
I guess Benzo is out?
I sigh before dragging the battered bike back into Benzo's workshop, the weight of responsibility and a touch of irritation hung heavy on my shoulders. I eyed Ekko, who was still immersed in his project, his small fingers deftly moving with the rhythm of the music. The clutter and charm of the workshop momentarily receded as I focused on the matter at hand.
"Ekko," I began, my tone more stern than usual. Ekko jumps, clearly not having heard me enter. "Your bike got stolen again. You need to be more careful, more aware." I leaned the bike against a nearby workbench, its frame echoing a metallic sigh. Ekko's eyes widened, the shadows dancing across his young features as he turned off his radio, the music halting mid-beat. A shade of embarrassment flushed across his face, and he nodded vigorously.
"I'm sorry, Bro. I won't forget next time. Promise!" His voice, tinged with sincerity and a hint of youthful shame, echoed slightly in the vast room. I nod at him and watch as he quickly swivels his body back to the bench he's working on.
I couldn't stay frustrated with him for long. Ekko's energy and enthusiasm were infectious, and his resilience, admirable. We both settled into our usual rhythm, with me repairing and refurbishing the junk that Benzo scavenged. This stuff would later be sold at a tidy profit, a cycle of rebirth and reinvention that had become our routine.
Working alongside Ekko, I often found myself marveling at his ingenuity. While I fixed what was broken, Ekko would be crafting something entirely new. Of course, that didn't mean what he crafted was useful in any way, but Benzo and I wouldn't ever consider crushing his ingenuity.
If he kept up, I could see him crossing the pond and finding a real life in Piltover with ease, like his parents wanted him to. Hell, I wanted him to do that as well, but he'd always been resistant to the idea for one reason or another.
Either way, I should get to work.
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone