#Cast Steel Components | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

meownotgood · 16 days ago

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steel kisses supernova. / machine herald!viktor x reader

A botched mission results in fixing the Machine Herald's mechanics, brushing your hands to wires, and indulging in the traces once left by emotion. tags: 18+, reader is gender neutral + fem bodied, reader uses they/them pronouns, wireplay, inappropriate use of hextech, bonding through near death experiences, divine machinery, reader has a prosthetic arm, repairing the machine herald, fluff + angst, praise kink, sexual tension, fingering + clit stim, size difference, protecting you with their own body trope, yearning, good lord you guys need to stop yearning, mix of arcane + league lore, vik's anatomy isn't mentioned. (terms used for reader: cunt, clit, no mentions of chest anatomy, dear, sweetheart, spark, love, adorable) word count: 49.5k note: hey!! please keep in mind, this fic is unfortunately too long for tumblr due to the word count + tumblr's post block limit... so you'll be able to read the first part of the fic here! the full fic is available in its entirety on ao3. apologies for the inconvenience, and happy (late) year of fucking robots... read on ao3

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The deepest fissures in the depths of Zaun are usually, thankfully quiet. Perfect to hide something you'd expect not to be found.

You breathe deep puffs of simulated air through your gas mask. Your ear presses to the cold steel door, sealing off the entrance to the Chem-Baron vault. There shouldn't be anyone present, not at this time. Enforcers know little of the darkest labyrinths of Zaun. It's too risky to even have guards stationed here. Predictably, you're met with total, resounding silence — save for the echoing beep and ping of Viktor's self-made sonar device.

Lowering onto your knees, leaving yourself eye-level with the door's intricate set of five locks, you cast one more glance towards him. Viktor — the Machine Herald — completely towers over you, especially from this position.

It makes the back of your neck prickle on impulse. The two of you hardly resemble partners. Creator and creation, more like. One another's opposite image. A bright purpose for sets of technical, controlled executions. A fragile, too-emotional human, and a composed, powerful machine.

As though his complex steel form, an expression of the limits of his work and technology, was made to be admired.

Some people do. They come to him when they need him; just as you once did, ages ago. They worship him like a deity. Perhaps you're starting to see why.

Viktor hardly resembles the man you remember. And yet, there's a certain thrum to him. Mechanical beats and impulses. Familiar gear and hardware that delightfully push the boundaries of science. Vibrant, intricate, self-built components that demand your curiosity.

The Machine Herald captivates you, just as strongly as Viktor once did.

Viktor's mask voids him of expression. His orange, glowing eyes are the only light to illuminate the room. Still, there's urgency to the way he moves, stepping closer. His cape billows in the chamber's low draft, his iron boots clank when they hit the ground. His thumb flicks a thick button on the side of the sonar device.

The third arm jutting out from his shoulders tremors, before it comes to life. It scans the door with a bright red sensor, then twitches, shuts off. The sonar reader chimes approvingly in response.

Viktor gives you a nod. His gaze runs hot and intense, enough to burn right through you.

"The Hextech crystals are here. The device is picking up several readings," He discerns, modulated voice rumbling evenly. "If we are fortunate, we might return all of them."

You pull your gas mask from your face. It hangs loosely from your neck. The vault's thick, partially-filtered air hits your lungs hard. One deep breath in feels like you've filled your chest with half clouds, half sawdust.

You're trying your best to focus, examining the locks with your eyes squinted, when a gentle, yet firm hand places onto your shoulder.

"Do not rush," Viktor instructs. "We have time. This should be handled as quietly and discreetly as possible."

Artificial heat bleeds from his touch. Sparks of warmth, like black holes and galaxies, expand and implode beneath your skin. There's a sense of loss, when he carefully pulls his hand away. Allowing the cold to seep back in.

Your jaw clenches. Finally, you turn towards your metal arm.

The edges are smooth and shiny, recently welded. It's second nature to test the flexing of your fingers, even though you can't feel them; the metal creaks, but holds, gears turning, rigid platings twisting. Intricate patterns, in deep shades of silver and amber, line the frame. Fused together with a powerful ray of heat. A clear sign of his handiwork.

Recalling Viktor's instructions, you find a small notch on the underside. Press here, then pull this panel open. A thin lockpicking tool emerges from your palm, easily held between your steel-jointed fingers. Fit with its own handy flashlight.

It helps illuminate your work as you start on the first lock.

"How long do you think it'll take before they notice?" You're asking. Swearing to yourself, when the lockpick meets some resistance.

Viktor fiddles with the sonar device. "They will eventually. The crystals are nothing more than a bargaining chip. In all probability, once they attempt to sell them back to Piltover- Well, they will be in for an unpleasant surprise."

"We're making enemies of top and bottom side, then."

Viktor answers, "As anticipated."

It certainly wouldn't be the first time. This is all deathly familiar — working beside the Machine Herald, stealing tech to help those in Zaun. Though, this mission has been easy, in comparison. Perhaps a bit too easy. Your first tango with Zaun's upper echelon should've posed more of a challenge. All the crystals are right here, in an unguarded vault. No strings attached.

Viktor's boot taps against the ground to an impatient rhythm. So, you aren't the only one on edge.

You try to make conversation. "Thought about what you're gonna say to Miss Glasc?"

Rummaging through a Chem-Baron's property is one thing, certainly a dance with danger. Messing with Renata Glasc would be like prancing underneath a guillotine. She's influential, cunning, her connections nearly as bountiful as the coin that lines her pockets — and she's Viktor's benefactor, most pressingly. An important supplier of sheet metal, hardware, and painkillers.

"Glasc possesses no knowledge of this place. It is beyond her territory. Nevertheless, our alliance is not so easily relinquished, considering the rate of mutual benefit."

You put on your best faux, overly fancy voice. "We're her most beloved pawns, after all."

Viktor expels an amused huff in agreement.

The first lock ticks. When you move on to the second, it pops open around your lockpick in one smooth, simple movement.

You scoff, clicking your tongue, "As rich as these people are, you'd think they'd have a better security system."

"Our work here is not yet complete," Viktor replies, firmly and mechanically. He closes the sonar device, and he kneels down to hand it off to you. With your hands full, you're reaching around awkwardly, breathing an annoyed huff as you stuff it back into your pocket. "We still need to wipe the security cameras, and dispose of the thermal detectors."

"We?" The third lock clicks. "Pretty sure that's just my job."

"It is."

You throw him a quick, indignant glance. The fourth lock clicks open harshly, as you hastily jam your lockpick past the threshold.

"Almost done," You're mumbling, mostly to yourself.

"Excellent work," Viktor practically purrs, praise reverberating through his voice filter. "The new lockpick functions for you naturally, I see. We will be finished here soon."

Your spine tingles, like there's a lightning storm underneath your skin. Your heart pounds. It threatens to throw your composure off-kilter. To be praised by the feared, indecipherable Machine Herald is a wonderful, thrilling, head-rushing thing.

But you've stopped working on the last lock. The end of your lockpick taps the door idly, to no rhythm in particular.

Viktor notices.

"I thought I would provide you with some motivation. But here you are. Pouting, as expected."

A steel palm glides up from the small of your back, leading to your shoulder as he stands upright.

"First," Viktor explains, "I will obtain the crystals. Then, you will head to the security room, and I will stand guard in the event we are ambushed. We already discussed our plan. Have you forgotten?"

Your eyes roll. He says it like a taunt — you should try to remember, because he doesn't plan on reminding you twice. Although, in truth, there's little force behind the words. There never is, not when it comes to you.

"Actually, I remember being promised a reward in my future." You glance up at him, gaze playful, star-like. The lockpick twirls around your metal fingers. "Y'know, for all my hard work. I'm sure you haven't forgotten about that, right?"

Viktor hardly falters. "Once we return to the lab, we can discuss."

"Hm." You stare blankly at the last lock. Dramatically squinting your eyes, tapping your index to your chin. "I think my lockpick is broken."

Viktor grumbles, "You are ridiculous."

Your shoulders shrug. "Just clarifying our terms."

It's rhythmic — the way you instantly return to your work, turning away to hide your shit-eating grin. Your partner falls silent, for long enough to let the tension build. Metal creaks and scrapes together when his fingers clench. Either way, you're going to get what you want. You're certain. The push and pull between you always ends in your favor. It has to, because there is one exception to his rule. One weakness, amongst his perfected layers of inhuman machinery. An unacknowledged line connecting you and the Machine Herald.

If it were anyone else, if Viktor was made of less flesh and more machine, he might've attempted to circumvent this, to remove the aspects he deemed distractions, but you —

Viktor sighs, hard enough to push steam out from the edges of his mask.

"When we return, anything you desire from the lab is yours. Or I will add another modification onto your arm, if you prefer." His steel hand returns to your shoulder, this time giving you an authoritative squeeze. "Now, focus. First, the Hextech crystals. Then, the security system must be dismantled. Deciding will come later."

Anything you want.

The smirk on your face must make you look stupid, but you're having a difficult time holding it back. Continue to play your cards right, and one of those crystals might be yours.

"Alright, V." A single turn of your lockpick clicks open the final lock. You rise to your feet, and the lockpicking module folds back into your arm with a simple button press. "I'll get it done, yeah?"

Viktor approaches the door. You swiftly step aside.

"Good."

The vault is small. The metal door opens with a loud, grating creak. A flickering overhead light turns on automatically, revealing walls decorated by various rudimentary weapons, and tables littered with blueprints. Canisters of shimmer are stacked neatly in a corner. Unfinished machinery parts collect in piles on the floor. Resting atop a table in the far-right corner, graciously reflecting the light, you spot your target — a glass case, with a set of Hex Crystals suspended inside.

You stride in. Viktor grabs his staff, still leant up against the wall, and he follows you into the vault.

Your hands clasp together and rest behind your head. You glance around, examining the entirety of the room. A large blueprint is pinned to the wall; stolen, most likely, as it's signed with various Piltover clan symbols. It seems to detail a process to make similar crystals artificially. There's no cameras on the ceiling, or in any of the four corners. You lightly kick one of the piled-up automatons with your foot. The springs in its center make a dull popping noise. A clear sign that they're entirely broken.

"Wish you'd be a little nicer, though," You're humming, musing idly. You kneel down, sifting through the pile of components on the ground. A chipped gear, a loose screw, a broken lever. Why would a Chem-Baron vault be filled with useless, rusty parts? "You said it's a psychological thing, right? When humans are influenced by their emotions. Positive reinforcement, I guess."

Beep, beep, beep.

You rise to your feet, and Viktor answers from behind you. Voice dangerously close to your ear. Low and stern enough to make you tense. "Don't move."

Unfortunately, you're not listening. You spin around to face him, arms crossed in front of you. Your fingertips toy with a loose wire on the panelling of your forearm. Viktor is twice as imposing when he's close; he towers over you, with your head barely coming up to his metal chest. Glowing eyes meet yours, and although it's usually impossible to determine what he's thinking, you can instantly tell something is wrong.

He glances to either side of the room. His fingers drum against his staff quickly, almost nervously.

Both arms fall loose at your sides. "I'm teasing, Viktor-"

"Do not speak," Viktor snaps, his tone controlled. He grabs your shoulder, hard enough to nearly make your weak legs stumble. "And don't move."

Beep, beep, beep.

Oh. Prevailing over the silence is an unmistakable noise, getting louder, getting faster —

Fuck. You're freezing up, as still as a fancy Piltovan statue. Your hands start to shake, and now you're chipping, threatening to crumble. Sweat beads at your forehead and the back of your neck, trickling down like sharp ice shards. You're both screwed.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep.

Valves fall open; a loud hissing sound cuts through the air like a blade, as the room quickly fills with billows of smoke and sharp gasoline. Burning your eyes, choking your lungs.

Viktor's staff hits the ground with a clatter. He grabs you, pulls you into his chest before the fear in your mind has caught up with your body. Your breath catches, your vision blurs, your ears ring — and all at once, the vault crumbles into destruction, blown to bits in the wake of a deafeningly loud explosion.

—

"Hold still. Is there one single instruction that is not immediately lost on you?"

"I'm trying, Vik. Geez."

Viktor presses an old cloth to a long scrape on your forehead, fabric ripped and dirty with oil stains. The disinfectant stings your skin lightly. You try your best not to flinch away. Your stool creaks when you awkwardly shuffle back and forth, digging your nails into your leg, and Viktor's scrapes the concrete ground when he shifts closer. A cold metal hand tilts up your chin, holds you firmly in place. He brushes the rag over your jaw, next. Meticulous, as he cleans the faint scrapes left by glass fragments, and so, so gentle. Your heart twists inside your chest, grinds and sings like a music box wound up too quickly.

You force your breathing to steady. Your eyes stare into where his would be. Soft and golden, honey-drenched suns. The light of his pupils burns when you look at them too long. The artificial glow behind his mask carries amber-hued traces of what you remember, but he's utterly unreadable. Would he be looking at you with annoyance? Disdain? Guilt?

Another corner of the rag is brought to your neck, and you roll your sore shoulders back. Trying to find a distraction, your gaze trails to the table behind him.

Stray parts are scattered about. There's scalpels, messy rolls of bandages. Tools are sorted into piles: various wrenches, different sizes of pliers. In tonight's chaos, a few screwdrivers have rolled onto the ground already.

And at the edge of the table rests a small glass case. The lid cracked, the surface charred. Each Hex Crystal remains suspended inside. Completely, tauntingly unharmed.

Emberflit Alley is quiet and secluded, especially once night has fallen. Viktor's lab hums to its own familiar, comforting rhythm. It allows you to finally breathe again.

Experiments you've been working on together litter every flat surface. Breathing devices, prosthetic outlines. A prototype hand takes up its own corner of his desk, parts separated neatly. There's a makeshift bed by the door, surrounded with discarded cans, left by the stray cat you both have been feeding. A couch rests in the room's corner, cracked leather showing its age. Stacks of your clothing pile up on the arm, neatly folded. You're sure you'd last left them in a heap on the floor.

The adjacent end table houses an ashtray, littered with your smokes. Coffee stains burned into the wood form halos around your chrome lighter.

(Viktor made it ages ago, to replace the ones you kept losing. It never leaves your pocket. Your thumb likes to trace over the jagged, uneven edges, welded from scrap material. You flick the sparking gear until there's a flame. Molten and warm, reminiscent of his heat — over and over again.)

Finally, Viktor leans back, satisfied. He turns in his stool, tossing the rag onto the table. He sifts through his tools for a moment, metal clanking together, before he turns back to you, wrench in hand.

"Your arm." Viktor instructs simply, holding out his gloved hand; and you're quick to extend it for him, allowing him to grasp and examine the broken gaps between your forearm's metal platings.

The memory of the evening's events flicker dimly through your mind. You both were lucky, all things considered.

You fucked up, must've tripped something. The vault shook, a bomb went off, and everything was a blur from there. A mix of hazy sensations. Ears ringing. Head throbbing. Rubble pinning you into place. Thick fumes choking you, burning in your chest, making your eyes water. Suffocating the cramped vault and mixing with the heavy air of the fissures. Pressure assigns itself a stronger definition. Its force pushes between your ribs, as though it hopes to split them open.

Viktor's greys and oranges took on a watercolor swirl in your teary vision. He pressed your gas mask to your face until you were breathing again. He helped you to your feet, carried you when you were starting to fade in and out —

Right. Viktor shielded you. He purposefully pressed you beneath him with seconds to spare, to ensure most of the rubble would damage him, instead.

His chassis was mostly unscathed; the advantages of steel, you suppose.

Your arm is busted, undoing all of Viktor's recent enhancements. Your lungs still ache. Your body hurts. The sort of hurt that crests like a fully-encompassing wave, the form of hurt you can't name. Not a this is sore here, or a this is injured there.

It hardly matters, in the grand scheme of things.

If the explosion damaged the canisters and blew through the shimmer, if it reached the crystals and sparked a chain reaction, the decimation would have been unrecognizable, you're sure.

A dangerous chill laces up your spine. It taps you on the shoulder, reminds you of the risks. Viktor adjusts the crooked lockpick-panel on your palm. He holds your hand in place when your fingers start to twitch.

You're alright, though. Alive. The realization perplexes you. It makes your chest ache, the memory a tender blade, pressing deep.

Viktor saved you. And for the faint, blurry moments in between, it felt warm, to be held in his arms. It felt safe.

This feels safe, familiar — Viktor skillfully glides his gloved hand down your forearm, examining where the frame has buckled in on itself. Metal components have been warped by heat. The outer armor is digging into the steel skeleton, blocking several axles and hinges.

He reaches behind him, exchanging his wrench for pliers. You're watching him think as his fingertip taps your arm rhythmically. You can practically hear the vibrations of his memorized voice, echoing through your mind. The skeleton is unaffected, but the outer shell has been decimated. Most functions are rendered inoperable. Additional augments can be repaired in time. For now, returning function to the joints is the primary objective.

It is a simple adjustment. You are in good hands. As you always are.

Viktor has no problem with wordlessness. But matters between the two of you rarely get this silent.

He holds your arm in a tight, unmoving grip. Pliers in hand, he works on bending each plating back into place.

It reminds you of the past, pleasant and persistent. Viktor's been working to improve your prosthetic since you met. When the line between you sealed into a knot. When tension brought you together, two ships on stormy seas, and you decided to turn your sails and bond over the shared struggles you had to overcome — your arm, Viktor's leg. Piltover was less of a grave, and more of a home, then.

Weakness, experimentation, and danger followed Viktor as a second shadow. Ultimately, it only made sense to rush after him. No matter where he returned to, no matter what he was slated to become.

Without Viktor, you might find yourself flexing your handmade fingers, staring at the piece of him you're doomed to carry with you. A reminder of the half to your whole. Like the connection between gears. Like what the hammer is to the nail. Bright light to a systematic solar panel, crisp air to weak lungs. A hacksaw to fragile flesh. Inseparable.

Viktor finishes adjusting the armor on that very same arm, and he begins to reach for your shoulder. His glove brushes your skin. Gentle, but you swiftly realize it's meant to be a distraction, reassurance. Crooked screws dig into the separation between your shoulder and your arm; Viktor tightens them carefully, and you wince, tensing up.

Low and soft, Viktor's words crunch through his partially-damaged voice filter. "Tell me if I am hurting you."

"No, no," You're answering, shaking your head. "I'm fine. Just a little sore."

You shut your eyes. Viktor tightens the last screw. Fuzzy stars blanket your eyelids once they flutter open.

His Hexclaw reaches behind him, handing him another tool. Ever-so careful, he examines a dainty set of wires leading through your forearm. He pushes them aside, attempting to reach a line of broken pistons set into your wrist.

Metal clinks against metal. The lab hums quietly, jars bubbling, vents thrumming.

"I cannot believe you waltzed right in."

Oh. Viktor shatters the silence — and your placidity, along with it.

"We're gonna start with this now?" You're huffing; the steel tip of your boot taps the floor anxiously.

Viktor stops. He tips his head up, glowing eyes with rings of circular, mechanical pupils glancing at you. Expectant, intimidating.

Your entire body weakens when you sigh, jostling your arm, making him hold you tighter to keep you still. The firm grip he has on your forearm's frame screams annoyed.

"How the hell was I supposed to know they had the place tripped?" You argue, "And weren't you supposed to detect it? With that device, like you did with the cameras?"

"Thermal cameras give off a unique heat signature, which the device was tailored to analyze," Viktor explains evenly. The end of his multi-tool extends to reveal small tweezers, which he uses to delicately remove specs of rubble from the joints in your wrist. "The Hextech crystals, as well. The energy they radiate is relatively equivalent. Failing to detect the tripwire indicates a clear error of design. It will be adjusted for our next mission. Now, your wrist. Test how it functions."

Viktor sits back, and you twist your wrist in either direction. The joints swivel smoothly, and the modified pistons hold firm when you clench your hand.

"Perfect. This will suffice," He concludes, with the familiar air of pride he always regards for his creations. Grasping your forearm once more, he returns to working on its inner mechanisms.

"We needed those crystals, Vik," You're continuing. Fiery gaze fixated on him, even though he's focused on his work. "Our current procedures aren't cutting it anymore, and you know that better than anyone. Hextech has the potential to save so many people. I'm not like you. I can't just… sit around and calculate every possible outcome before I make a move. We can never make progress without taking-"

"Risks only serve as obstacles when they threaten permanent consequences. Progress is not linear. It comes to those who are patient enough to know when they should further it."

Viktor compares a few different sized gears in his palm, eventually choosing the smallest one. It fits perfectly into the juncture of mechanics just below your wrist.

He glances up at you once. Then, he calmly returns to adjusting your arm. "Impulsivity will get us nowhere."

You groan, tossing your head back.

"They tripped a vault. With explosives." You're gazing at the ceiling, focused on the large, Machine Herald shaped shadow Viktor casts as he works. "Why even store the crystals there if you're just going to blow them up the moment someone nabs them? It doesn't make sense."

"This was not about the crystals. They are sending a message. The Chem-Barons will not hesitate to dispose of us, if we continue to cross them."

The pieces click into place, in hindsight. Voices flit through your memory. Takeda's shimmer-drunk drawl as he leans back in his leather seat and counts his coin. Make sure you tell your tin-can he still owes me. Veraza's cold tone as she crushes a purple petal between her fingers, the thick air of her greenhouse planting roots inside your lungs. Careful, now. The other Chem-Barons believe you are pulling at your leash much too tightly. Do not let them break your neck.

Ah, the crystals were bait. An expensive trade-off. And the vault simply housed the things they were trying to get rid of. Unauthorized weapons. Stolen shimmer. You, and the Machine Herald.

Physical pieces slot where they're supposed to, as well, when Viktor finishes adjusting the chain of gears that line your steel skeleton. This was the easy part. He rolls his shoulders back in frustration, as he attempts to adjust some warped, particularly stubborn strips of framework.

"But this discussion is about you," Viktor grits, as though the words are spoken between bared canines. "What in the world could you have possibly been thinking? Or were you failing to think at all?"

Your eyes roll. "You know what? I don't even want to get into it."

"We are not getting into anything. It is a simple conversation," Viktor swears under his breath. He pulls and pulls at the thin cylinder but the broken metal won't give. "And I believe you should contribute."

"I think it's best if we don't talk about it. We're both stressed, and just-"

"I disagree."

"I'm fucking tired, Vik," You're huffing, free arm rubbing the sore nape of your neck in emphasis. "My whole body hurts. Sorry if I'm not thrilled to sit here and listen to you scold me, because somehow, this is all my fault."

Viktor rebuttals, "You are missing the point."

"Oh, I think I understand it perfectly."

"I am merely asking you to consider your actions." Viktor pulls at the last broken strip hard. It snaps, and he tosses it onto the table behind him with an equal display of impatience. "From now on, precautions must be put into place. Especially in situations involving the Chem-Barons. And you must promise me, if we find ourselves in a comparable situation, for once, you will listen."

"Fine."

You're yanking your arm away the moment he finishes closing the platings. You examine it quickly, front and back, flexing your fingers. Some sections are still chipped, but it'll do. Clear, delicate care has been put into the intricate assembly of each division, each joint, to ensure movement is as comfortable and responsive as possible. Viktor's work is always articulate, but doubly so, when it comes to you.

His adjustments have already taken considerable weight off your shoulder. Surges of warmth kindle faint flames in your chest — but you're sighing, arms crossing, brows pinching.

"Next time, I'll stay here. Keep the place warm, since it's all I'm good at."

"I did not-" Viktor weakens in the wake of a sigh, as if the air is shuddering through his makeshift lungs. "I apologize, I should not have made it seem as if I was blaming you-"

"No," You interrupt. Teeth gritted. "I'm tired of feeling like all I do is get in your way."

You know you're being unreasonable, but you hardly care. The words simply tumble out, like they've been toppled from the knots in your mind. You glance down. Your fingertips fiddle with a line of screws embedded into your forearm.

Whatever rebuttal Viktor was planning dies as quickly as a blossom in a snowstorm. He drops forwards; his fingers lace, he rests his forehead against them. Tension buds in his body like you've never seen before. Finally, he runs a hand through his hair, and he sits up.

His voice fizzles with heavy, husky, insuppressible static.

"I could have lost you. That is what you do not understand."

Your spine tingles. As though it's laced in gold. You can feel the pull of guilt and tenderness — like gravity, in your heart, in your chest, in your flesh. The words must flicker differently through a mostly mechanical system, if they mean anything to him at all.

You stand slowly, kicking your stool away half-heartedly.

He's grabbing your wrist before you can get far. Your real wrist. He holds you there, hesitant. (The changing of seasons rarely reaches the depths of Zaun; you're gradually beginning to forget what they're like.) But Gods, Viktor's steel touch feels the same as the heat of summer, artificial warmth resembling basking in sun rays, dipping your wrist into candle wax. And yet, at the same time, it reminds you of the frigid chill of winter. Cool metal reminiscent of the sharpness of ice.

"Lay down," Viktor instructs, as though he plans to give you little choice in the matter. "It is late. You should rest."

Perhaps you truly do have a problem with listening.

Because even as Viktor is speaking, your gaze is travelling across him, eyes narrowing as they catch downwards. Your partner hates asking for assistance, but you're used to reciprocity — to completing something for him, in exchange for what he does for you. To further the cycle of fixing and repairing. Little losses and small victories, strung between the fate of you, and the Machine Herald.

Viktor's hand slips from your wrist. He follows your line of sight, and there's a look in your gaze he's long since come to recognize. Pure persistence.

Your palm reaches out to him, makes a grabbing motion. "Screwdriver."

Viktor drums his steel fingers against his iron thigh, making metal rhythmically clink against metal. Your stubborn nature is a stake, driving into him intimately. Like it never really left.

Leaning his elbow on the desk, he reaches behind him, to hand you the particular screwdriver he knows you'll need. Flat-tipped, handle weighty. A light smile paints satisfaction across your expression. He continues to keep his gaze on you as you're sliding down — your frame appears small, when compared to his, simply because you're only human; this state amplifies the difference between your mortal form, and his large, metal chassis. Eventually, you're settling on your knees in front of him.

The column of his leg is busted. It's functional, sure, but a few of the plates were crushed under rubble, the brace-like mechanism has springs loose and cogs twisted. Everything might crack, under the strain of continued usage.

For now, you can fix the platings. You've done it before. On his arms, a few times. On his back, once. You'll reinforce the gears and tighten the framework back into place, to keep it stable, until he has the time to make a full replacement.

You decide to start with his ankle, and work your way up. You're lifting his heavy leg, exhaling a weary breath as you place it close to your lap. The end of your screwdriver finds the seam on the back of his calf, screws crooked and stripped. Your jaw grits. You forcibly push the steel back into place, tightening each screw as far as it'll go.

(And you're aware this is stupidly reminiscent of a lifetime before, although Viktor is twice as metal, and half as human. Emotions and sentiment are among the many things he swore he discarded.) Yet, he's leaning back. Relaxing, almost. Giving in to you, to this.

Unable to sit still for long, Viktor twists. He finds the two broken halves of his staff, resting them in his lap, pressing them together. The Hexclaw twitches, before its laser hums. He begins to expertly weld both halves together.

After a while, you're breaking the silence. "Vik?"

Viktor doesn't look up. He examines the end of his staff, fiddles with a few wires and jacks. It's still out of power, predictably.

"Yes?"

"Back then, when the bomb went off." Your fingers trail his knee, admiring the smooth, solid structure. "You tried to protect me. Why?"

"I thought you did not want to talk about this."

You breathe a slight tch. "Just answer me."

You're glancing up at him, but Viktor is pointedly not looking at you. His Hexclaw curls behind him to set his staff on the table, and to grab another part. In tandem, he's reaching for his throat, pulling its front panel open.

He tilts his head back. Thumbs through the wires and exposed circuitry to yank a small part free, so hastily it seems like it'd hurt. He shoves the new voice box inside, until it clicks into place. Viktor rolls his neck once the panel is shut.

"The explosion was inclined to originate from the entrance, perhaps aiming to trap us inside," He explains, voice strikingly clear, this time. "As soon as it convened on the shimmer or the crystals, the entire room would be set ablaze. Fortunately, it did not. It was a poor plan. But, regardless of their failures, you are… not suited to withstand such conditions. The only option was to use my construction as a shield."

Your chest splits with an arrow-shot ache, because you know he's fucking right. If Viktor wasn't there, or if the fire had spread just a little more; if you weren't standing so close to him, or if your gas mask had broken, or if anything had changed —

You swallow hard enough to make your eardrums prickle, and you busy yourself with fixing the drilled-in brace, just above his knee.

"I guess that makes sense."

"And our mission was a success," Viktor reasons. "Was it not?"

"We got the crystals. But-" Your grip tightens on the screwdriver's handle. You breathe a long sigh, heavy enough to make your lungs hurt. "I'm sorry. For snapping at you, for acting like an idiot, for everything. I should've known it was a setup. The stupid vault was filled with junk. And I was standing so close to those shimmer canisters, I could've-"

Your head shakes; your breath does, too. "Nevermind."

Viktor's gloved hand grasps his gauntlet, where the power source feeds energy into his palm. You swear you catch his fingers trembling just slightly, as he deftly pulls the panelwork apart.

"My body will not take long to fix," He replies. Metal fingers clenching individually, while he prods deep into his own arm. "If that is your concern."

Your palm glides up his thigh slowly, exploring every dip and notch in the shape. Firm steel curves under your fingers. Beckoningly smooth. "I know. I want to make this up to you, is all."

A steel index finger drifts underneath your chin, tilting your head upwards, in his direction.

It's momentary. Viktor takes his hand away to grasp his gauntlet again, snapping the panel on his wrist shut. The molten light on the back of his hand glows brightly, indicating a newfound charge of energy.

"I need you to listen carefully."

"Mmm," You hum. You're warm, pliable, electricity traveling from the base of your neck to the end of your spine, like gliding gentle touches over tender bruises — "I'm listening."

"This was a minor setback, nothing more," Viktor continues. "Betrayal from the Chem-Barons was anticipated. Your safety is my only concern. On that subject, I believe I have made myself clear. There is no need to hold yourself responsible. You do not owe me anything."

Right. Just your life.

You take your time on the last screw in his upper leg. Rising to your feet, you toss the screwdriver onto the desk, causing it to roll all the way to the edge. You give him a swift once over.

The back of your hand taps against his chest. "Something's broken in here. The platings are all misaligned."

"Potentially."

Viktor grasps your hand. Squeezing, first, before he pushes it away. Gods, you know it's artificial and intentionally practiced — Does a machine's best attempt at replication still count as intimacy? — but it makes your head spin, all the same.

"I will handle it," He concludes, assured. Words thick and accented as they rumble through his filter.

Your head shakes. "No, it's- this isn't some kind of obligation. I want to fix this for you."

"Spark, you have done enough for me. You may rest, now."

The next breath you draw in aches to say his name.

So, you let it.

"Viktor," You murmur, although a hard, determined edge is returning to your voice, one that doesn't intend to take no for an answer, "Let me help you."

You can feel the vibrating thrum of machinery beneath your palm, with your hand pressed flat to his chest. You half-expect another argument to ensue. You're preparing for it, as you worry an impression into your bottom lip. Instead, Viktor shifts, sitting up fully.

He reaches down. Thumbs pressing a set of latching mechanisms, one on each of his sides. The armor around his entire midsection begins to hiss approvingly, releasing small puffs of pressurized steam.

"This," He starts, although he's already popping open the structure of his central system, "Would prove much more simple if I chose to complete it myself. But I will teach you. If you are willing."

Your smile shows your canines. "Of course."

The moment Viktor has his platings fully opened for you, armor swiveled to the side like doors on hinges, a thick blanket of smoke pours out, filling your lungs. You cough, batting it away. The sound of his machinery is so much louder: ticking gears, moving pistons, the hum of various pumps. Your eyes squint, and you place your hands on your knees, bending down to peer inside.

It reminds you of the automatons you've worked on together. The blueprints he followed for his own structure must have been similar, at least. But this won't be like operating on a person, nor an automaton. The little fixings you've done for the people of Zaun, fusing organic with inorganic, pale in comparison to the complicated system before you. Viktor's system.

Viktor's fingertips dance over the inner edges of his armor, pressing a few more latches into place. Locking functions, you're guessing. To keep the platings open.

"At odds with your expectations?" He questions, noticing your hesitation.

"Well, I suppose," You're answering, throat dry. "This wasn't what I was expecting, no."

"Ah. I will take it from here, then."

"No, just… give me a minute. Need to get my bearings."

A lull takes over. Viktor leans back slowly, he rests his elbows on the desk behind him; hands clenching, as he resists the reflexive tick to busy them. You allow yourself to kneel, still propped up enough to put your gaze eye-level with his mechanics.

It's… a lot.

You couldn't even begin to describe every individual intricacy. Different mechanisms all work in tandem, pushing out steam, clicking gears into place, powering various motors; and there's hundreds of wires, leading every which way like veins. They connect through a diverse array of parts, but they all inevitably curl into one central space — like the crest of a wave, like a Fibonacci spiral, an unintentional golden ratio. Bridging into a singular unit, runes carved on its edges. A small crystal suspended within.

You're reminded of Viktor's words from years prior, when his newfound form first perplexed you. When you steeled yourself and simply asked, because your gaze kept catching on the jarred organs surrounding his workspace, despite his declarations that he'd relinquished all of himself. Because you're watching him dig a scalpel into his forearm, skin dead and pallid like snow, obsidian-hued blood trickling into the gap between sizzling, split circuitry.

It was practical, this way. To replace imperfect organs with a consistent, mechanical system.

Actually, the configuration before you is anything but.

The mechanics show signs of Viktor's own handiwork. Welded edges, carefully constructed synapses. Bundles of wires have been grouped together messily. Displaying a clear motive: to focus on making a functional system, not a pristine one.

The central unit, housing the crystal, is surrounded by two large pipelines, interconnected by steel conduits. Their purpose is lost on you, but one is smaller, the pipe closest to the unit. Like the way one lung is smaller to give room for the heart.

Some of the parts are recognizable, albeit a bit rudimentary; they're prototypes you remember improving upon ages ago. Viktor must have deemed them still functional. Or perhaps, he hasn't had the time to replace them. It humanizes him, in a strange, opposite way. Viktor is so busy with the rest of his endeavors — evolving his plans for the Undercity, assisting others, including you — he hasn't been able to rebuild himself.

And there is something beautiful about it, about him. Something worth worshipping. Alluringly, divinely synthetic, self-made by his hands. Everything within him vibrates with electricity and life. Resembling a tangible, second soul.

(You're starting to understand those who pray for their flesh to be replaced with mechanics. Those who worship their image of the Machine Herald, despite not knowing he was once a man, just like them. Because still, every time you see them, knelt in reverence before a statue or a stained-glass depiction of the Grey Lady, you can't help but think of Viktor, and yourself.)

Your heart hammers wildly inside your chest, a perfect contrast to his steady, exposed system. Your breath echoes so sharply through the lab, you're sure with the proximity, he can hear it, too.

Maybe it's the circumstance — this is Viktor, after all. You're giving yourself a headache, trying to figure out how you should work on your own partner, how to understand the Machine Herald's stupidly ornate insides.

And it's exciting, interesting. You've never worked on anything so complex before. He's a puzzle you desperately want to learn to solve.

But, more than anything, this feels personal. Intimate. It's a thrilling, entirely new way to admire him, yet you're finding it difficult to stay relaxed. You think of the Viktor you once knew. Of how it would feel to be shown the softness of his guts. To be asked to dig through his sinews and his lungs and his innards, instead of wires and mechanics and gadgetry. Palms brushing a body made of fragile bones and pallid skin, not metal.

Fucking hell. You'd do it, either way. Without hesitation.

"Okay," You breathe, attempting to place yourself back on course. You rub the overwhelming tension from your temple, allowing your tired eyes to close for a fleeting second. Then, you're pulling up your stool, sitting across from him to continue your examinations.

Beneath his mask, Viktor's gaze stays magnetized to you. To the pinch in your brows, to your hands folded in your lap, moving with the bounce of your knee.

The curious, ambitious, lost-in-thought side to you is always impossibly enthralling.

"This is sort of familiar, actually," You reason, as though you're trying to convince yourself. "Kind of like Blitz, just… way, way more advanced."

You focus on locating the parts you recognize, as opposed to the ones you don't. The center unit is definitely a main power source. The pumps and fans surrounding it are likely for cooling. It amazes you, honestly. Viktor must know all of this like the back of his hand.

"I will explain the process to the best of my ability." Viktor replies.

"I'm, uh- a little nervous, V. It's your body, and I just- I don't want to mess anything up. When's the last time someone poked around in here? Is there anything I definitely shouldn't touch?"

Viktor clenches his hands idly. He leans back a bit further. "Comply with my instructions, for now. Once the major repairs are complete, and we have eliminated all present malfunctions, you will be free to tinker with each apparatus, as you see fit."

"Okay. I can do that."

"As for your additional question, it has been quite a while since I have improved upon my own design. This would make you the only one I have… shown this to, for lack of a more acceptable term."

"Oh." You shrink up, recoiling your hands before they can reach for him. Jaw set, as you bite down your own nerves. "Should I- are you sure this is okay, then?"

"Yes." Viktor's head tilts slightly, analyzing. "Go on. I trust you."

Your heart races at that. Running circles around itself, abiding by its own laws of chemistry to create unbridled, newfound energy in your chest.

Without another moment of hesitation, you shift closer, and you stick your hands inside.

Warmth radiates off of him, sparking from the countless movements of parts and mechanics. It warms your face, envelops your palms as if you've held them to a campfire. It's definitely too hot, all things considered.

"Looks like there's a problem with temperature," You're commenting, although it's certainly obvious. You run your fingertip over a line of fan blades, set into the top of his chassis. You turn them yourself, and pick out a few tiny pieces of rubble. "Yeah, fans are all stuck."

"The fans are an auxiliary measure," Viktor clarifies, tone smooth and systematic. "The central pump must not be pushing coolant. Check the thermoregulation cylinders. They lead into the manifold."

"Vik." Your gaze flickers up. "Whatever you just said, it sounded like total mechanical gibberish."

"Give me your hand."

With his metal palm already extended, you lean forward, and you gently brush your warm fingers to his.

Viktor guides you carefully, steel digits closed around yours; the entirety of your hand fits in his palm with ease, it's at least twice the size of your own. Your fingertips slip past wires and circuitry, to hover over an intricate array of cylindrical conduits.

"Do they feel hot? The cylinders," Viktor clarifies. "Touch them carefully. Do not let them burn you."

His grip on your hand loosens. You're wincing, as you hesitantly press your fingertips forwards — but the metal isn't hot. Far from it, in fact.

"No, they're… lukewarm, maybe."

"Hm." Viktor leans back once more, elbows propped on the desk behind him. "We will begin with the fans. This fix will be the least complex."

"They connect to a main unit, right?" You're asking, even though you've already started moving on your own. The automatons you remember working on carry similar cooling systems. "If that goes out, they all do."

"Correct."

You follow a fan's wiring with your hands. It loops several times, before it plugs into a small metal box: sides caved in, surface smashed.

"Ah. Found the problem." You tap the surface of the power supply with your nails. "It's busted."

"Do not touch it yet," Viktor instructs. "Its processes may still be running, in which case, it could overheat. Remove each connector and extract the unit. I will add it to my list of obligations, I suppose."

You quickly pull every wire from the fan power unit, and you reach over his shoulder to place it on the desk. Viktor leans his head back. A few valves in his chest expel large puffs of steam, somewhat akin to a sigh.

"The main cylinders," He continues, "Do you remember where they are located?"

"Mhmm." You find the cylinders with your fingertips. Metal smooth, cool to the touch.

Viktor stretches, rolling his shoulders back, armor slightly clinking together. He tips his head down to study you.

"Shift your hand to your right. You will find a main cooling manifold. Open it. Flip both notches paneled into the intake. Up, for precisely three seconds. Then, flip them down. It will overclock the thermocore, enabling a full reactivation."

You nod slowly. Right, you've got all that. Open, flip, down, close.

Your fingers brush along the cylinders until you find where they lead into. The manifold's panel opens easily — slowly, with all the delicacy of opening up a ribcage. Fingertips to the notches, you push them both up; like tending to a wound, like softly tracing scar tissue. With bated breath, you keep count in your head. One. Two. Three. Then, down.

You click the front panel back into place, and the entire assembly begins to whir.

"Now, they will resume function. The systems are… cooling down- very good, well done." Viktor affirms, tone ripe with relief. Within him, sets of valves and pistons gently heave.

His praise makes you shiver. Selfishly, you want to hear more. The cylinders are starting up. They're still slightly cool, as you drag your fingers across them; but Viktor's warm voice has the opposite effect. Guiding heat to coil and ignite in your gut, like you've swallowed phosphorus and matchsticks.

You remove your hands carefully, settling them in your lap, and you give Viktor time to catch his breath.

The manifold shudders. Briefly overloaded by the extra draw of power, perhaps. Viktor's machinery works synchronically to reign it in; his shoulders tense, he reaches into his stomach and messes with a few components, flipping switches, thumbing regulators. He leans back, and the large central cylinders strongly push out smoky air, reminiscent of lungs.

Strong is a good way to describe the Machine Herald's construction. Complicated, durable, and intentionally intimidating. There's power behind the grind of every mechanical process. Parts are entrailed together haphazardly, vitals cased in metal, strung between wires — clearly not meant to be toyed with, to be examined by someone who is foreign to them.

And yet, here you are.

Old, rusted mechanics take the place of scars. Tracing your fingertips along his steel skeleton might remind you of brushing them over a defined ribcage. Individual colored wires form auroras, purposefully tethered. Able to be memorized — like you once did for constellations on soft skin, dotted in freckles and moles.

Oh, how you long to reach out and touch.

(It wouldn't be the same — but how would it feel? Would some wires be cool, rough, while some are smooth, warm? Fit with their own small intricacies: frayed insides, different electric charges. You could be gentle with some, and rough, with others. His pressure points would buzz underneath your fingertips. Shudder like a body arching into warmth. Would Viktor stop you, or would he give in — a betrayal of what he was made for, to finally pull you closer?)

Hands still in your lap, you fiddle with your thumbs. Viktor's chest reverberates. Every mechanic convenes into his center, feeding into pumps and wire splitters, like arteries. Powered by a small, perplexing device with suspended panels. The metal is carved in rune-work. Protecting a gemstone, illuminated in hues of faint, blue light. It strikes you as Hextech inspired, though clearly more machine than magic.

"Viktor, this crystal," You're asking, "What is it?"

"That," Viktor's gaze stays trained on you. "Would be what functions as my heart."

Your eyes sparkle. "Can I-"

"Yes," Viktor interrupts, disgruntled. He knows that look, and he doesn't intend on fighting it. "Inspect it if you must. The gemstone is not my only power supply. Simply one of many."

As your curious fingers approach, reaching into his chest, the device appears to open without prompting — panels shifting, sides unfurling. Coaxing you in.

Your fingertips meet the gemstone, gently admiring; the surface is smooth like a petal, like gliding a pen over paper. It pulses with rhythmic energy, akin to a heartbeat. Viktor shifts, he breathes a cross between a gentle sigh and a mechanical hiss. When the stone drops into your palm, it is solid, warm. Energy-rich and beautiful. It reminds you of an oyster's pearl. Cosmic shades of purple and blue shift within its shape.

"Vik- Wow." You let go of a small, tensionless laugh in amazement — you're literally holding Viktor's heart in your hand; "This is incredible. You're incredible."

Viktor tenses. Energy thrums from the crystal, sparking hard against your skin. You choke in a sharp, pained breath, and you take your hand away quickly, leaving the gemstone to return to suspension.

Ah. Viktor's heart just shocked you.

You're barely able to reconvene; his Hexclaw grabs your face, tilting you gently yet forcefully, guiding you to meet an expressionless mask and glowing, motionless eyes.

"Enough," Viktor asserts. "I require your focus. The central systems have cooled. We may proceed."

Then, his Hexclaw releases you, reaches behind him, and hands you a wrench.

"I will pull the sternum platings open, beneath the oxygen valves. Reach inside, and secure the pistons that sit above the energy reservoir. Is this understandable?"

Back to work already, it seems. "Yeah," You nod. "I've got it."

It's a relatively simple fix. Viktor reaches deep into his circuitry, pushing wires aside to pull both platings apart; surely this would have been cumbersome, if he'd opted to do it alone. Both sections of his sternum need to be held open, or they'll try to snap shut. Your hands are much smaller than his, as well, so you have no trouble reaching into his structure, and swiftly re-tightening the pistons.

Viktor closes the panels as you're reaching behind him to set the wrench on the desk. His Hexclaw twitches. His gauntlet and the generator fixed into his shoulder flicker with light, like a dying lightbulb, before energy surges within them, bright and molten.

You glance up. "Good?"

Viktor's body hums quietly, amidst his usual mechanical noise.

"Perfect. You are an expert already, yes? The Death Ray is no longer fueled by reserve power." Viktor rolls his neck to the side, until it gives a satisfying, motorized pop. "Now, as we continue, you will need to use your hands."

"Alright. I can do that."

"Use your flesh hand," Viktor corrects. "And promise me you will be careful. I would prefer to keep each of your remaining fingers intact. Do not get them stuck."

You form a faint, light-filled smile. "I promise."

"To your left, there is a diode controller. Here." Viktor finds your hand, steel digits brushing over your knuckles, and he guides you, once more. "Tell me which lights are displayed on the module."

Your hand presses to a small steel box, nestled into his chest. "There's a red light. I think that's the power, but… it looks like that's it."

"The explosion jostled its position, as I suspected. Inlaid into the underside, there will be a set of wires."

Sure enough, although several curving filaments obstruct the crooked controller, you can spot a few tangled wires, plugged in loosely.

You gently push a few of his mechanics aside, trying to get a handle on what you're dealing with. "You're planning on doing a full cold boot, right? So pull them all out, wait for the controller to restart, and then plug them back in."

What Viktor lacks in expression, he makes up for in vibrato, because you can practically hear the smile hidden within his voice. Equally calm and weaponized; as soft as a caress, and as powerful as a knife held to your throat.

"Yes," He hums, mechanical filter thrumming around the thickly accented syllables. "Look at you. It is impressive- how efficiently you learn."

You aren't trying to prove him wrong, but what's truly impressive is how easily he knocks the focus right out of you. You're grasping at what remains of it, as you stretch to guide your hand to the wires. With the controller pinning them between itself and his metal skeleton, it's a relatively tight fit.

Breath in your throat, you manage to find the first wire — and you blindly tug. As it comes free, Viktor's chest tenses, gears grinding, valves sputtering. He grabs your forearm, holding you still. Shaky mechanical fingers attempting to establish control.

"Gentle," Viktor instructs. His body hisses, expelling warm air that fans over your skin. "The wires- they direct essential currents of power. If you are not careful, you will overload the voltage."

He releases you gradually, then leans back fully.

"Sorry. I'll go slow."

You grasp the next wire at the head. Instead of pulling, you shift it back and forth, over and over, until it eventually comes free. With each discharged wire, his mechanics grow hotter, louder. Warmth radiates over your palm as the controller chugs, giving off a faint, high-pitched noise. It reminds you of the whistles of trains in Piltover.

"Better?" You murmur, heavy gaze drifting across him, hand already blindly grasping for the fourth wire.

"Yes," Viktor coos, content. "Keep going."

"Does this- am I hurting you?"

"No, you are not." His tone grits at the edges, buzzing rigidly through his throat. "The controller is applying a simulated curve. It is… an excess of pressurized fuel. A maelstrom of diverging currents. It is impossible to summarize in sympathizable terms, as your body is very different from mine."

The Machine Herald tends to select words purposefully. He calculates discussions and formulates terms like every negotiation is a game of chess — and yet, this description is remarkably familiar.

In the early stages of your alliance, the two of you rarely got along. Every sentence between you spun a web of new arguments. Viktor was insistent when it came to his vision, and weakness wasn't welcome, not within his new mechanized heart. You were a distraction. An unexpected miscalculation. A maelstrom, as Viktor described it.

For our mutual benefit, you should relinquish the memories you have of the man I once was. We are no longer partners. If you can suppress this needless bickering, we can continue as allies, perhaps.

"I'm depriving you of energy." You trail your fingertip over the ridges in the final wire. "Your systems are working overtime, to try and adjust."

Viktor's body relaxes — warm and reverberant and trusting. He affirms, "Precisely."

The last wire comes free smoothly. You take a languid, intentionally-long breath, giving the controller time to refresh. The wires have fallen loose, they rest a little further down in his circuitry. Leaning far forward in your stool, you bundle all of them in your palm, to make sure you won't lose them.

"They're out." You line up the first wire's plug with the controller's first socket. "Gonna plug them back in now."

"Firmer, you can be firmer." Viktor never begs, but this, despite bordering on a command, is the closest to pleading you've seen him come to. "The central system is acclimated to the fluctuations in energy."

Your cracked bottom lip briefly catches between your teeth. Bringing the wire right against its socket, you shove it back in — and Viktor tremors, visible electricity sparkling from his chest like shooting stars in a lightning storm. With the second wire, his head rolls back. When you press the third in, he breathes a low, barely-audible groan, and the sound drives into you like a saw, a chisel, a stake.

(You're lost in color, in the orange glow of his gaze and the coppery-steel of his body, as they paint stupidly vivid pictures in your mind. Viktor reaching for you, holding onto you for leverage. Static blooming at your fingertips, innocent experiments turning into purposeful coaxings. Stalling until he pleads, overwhelming him with surge after surge of energy, electromagnetic impulses and solar sparks that have him hot and only half-functional.)

You really need to focus.

"Okay." As you push the last wire in, the module's lights begin to flash, blinking faintly in a bright hue of amber. "I'm done."

"Reach your hand further inside," Viktor is already explaining, words rich, perplexingly breathy. "You must guide it around the gears, to the back of the module. Beside the sets of copper filaments, you will find a red wire."

You tilt your head down to peer behind the controller.

"Fuck." You breathe a slight tch. "It must've come loose. It's all the way back there, Vik."

"You may need to come closer, then."

For a moment, you chew on the inside of your cheek. Palm buried inside him — you should be the one in control, but Viktor relaxes; his head tips, and he gazes at you as though he's got you under a microscope. Perfectly, wholly deciphered. Your weakness is predictable, not simply because you are human, but because it is you. There's no surprise within him when you rise from your stool, only an addictive array of certainty.

Viktor leans back a bit more, spreads his legs to allocate space. And you straddle his thigh, heels rested on the spidery base of the stool.

The hard, uneven edges of his armor dig into the pliable flesh of your legs. One large thigh is easily enough to accommodate you, but you need to shift closer, to properly reach behind the controller.

You're reaching in, in, feeling around for your target. An unsteady steel hand braces to your side; Viktor holds you in place. You sigh in frustration, your fingertips fumbling past cold filaments, trying to find the smooth, elusive wire.

Gears gently press into your forearm. A small, rigid generator bumps your elbow. Your body curls, you reach further inside him. And you find it, just as you're close enough to rest your forehead against his. Metal to flesh. Cool against warm. Your eyes — bright and fascinating, like stars, he thinks — become lost in the artificial glow of his.

Your breath fans over his steel mask. "Got it."

"Good." Viktor's voice is low, intense, and fucking sultry. "Plug it in."

hey, sorry for interrupting the fic! unfortunately, due to the long word count of the fic and tumblr's post block limit, it's impossible to fit the entire fic into one post... :( if you're enjoying the fic so far, you can continue reading on ao3!

thank you for understanding... <3

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #arcane x reader #viktor smut #machine herald x reader #viktor arcane x reader

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mocharyc · 1 month ago

Text

Invincible variants x reader Final ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

The choice is yours ♡

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ Shattered Reflections‧ ₊ ˚

☆ WC: 8k+ [Final Part] ☆ TW: fluff ☆ Author's Note: I figured I couldn't drag this series out forever, and everything must come to an end; but, I like happy endings(♡ˊ͈ ꒳ ˋ͈)

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The interrogation room housing Angstrom Levy resembled a surgical theater designed by someone with a fondness for medieval torture.

Clinical steel surfaces reflected the harsh, pulsing light that cast everything in a sickly pallor, transforming even the smallest droplets of blood into obsidian pools against the metallic backdrop. The air tasted of copper and ozone—a potent cocktail of bodily fluids and dimensional energy that clung to the back of Y/N's throat like a physical presence.

Y/N stood in the doorway, hair still damp from her shower, wearing a spare flight suit she'd found in the quarters. The material felt foreign against her skin—too tight in some places, too loose in others, as if her body had somehow been fundamentally altered by recent events. Perhaps it had been. The fabric caught on the tender marks Sinister had left behind, each small pain a reminder of choices made and boundaries crossed.

Nine pairs of eyes turned toward her as she entered—Nine identical faces bearing the unmistakable features of Mark Grayson yet transformed by circumstance and tragedy into something distinctly other. Eight variations of the same man, each carrying the ghost of a woman who wore her face but wasn't her. The weight of their collective gaze pressed against her like a physical force, threatening to crush her renewed resolve before it had fully formed.

Angstrom Levy hung suspended in the center of the room, dimensional energy crackling around the restraints that had been fashioned from components of his own machinery. His body was a ruined testament to the variants' interrogation methods—limbs hanging at unnatural angles, one arm nearly detached at the shoulder, the other missing entirely. His legs were little more than mangled flesh held together by hastily applied medical equipment. Tubes and wires penetrated his torso at multiple points, machinery pumping fluids into what remained of his body, the only thing keeping him alive. His face was swollen beyond recognition, blood dripping steadily from his bloodshot eyes, the tissue bruised and swollen from whatever methods the variants had employed to extract information.

Despite his obvious suffering, his eyes gleamed with malevolent intelligence as they fixed on Y/N—knowing, calculating, as if he alone understood some cosmic joke at their expense. "The guest of honor arrives," he rasped, voice scraping like sandpaper across raw nerves. Blood dripped from his bloodshot eyes, tracing the contour of his chin before dropping to join the constellation of similar stains on the floor beneath him. "How was your... dimensional detour?"

Mohawk Mark lunged forward, the fluorescent lights catching on the blue accents of his suit as his muscled form coiled with violent intent. "Shut your fucking mouth before I tear out what's left of your tongue," he snarled.

"Unnecessary," Omni Mark interjected, his eyes, only partially hidden behind dark lenses, never left Y/N's face. "He's already told us what we need to know."

Y/N stepped fully into the room, refusing to shrink beneath the weight of their attention. The spare flight suit whispered against her skin as she moved, the sound almost deafening in the sudden silence. "And what exactly is that?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

Viltrumite Mark moved toward her, his white suit was somehow untouched by the brutality evident throughout the room. When he stood before her, she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze—a reminder of her physical vulnerability despite the Viltrumite strength flowing through her veins.

"You're not what you think you are," he said, his voice softer than expected. Something in his expression shifted—the imperious mask slipping for the briefest moment to reveal an emotion too complex to name. He raised a hand to her face, the immaculate white of his glove a stark contrast against her skin as he brushed a stray droplet of water from her temple.

The touch was feather-light, yet Y/N felt it reverberate through her entire being. Her breath caught in her throat, heart skipping traitorously at the tenderness so at odds with the violence permeating the air around them.

"What are you talking about?" she managed, fighting to maintain her composure beneath the warmth of his palm.

A wet chuckle from Angstrom drew their attention back to the center of the room. "Tell her," he urged, eyes gleaming with malicious delight despite his battered condition. "Tell her what makes her so special. Why every version of Mark Grayson across the multiverse seems destined to orbit her like moths around a flame."

Phantom Mark stepped forward, the same expressionless mask hiding whatever emotions might be playing across his features."You're not just a human injected with Viltrumite DNA," he said, his voice distorted yet somehow gentle through the mask's filter. "You're a constant."

"A what?" Y/N's brow furrowed in confusion.

Emperor Mark's lip curled with disdain as he gestured toward Angstrom. "According to our friend here, certain elements repeat across the multiverse—fixed points around which reality organizes itself."

"You are one such element."

"In every universe," Lensless Mark contributed, his voice pitchingin an octave higher, with the dried blood flaking from his knuckles, "there exists a version of you. And in every universe—" His voice faltered, a shadow passing across his youthful features.

"In every universe, you die," Prisoner Mark finished bluntly, the scarred tissue of his face pulling tight as he spoke. "Horribly. Tragically. Usually because of him." He jerked his burned chin toward Mohawk Mark, who flinched as if physically struck.

"Not just because of me," Mohawk growled, the aggression in his voice barely masking something more vulnerable beneath. His mohawk seemed to droop slightly, as if the weight of accumulated guilt had physical mass. "Because of all of us. Because of what we are..."

"What are you?" Y/N challenged, her voice stronger now, fed by the confusion and frustration bubbling beneath her surface.

"Destroyers," Sinister Mark's voice slithered from the shadows. He leaned against a far wall, his yellow and black suit now mostly intact thanks to hasty repairs. Though his face showed evidence of the beating he'd received—a purpling bruise along his jaw, split lip still glistening with fresh blood—his customary smirk remained firmly in place.

"It's what we do best, dove. We break things. Sometimes planets. Sometimes people." His eyes glinted behind his cracked lenses. "Sometimes hearts."

Y/N refused to look away from his knowing gaze, refused to acknowledge the heat that crept up her neck at the memory. "I don't believe in destiny," she stated firmly. "Or cosmic constants. I make my own choices."

"Do you?" No-Mask Mark asked quietly, his unprotected face revealing every nuance of his skepticism. "When we found you, you were under GDA mind control. When we released you, you fell into our orbit. When separated from us, you immediately formed a connection with—" He stopped himself, unable to voice the obvious conclusion.

"With me," Sinister finished for him, satisfaction evident in his tone. "Face it, dove. You're drawn to us. All versions of us. It's written into the fabric of reality itself."

"That's enough," Omni Mark commanded, his quiet authority somehow more compelling than Mohawk's explosive rage or Emperor's imperious demands. He moved to stand between Y/N and Sinister, his tall frame effectively blocking her view of the yellow-suited variant. "What matters isn't why Y/N exists in every universe. What matters is what happens next."

Y/N looked up at him, struck by the intensity burning behind his composed exterior. Of all the variants, Omni Mark remained the most enigmatic—his emotions controlled yet somehow more authentic for their restraint. When he looked at her, she felt seen in a way that transcended the physical—as if those eyes behind dark lenses could perceive every layer of her being and found value in each one.

"Angstrom has given us the means to travel between dimensions," he continued, his gaze never leaving her face. "Each of us must choose our path forward."

Viltrumite Mark's hand, still resting against her cheek, dropped to her shoulder. The touch remained gentle despite the strength she knew those fingers possessed—strength enough to crush diamonds, to tear steel like paper, to break bones with the slightest pressure. Yet against her skin, they were nothing but warmth and comfort.

"Some of us have already chosen," he said softly, his thumb tracing a small circle against the fabric covering her collarbone. The simple gesture sent shivers cascading down her spine, her body responding to his touch with embarrassing immediacy.

From his suspended position, Angstrom laughed—a wet, gurgling sound that sprayed fine droplets of blood into the air around him. "So noble," he mocked. "So self-sacrificing. Tell me, Viltrumite, will you share that choice with her? Or will you let her believe the lie a little longer?"

Viltrumite Mark's expression hardened, disdain replacing the tenderness that had softened his features moments before. "Silence," he commanded.

Y/N stepped back from his touch, sudden suspicion clouding her features. "What is he talking about? What choice?"

The variants exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them that excluded her despite being its subject. The air in the room grew heavier, charged with unspoken truths and fragile alliances on the verge of shattering.

"Tell her," Sinister urged from his position against the wall, his voice thick with something that might have been concern if it came from anyone else. "Or I will."

Omni Mark sighed, a sound so human and vulnerable that it momentarily stripped away his aura of controlled power. "The portals Angstrom creates aren't stable," he explained, turning to face Y/N fully. "Moving between dimensions fractures reality—tears at the fabric holding the multiverse together." (guys, this is real shit here 😎).

"With each jump," Phantom Mark continued, his masked face tilted slightly as if sharing a regrettable truth, "the damage compounds. Eventually, the barriers between worlds will collapse entirely."

"Universal annihilation," Emperor Mark concluded. "Not just our worlds. All worlds. Everything."

Y/N's mind struggled to process the magnitude of what they were describing. "But you've been jumping between dimensions this entire time," she said, her voice faint with realization. "The Invincible War—all those portals—"

"Have already caused incalculable damage," Viltrumite Mark confirmed, his imperial bearing now tinged with genuine regret. "We didn't know. Not until we forced Angstrom to explain why the portals were becoming increasingly unstable."

"There's only one solution," Omni Mark said quietly. His hand reached for hers, enveloping her smaller fingers in a gentle grip that offered support without demanding reciprocation. "We must return to our original dimensions and seal the pathways behind us. Permanently."

The implications crashed over Y/N like a physical wave. "You're leaving," she whispered, the words tasting like ash on her tongue. Despite everything—despite the chaos and violence they had brought into her life, despite Sinister's betrayal and the conflicting emotions they all evoked—the thought of losing them carved a hollow space beneath her ribs.

"Not all of us," Mohawk Mark interjected, stepping forward with hesitation. The blue accents of his suit seemed dimmer somehow, as if reflecting his subdued mood. "Someone has to stay in this dimension. To..." He faltered, searching for words that wouldn't sound like abandonment.

"To close the door behind us," Prisoner Mark finished for him, scarred hands flexing at his sides as if already preparing for combat. "Someone has to ensure Angstrom never opens another portal. Ever."

Understanding dawned like a cold sunrise. "You're going to kill him," Y/N stated flatly.

"Not immediately," Emperor Mark clarified, examining his immaculate gloves with studied nonchalance. "First, he'll send each of us home. Then..." He shrugged, the regal gesture somehow making the implied violence more disturbing.

"And one of you will stay behind," Y/N concluded, eyes scanning their faces—identical yet uniquely marked by their individual journeys through pain and power. "In this dimension. With me."

The silence that followed carried the weight of worlds. These men—these variations of Mark Grayson—had fought across dimensions for her, had shattered realities to find her, had nearly killed each other over her. And now, all but one would vanish back into the multiverse, leaving her with a single version of the man who had become the center of her existence whether she wished it or not.

"The question is," Sinister pushed away from the wall, moving with predatory grace despite his injuries, "which one stays and which ones go?" His smile was all teeth and challenge as his gaze swept the assembled variants before landing on Y/N. "Care to choose, dove? Or shall we fight it out the old-fashioned way?"

Before anyone could respond, the entire structure shuddered around them. Lights flickered erratically, casting the room in strobing patterns of illumination and shadow. A distant boom resonated through the metal flooring, vibrating up through Y/N's feet and into her bones.

Lensless Mark darted to a console, fingers flying over blood-spattered keys. "Perimeter breach," he announced, childlike enthusiasm returning as he read the scrolling data, “Angstroms base has been discovered.”

"The GDA found us," No-Mask Mark concluded grimly. "They're coming for you, Y/N. For all of us."

"How appropriate," Angstrom wheezed from his suspended position, eyes gleaming with malevolent delight despite his battered condition. "Your time runs out just as reality itself begins to fracture. Poetic, wouldn't you say?"

Omni Mark's grip on Y/N's hand tightened fractionally—not enough to hurt, just enough to ground her in the moment. When she looked up at him, she found his normally composed features animated with an urgency that sent her heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.

"We need to move," he stated, voice calm despite the chaos erupting around them. "This facility won't withstand a concentrated GDA assault."

"Let them come," Mohawk snarled, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white, veins bulging along his forearms as his more volatile nature reasserted itself. "I'll tear them apart molecule by fucking molecule."

"And risk Y/N in the process?" Viltrumite Mark challenged, stepping protectively closer to her, "Think beyond your rage for once."

Another explosion rocked the structure, this one closer than the last. Dust filtered down from overhead conduits, dancing in the irregular light like microscopic snowflakes. Somewhere in the distance, alarms began to wail—a mechanical banshee heralding approaching doom.

Y/N pulled her hand from Omni Mark's grasp, a new determination hardening inside her. "I need answers," she insisted, turning toward Angstrom with purpose in her stride. "Before this place comes down around us. Before any of you leave."

Angstrom regarded her with amused disdain, his mangled body twitching slightly as he struggled to maintain consciousness through the pain. "What would you like to know, my dear? How many versions of you I've seen die? How many versions of him—" he jerked his chin toward the assembled variants, "—I've watched break apart in grief?"

Y/N stepped closer, refusing to be intimidated by his mockery. "Why me? Why do I exist in every universe? What makes me a constant?"

Angstrom's lips stretched into a smile that held no warmth. "Haven't you guessed? It's not you that's the constant—it's what you represent." His eyes gleamed with malicious intelligence. "Loss. Grief. The catalyst that transforms heroes into monsters."

Behind her, Y/N heard one of the variants inhale sharply—a sound like pain given voice. She didn't turn to see which one. Her focus remained locked on Angstrom's bruised face, searching for truth among his calculated cruelties.

"In every universe," Angstrom continued, clearly relishing his role as narrator of their tragic tale, "Mark Grayson loves you. And in every universe, he loses you. Sometimes to violence. Sometimes to disease. Sometimes—" his gaze flicked briefly to the variants, "—because of their own failure to protect what they claims to cherish."

The room fell silent save for the distant alarms and the creaking of the structure around them. Y/N's mind raced, trying to process the implications of what Angstrom was suggesting. If she truly was destined to die in every universe—if her loss was the fixed point around which these men's descent into darkness orbited—then what hope did any of them have for a different outcome?

"You're lying," she whispered, but uncertainty colored her voice.

Angstrom's laugh was wet and hollow. "Am I? Ask them. Ask them what happened to their Y/N. Ask them if they could have saved her, if only they'd been faster, stronger, smarter." His eyes glittered with malevolent delight. "Ask them if they still hear her screams when they close their eyes at night."

A hand settled on Y/N's shoulder—warm, solid, grounding her before she could spiral further into the abyss Angstrom was crafting with his words. She didn't need to look to know it was Omni Mark; something in the gentle strength of his touch was unmistakably his.

"Enough," he said, not to her but to Angstrom. The single word carried such authority that even Angstrom's mocking smile faltered momentarily. "You've had your fun. Now you'll send us home, one by one, as promised."

"And if I refuse?" Angstrom challenged, though his bravado seemed thinner now, worn away by pain and the inexorable approach of GDA forces.

"Then you die now instead of later," Sinister stated simply, stepping forward with deadly grace. The yellow and black of his suit seemed to absorb and reflect the flickering lights simultaneously, creating an almost hypnotic effect as he moved. "And we take our chances with the collapsing multiverse."

Another explosion rocked the facility, close enough now that Y/N could feel the heat of it against her skin. The lights failed completely for several seconds before emergency systems kicked in, bathing everything in a blood-red glow that transformed the interrogation room into something from a nightmare—all harsh shadows and crimson highlights that made even familiar faces seem suddenly alien.

"It seems our time grows short," Emperor Mark observed with aristocratic calm that belied the urgency of their situation. He turned to Y/N, his bearing momentarily softening as he regarded her. "We must make our decisions now. There is no more time for deliberation."

Y/N looked around at the assembled variants—these different versions of the same man, each shaped by tragedy and power into something unique yet fundamentally connected. In the red emergency lighting, they appeared more similar than ever despite their different suits and facial features—united by a singular focus that both terrified and thrilled her.

"How do we decide?" she asked, her voice steady despite the chaos erupting around them. "Who stays and who goes?"

"I stay," Mohawk insisted immediately, stepping forward. The blue accents of his suit appeared almost black in the crimson light, his mohawk casting a jagged shadow across his determined features. "In my world, I couldn't save her. I won't fail again."

He moved closer to Y/N, his usual aggression melting into something more vulnerable as he reached for her. His fingers, adorned with the faint traces of dried blood that no amount of washing seemed able to remove, hesitated in the air between them—as if uncertain of his right to touch her after his earlier failures. When Y/N didn't pull away, he gently cupped her face, the calloused pad of his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone with surprising tenderness.

"I watched her die," he confessed, voice so low that only Y/N could hear the words. "I was foolish, careless not paying attention when she pushed me out of the way of the bullet, taking my placce—" His voice cracked, adam's apple bobbing violently as he swallowed back the memory. "I won't leave you. Not again. Not ever."

Before Y/N could respond, Viltrumite Mark stepped forward, his white suit now stained crimson by the emergency lights, transforming his regal appearance into something more sinister. "Your impulsiveness is what got your Y/N killed," he stated coldly. "I have the discipline and strength to protect her properly."

He moved with grace to stand at Y/N's other side, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back—a gesture that nonetheless sent warmth cascading through her nervous system. The heat of his palm penetrated the flight suit material as if it weren't there, his touch both protective and possessive in a way that made her breath catch.

"In my world," he said, leaning down to speak near her ear, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her temple, "I could have saved her if I hadn't been away securing the empire's borders. I've built a world where she would want for nothing, where her safety would be guaranteed by my command." His lips brushed against her skin as he spoke, not quite a kiss but something equally intimate. "Let me give you that world, Y/N. Let me give you everything I couldn't give her."

"You have a fucking empire to run," Prisoner Mark sneered, the scarred tissue of his face appearing even more grotesque in the red glow. "You'll take her back to your world and make her another ornament in your collection."

"I've already tasted what she offers," Sinister interjected, tongue darting out to moisten his split lip in a gesture that sent unwelcome heat spiraling through Y/N's core despite her best intentions. "The choice is obvious."

The argument might have descended into violence then—tension crackling between the variants like physical electricity—if not for a soft sound that cut through their posturing with startling effectiveness. It took Y/N a moment to realize the sound had come from her own throat—a small, broken laugh that contained equal parts hysteria and clarity.

"You're still doing it," she said, shaking her head in wonder. "Even now, with reality literally crumbling around us, you're fighting over me like I'm a prize to be won. Like I don't have any say in my own fate."

The variants fell silent, varying degrees of shame and defiance playing across their identical-yet-different features. In the red glow of emergency lighting, they seemed almost like apparitions—blood-stained specters of a man she had never truly known but somehow felt connected to on a cellular level.

"You're right," Omni Mark acknowledged, his composure slipping to reveal something raw and vulnerable beneath. In the crimson light, the gray portions of his suit appeared almost black, the red accents blending seamlessly with the emergency illumination as if he were dissolving into the bloodied atmosphere. "The choice should be yours. It has always been yours."

He stepped forward, but unlike the others, he maintained a respectful distance, offering his presence without demanding her attention. It was this—this quiet recognition of her autonomy—that drew Y/N's gaze to him more powerfully than any possessive touch or passionate declaration could have.

He removed his dark lenses, revealing eyes so filled with grief and tenderness that Y/N felt her own vision blur in response. "I learned then that love isn't possession or protection. It's presence. It's choosing to stay even when there's nothing you can do but witness." His gaze never wavered from hers, unwavering in its gentle intensity. "Whatever you decide, Y/N, I will honor it. Because that's what I couldn't do for her—give her the freedom to choose her own path, even at the end."

Y/N looked at him—really looked at him—and something shifted inside her chest. Of all the variants, Omni Mark alone had never tried to claim her, had never spoken of ownership or destiny. He had been there when she needed healing, offering soft kisses and gentle touches during those fragile moments after the war began, never taking more than she offered, never demanding what she couldn't give. He had offered support without demanding reciprocation, protection without requiring submission. He had seen her not as a replacement for someone lost but as herself—flawed, confused, but ultimately her own person.

Before she could voice this realization, the entire structure shuddered violently. The sound of groaning metal filled the air as support beams began to give way under repeated assault. Through the walls, they could hear the distinctive whine of GDA energy weapons powering up—the sound heralding imminent destruction.

"No more time," Phantom Mark stated, his masked face turning toward Angstrom. "Begin the transfers. Now."

Angstrom's body convulsed slightly as he channeled what remained of his power, dimensional energy crackling around him as he focused his power. "As you wish," he wheezed, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth as he spoke. "Who's first to abandon her?"

The question hung in the air, loaded with implications that made Y/N's heart constrict painfully in her chest. Despite everything—despite the chaos and danger these men had brought into her life—the thought of watching them disappear one by one into the multiverse carved a hollow space beneath her ribs.

"I'll go," Emperor Mark stated, stepping forward with dignity. He turned to Y/N, regal bearing momentarily softening as he regarded her. "In another life, perhaps..." He didn't finish the thought, merely inclined his head in a gesture that somehow conveyed more genuine respect than any of his previous interactions.

Angstrom's eyes gleamed with concentration as dimensional energy coalesced around his suspended form. A portal began to form—not the violent tear they had witnessed before, but something more controlled, its edges defined and stable. Through its swirling depths, Y/N caught glimpses of a world both familiar and alien—Earth, but an Earth where Viltrumite banners flew from every building and the Imperial sigil adorned every surface.

Emperor Mark moved toward it without hesitation, his stride confident despite the decision's finality. At the portal's threshold, he paused, turning back one last time. "He was right, you know," he said, gaze fixed on Y/N. "About us hearing your screams at night. About failing you in every universe." A muscle twitched beneath his left eye—the only betrayal of emotion on his otherwise composed features. "Do better this time. Both of you."

With that, he stepped through, the portal closing behind him with a sound like reality sighing in relief.

"Next," Angstrom prompted, dimensional energy already gathering for another portal.

Prisoner Mark approached Y/N before his departure, the scarred tissue of his face pulling taut as he struggled with words that didn't come easily to him. "I was in prison when she died," he said gruffly, hands curling into fists at his sides as if physically restraining himself from reaching for her. "Gang violence, and torture. I could have stopped it if I'd been there." His eyes, the only part of him untouched by whatever fire had claimed the rest, burned with intensity. "Don't let them cage you, Y/N. Not with walls. Not with expectations. Not even with love."

He left with a bitter laugh, his scarred form dissolving into the swirling vortex of his home dimension.

Each departure felt like a physical weight lifted from Y/N's chest, yet simultaneously created a new hollowness inside her. These men—these variations of Mark Grayson—had become the center of her existence whether she wished it or not. Watching them vanish was like witnessing pieces of herself dissolve into the multiverse.

The structure continued to crumble around them, GDA forces drawing ever closer. Heat from external explosions began to seep through the walls, turning the air thick and difficult to breathe. The red emergency lighting flickered erratically, casting their remaining figures in strobing patterns of illumination and shadow.

Phantom Mark walked to the edge of his designated portal, his body silhouetted against the emerald swirl. He stopped, looking back at Y/N, his form visibly trembling. Then, with what seemed like immense effort, he shook his head and stepped away from the portal, moving to stand against the wall. He clutched at his masked face with both hands, his shoulders shaking with silent emotion. "I need a moment to breathe before I go," he mumbled, his voice altered by the mask but unmistakably filled with tears.

Now only six variants remained besides Angstrom—No-Mask Mark, Lensless Mark, and Phantom Mark stood together to one side, talking quietly among themselves as if debating whether to leave at all—Mohawk Mark with his barely contained fury, Viltrumite Mark with his imperial bearing, Omni Mark with his quiet strength, and Sinister leaning against a far wall with studied nonchalance despite the destruction raining down around them. The yellow and black of his suit seemed to absorb the red emergency lighting, transforming the bright colors into something murkier and more dangerous.

He hadn't stepped forward for departure, hadn't volunteered to return to his dimension. His eyes remained fixed on Y/N, gaze heavy with implications that sent unwelcome heat coursing through her veins despite everything that had transpired between them.

"Time grows short," Viltrumite Mark observed as another explosion rocked the facility. Part of the ceiling collapsed in the corridor outside, sending clouds of dust billowing into the room. The sound of GDA tactical teams grew closer, the rhythmic thud of armored boots against metal flooring like a countdown to their imminent discovery. "We must decide."

Y/N looked between the remaining variants, chest tight with the weight of what was being asked of her. How could she choose? How could she select one version of this man to remain with her while condemning the others to return to worlds where they had already lost her once?

Mohawk Mark stalked toward her, "All my life," he growled, voice tight with barely contained feeling, "I've destroyed. I've hurt people. I've broken things." He stopped before her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see the minute tremor in his hands as he fought to control himself. "But with you, I want to build. I want to create something that doesn't end in blood and fire."

His hand reached for hers, hesitating just above her skin as if waiting for permission. When she didn't pull away, his fingers intertwined with hers, the contact sending electric currents of awareness up her arm. "Choose me," he whispered, the plea so at odds with his usual aggression that it took Y/N's breath away. "Let me show you I can be more than the monster I became after I lost her."

Before she could respond, Viltrumite Mark was at her other side, his presence demanding attention without a word being spoken. He didn't touch her, yet his proximity was a physical force—a gravitational pull that made her aware of every inch of space between them.

"I can give you worlds," he said quietly, the promise in his voice both thrilling and terrifying. "I can place galaxies at your feet. I can ensure that no harm ever comes to you again." His eyes, so like the others yet distinct in their certainty, held hers with hypnotic intensity. The depths of those eyes contained the vastness of conquered space—stars and systems that had bowed before him, now offered as tributes to her. "In my universe, I rule. What is yours by choice here would be yours by right there."

"Choice," Omni Mark echoed from where he stood, still maintaining that respectful distance. The single word carried a weight that seemed to settle in the room, creating a counterbalance to Viltrumite Mark's overwhelming presence. "That's what matters, isn't it? Not gifts or protection or promises." He stepped forward, movements deliberate yet unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world despite the chaos erupting around them. His footsteps were measured, each one a conscious decision rather than an impulsive action. "You've never truly had a choice, Y/N. Not since the GDA experimented on you. Not since we found you. Not since—" his gaze flicked briefly toward Sinister, "—certain events transpired."

He stopped before her, not crowding her like the others but simply offering his presence. The space between them felt sacred somehow, a deliberate gap that spoke of respect rather than distance. "I would give you that choice. Every day. In everything." The sincerity in his voice was a tangible thing, wrapping around Y/N like a shield against the uncertainty crashing through her. It resonated in her chest like a forgotten melody—familiar though she'd never heard it before, comforting though she'd never known such comfort.

Y/N closed her eyes briefly, centering herself amid the chaos. The world narrowed to the rhythm of her own heartbeat, to the warmth of multiple gazes upon her skin, to the weight of a decision that would reshape not just one universe but many. When she opened them again, her gaze fell on Omni Mark—on the quiet strength of his bearing, on the patience with which he awaited her decision.

"I choose—" she began, but her words were drowned out by a deafening explosion directly overhead.

The ceiling gave way in a catastrophic cascade of metal and composite materials, chunks of debris raining down with deadly force. The air filled with a dissonant symphony of groaning metal and shattering concrete, dust particles catching the red emergency light to create a hellish, swirling mist.

Through the chaos, Y/N felt herself being swept aside, strong arms encircling her waist and pulling her clear of danger with superhuman speed. The world blurred momentarily, her senses overwhelmed by the scent of ozone and dust and something uniquely masculine—a combination of clean sweat and subtle cologne that she'd come to associate with safety despite everything.

When her vision cleared, she found herself pressed against Viltrumite Mark's chest, the pristine white of his suit now finally marred by dust and debris. The imperfection transformed the uniform from something untouchable to something real—humanizing him in ways that all his power never could. Flecks of concrete clung to the royal insignia, the imperfection somehow making him appear more human, more approachable than his usual perfection allowed.

"Are you harmed?" he asked, concern evident in the slight furrow of his brow as he scanned her for injuries. The question carried none of his usual command—just raw, unfiltered worry that stripped away centuries of royal conditioning. His arms around her were steel bands of protection, yet his touch remained gentle despite the strength she knew those limbs possessed. One hand moved to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair with a tenderness that contradicted his royal bearing.

The gentle pressure of his fingertips against her scalp sent subtle waves of comfort through her body, each small circle erasing another fragment of the chaos surrounding them. The gentle circles his thumb traced against her scalp sent electric currents down her spine, awareness blooming across her skin like wildfire. His eyes—so familiar yet distinct in their intensity—searched hers with unexpected vulnerability, as if her well-being mattered more than the chaos erupting around them, more than the multiverse itself.

"You could have been—" he started, then stopped, his tongue failing him at the mere thought of her injury. Instead, his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly in her hair, drawing her closer until their foreheads nearly touched.

Before Y/N could respond, a familiar voice called from overhead—amplified by GDA comm systems yet unmistakable in its conviction.

"This is Cecil Stedman of the Global Defense Agency. The facility is surrounded. Release Y/N immediately and surrender yourselves, or we will employ lethal force against all occupants."

Through the gaping hole in the ceiling, Y/N could see GDA operatives in tactical gear rappelling down on carbon-fiber lines, their movements precise and practiced. Like mechanical spiders descending on gossamer threads, they moved with synchronized precision that spoke of countless drills and absolute dedication to their mission. Their energy weapons hummed with charged particles, the air around their barrels wavering with heat distortion as they took aim at the variants below. Armored vehicles had surrounded the perimeter, their cannons already glowing with primed energy, bathing the crumbling structure in an eerie blue light that cut through the red emergency illumination, creating purple shadows in the corners where rubble had collected.

In the center of it all stood Cecil Stedman himself—diminutive yet commanding, his posture radiating authority despite his slight stature. His frame might have been small, but his presence filled the space with the weight of government authority and personal determination. The grim set of his mouth revealed everything about his determination. His hands clasped behind his back, he surveyed the scene below with clinical detachment, like a chess master contemplating his final, devastating move.

"Well," Sinister drawled, wiping blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. The crimson smear across his yellow glove. "This complicates matters."

Mohawk Mark's response was immediate and predictable—blue energy crackling around his clenched fists as his more volatile nature reasserted itself. The energy danced across his knuckles, illuminating the dried blood that no amount of washing seemed able to remove completely. His mohawk seemed to stand straighter with his anger, as if electrified by his rage.

"Let them come," he snarled, muscles coiling beneath his suit like springs wound too tight. Each tensed muscle created ripples beneath the fabric of his suit, the material straining to contain the raw, physical manifestation of his rage as his jaw clenched so tight that Y/N could almost hear his teeth grinding together. "I'll kill each one of them."

"No," Y/N said firmly, extracting herself from Viltrumite Mark's protective embrace, instantly feeling the chill of separation rush across her skin where his warmth had been moments before. She stood straight, shoulders back, finding strength she didn't know she possessed.

"No more destruction. No more death."

She looked between the remaining variants, each face identical yet utterly unique in the emotions they displayed. Her chest tightened with the weight of what needed to be done. "You have to go. All of you. Now, before more people die because of us."

Viltrumite Mark's expression hardened, disdain replacing the concern that had softened his features moments before. A muscle twitched beneath his left eye—the only betrayal of emotion on his otherwise composed features.

"I will not abandon you to them," he stated, the words carrying the weight of royal decree. His voice dropped to a whisper only she could hear. "Not when I've only just found you."

"You must," Y/N insisted, reaching up to touch his face with gentle fingertips. The simple contact seemed to surprise him, his eyes widening fractionally at her boldness. His skin was warm beneath her touch, the slight stubble along his jaw creating a pleasant friction against her fingertips.

"In another life," she whispered, allowing her fingers to trace the strong line of his jaw, memorizing the texture of him, "perhaps we could have built your empire together." The confession cost her something, a possibility she was willingly sacrificing for what needed to be done. "Your world needs its emperor. And I..." She swallowed hard, forcing herself to continue past the lump forming in her throat. "I need to find out who I am without all of you defining me."

Something flickered across Viltrumite Mark's features—an emotion too complex to name, too brief to analyze. For the briefest moment, the mask of control slipped completely, revealing the raw core of a man who had lost everything once before and now stood to lose it again.

For a moment, Y/N thought he might refuse, might choose violence over acceptance.

Then, with dignity that belied the turmoil evident in his eyes, he caught her hand in his, turning it to press a soft kiss against her palm. The touch of his lips was feather-light yet searing, branding her skin with a promise as his lips lingered, warm breath caressing her skin in a silent promise.

"As you wish," he said softly, the formal words somehow conveying depths of feeling his bearing wouldn't allow him to express directly.

Time seemed to slow as he gently placed her hand against his chest, allowing her to feel the strong, steady rhythm of his heart. "Know this," he murmured, his voice a caress against her senses. "In every universe, across all dimensions, some version of me will always find his way back to you."

With visible reluctance, he stepped back, turning toward Angstrom who hung suspended in the center of the room. "Open my portal. Send me home."

Angstrom focused his power as dimensional energy coalesced around his suspended form. A portal began to take shape—edges defined and stable, swirling depths revealing glimpses of a world where Viltrumite banners flew from gleaming spires and the Imperial sigil adorned every surface.

Viltrumite Mark moved toward it with measured steps, imperial bearing intact despite the destruction raining down around them. At the portal's threshold, he paused, turning back to Y/N one final time. What passed between them in that moment needed no words—a connection beyond language, beyond the boundaries of separate dimensions.

Without warning, another explosion rocked the facility. The entire structure shuddered like a wounded beast, metal supports screaming in protest as concrete disintegrated around them. A massive support beam directly above the portal groaned ominously before giving way completely, crashing down through the swirling dimensional gateway. It fell in agonizing slow motion, its massive weight cleaving through the delicate energies of the portal like a blade through silk. The portal collapsed with a sound like glass shattering, emerald energy dissipating in crackling arcs across the rubble.

Viltrumite Mark stepped back just in time, narrowly avoiding being crushed. His reflexes saved him, body moving with fluid grace that somehow maintained dignity even in retreat. His usually composed features darkened with anger as he turned to Angstrom, covering the distance between them in a blur of movement.

"What happened?" he demanded, voice low and dangerous as his hand closed around Angstrom's throat.

"Not... my doing," Angstrom wheezed, eyes wide with genuine surprise. His body convulsed slightly as he struggled against Viltrumite Mark's grip, dimensional energy crackling erratically across his skin in response to his distress. "Structural... failure. The building... can't withstand... continued assault."

Y/N turned to Mohawk Mark with a sigh, her initial determination wavering in the face of their increasingly desperate situation. His explosive rage had dimmed to something quieter but no less intense. The blue accents of his suit seemed to pulse with his heartbeat, the glow reflecting in the unshed tears that made his eyes shine with dangerous brilliance.

"No," he growled, the single word containing multitudes of refusal. "Not again. I won't leave you again."

He closed the distance between them in three quick strides, his movements carrying the barely restrained energy of a predator. When he reached her, however, his touch was unexpectedly gentle as he cradled her face between calloused hands.

"These hands," he whispered, his rough fingertips ghosting along her cheekbones with reverent delicacy, "have broken so many things. Have hurt so many people." His voice cracked, "But with you, they remember how to be gentle."

"Listen to me," he said, voice rough with emotion. "In my world, I watched her die because she pushed me out of the way and took a bullet to the heart for me." His voice cracked, adam's apple bobbing violently as he swallowed back the memory. The muscles in his throat worked visibly against the tide of grief that threatened to drown his words.

"Every night since then, I've heard her voice calling my name. Every fucking night." His thumbs traced the curve of her cheekbones with reverent tenderness that contradicted the harshness of his words. "I won't go back to that emptiness. I can't."

Above them, Cecil's voice rang out again. "This is your final warning. Surrender now or we open fire."

GDA operatives had fully descended into the chamber now, their weapons trained on the variants with deadly precision. The air crackled with tension and primed energy weapons, the situation balanced on a knife's edge of imminent violence.

"We can't stay here," Omni Mark observed quietly, his composed voice cutting through the chaos with remarkable clarity. He moved to stand beside Y/N, not touching her but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "But perhaps..."

His gaze met hers, something thoughtful and hopeful glimmering behind his dark lenses. For a moment, the lenses seemed less like barriers and more like windows, allowing her a glimpse of the mind working behind them—analytical yet passionate, calculating yet kind. "Perhaps we don't all have to return to our original dimensions."

Sinister pushed away from the wall where he'd been observing, his yellow and black suit almost glowing in the emergency lighting. The distinctive colors seemed to absorb and reflect the chaos around them, transforming the emergency lighting into something almost festive on his frame. "What are you suggesting?" he asked, interest evident in the tilt of his head, the predatory alertness in his stance.

"A new universe," Y/N breathed, the idea forming in her mind even as Omni Mark nodded confirmation. The possibilities expanded in her consciousness like a blossoming flower, each petal a different potential future. "Somewhere none of you have been before. Somewhere we could..." She hesitated, hardly daring to voice the thought.

"Start again," Omni Mark finished for her, his usually controlled voice carrying an undercurrent of something that might have been hope. "Together."

Omni Mark moved closer to Y/N, his hand finding hers with unerring precision despite the chaos around them. His fingers intertwined with hers, the simple contact grounding yet electrifying. "No legacies to uphold," he murmured, his thumb tracing small circles against her palm.

"No mistakes to atone for. No ghosts haunting our steps." His voice dropped lower, meant only for her despite the others' enhanced hearing. "Just us, discovering who we might become when we're free to choose."

The idea hung in the air between them, tantalizing in its simplicity yet revolutionary in its implications. A universe where they weren't defined by past failures, by tragedies that had shaped them into monsters. A universe where they could choose who they wanted to be.

"Angstrom," Mohawk Mark growled, turning toward their prisoner with renewed purpose. "Can you do it? Can you send us somewhere new?"

Angstrom's lips curved into a smile that held no warmth. "Anywhere in the multiverse," he confirmed, eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. "But the damage to reality remains. Each portal weakens the barriers between dimensions."

"Then we make this the last jump," Omni Mark decided, his quiet authority somehow more compelling than Cecil's amplified commands or Emperor's royal decrees had been. "One final portal to a dimension where we can begin again. After that, we ensure no more portals are opened." His gaze fixed on Angstrom with deadly intent. "Ever."

Another explosion rocked the facility, closer than the previous one. The shockwave rippled through the floor beneath their feet, concrete cracking in spider-web patterns that spread with alarming speed. Concrete dust rained down from what remained of the ceiling, coating their hair and shoulders in a fine gray powder that resembled premature aging.

"Decide quickly," Sinister urged, eyes fixed on the GDA operatives who were beginning to encircle them. "Our window of opportunity is closing."

Y/N looked between the three remaining variants—Mohawk with his barely contained emotions, Omni with his quiet strength, and Sinister with his dangerous allure. Each represented a different path, a different kind of future—passionate chaos, thoughtful stability, or dangerous excitement. In the shadows across the room, she noticed No-Mask Mark, Lensless Mark, and Phantom Mark quietly conferring, their expressions grave as they discussed their options.

"Who else stays?" she asked, voice stronger now, fed by the certainty growing within her,n"Who goes?"

Phantom Mark approached Y/N, his masked face turning to the corner where he had withdrawn. His movements were fluid and graceful despite the rigid material of his mask, body language conveying emotions his covered face couldn't express. He stood silently for a moment, form trembling slightly as he reached up to touch the edge of his mask. His gloved fingers traced the seam where mask met suit, hovering over the clasp that could reveal what lay beneath. Taking a deep breath that was audible even through the mask's filter, he looked back at the portal forming behind him, then shook his head decisively.

"I've hidden behind this mask for so long," he said, voice distorted yet somehow more vulnerable through the filter. "In my world, hiding was the only way to survive after losing her." His hands fell to his sides, clenching briefly before relaxing. "But maybe in a new world, I can learn to show my face again. To feel the sun without this barrier between me and life."

He moved to stand beside Y/N, his presence solid and reassuring without making demands. Though his face remained hidden, something in his posture conveyed a quiet hope that spoke louder than words ever could. Something about his quiet resolve reminded her of Omni Mark, though his masked features made him more enigmatic, more difficult to read.

No-Mask Mark stepped forward, his unprotected face openly displaying the conflict within. Without the barrier of a mask, every emotion played across his features with startling clarity—grief, determination, and fragile hope battling for dominance. His eyes, identical to the others yet somehow uniquely pained, searched Y/N's face with a mixture of grief and determination.

"I'll stay too," he said, surprising even himself with the decision. The words emerged tentatively at first, then gained strength as he committed to them fully. "I've lost too much already. William..." He trailed off, swallowing hard. His eyes glazed with unshed tears at the name, the loss clearly still raw despite whatever time had passed. "Maybe this time, things can be different. Maybe this time, I can protect what matters."

Lensless Mark bounced on his toes, childlike energy barely contained despite the gravity of the situation. His movements were perpetual, fingers drumming against his thighs, weight shifting from foot to foot—a physical manifestation of his inability to remain still even in crisis. "I'm staying too!" he declared, grinning despite the dried blood flaking from his knuckles. His smile transformed his entire face, erasing the shadow of the killer he had become. "Always wanted a big family anyway."

Above them, Cecil's patience had clearly run out. "Fire warning shots," his voice commanded, followed immediately by the high-pitched whine of energy weapons discharging.

Beams of concentrated energy sliced through the air around them, deliberately missing but close enough to feel the heat against exposed skin. The air crackled and sizzled where the energy passed, leaving behind the acrid scent of ionized particles and the lingering taste of ozone. The message was clear: the next volley wouldn't be a warning.

"Now or never," Mohawk growled, positioning himself protectively between Y/N and the GDA forces.

Y/N turned to Angstrom, determination hardening her resolve. Something shifted in her stance, in her expression. "Do it. Open a portal to somewhere new. Somewhere safe."

Angstrom focused his power, dimensional energy gathering around him like a storm. The air around him began to distort, reality itself bending and warping as emerald light crackled across his suspended form in increasingly complex patterns.

"As you wish," he wheezed, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth as he concentrated. "One last journey."

A portal began to form—larger than the previous ones, its edges shimmering with untapped potential. Unlike the violent tears they had witnessed before, this portal coalesced with almost musical precision, emerald energy flowing like liquid light to create a perfect circular gateway.

Through its swirling depths, Y/N caught glimpses of a world bathed in golden sunlight. Rolling hills covered in lush vegetation stretched toward a horizon where twin moons hung in the sky, their pale surfaces visible even in daylight. A massive structure stood in the middle distance—part castle, part modern fortress, its architecture unlike anything on Earth yet somehow reminiscent of home.

"Perfect," Sinister murmured, appreciation evident in his tone. "Uninhabited but hospitable. No indigenous sentient species to complicate matters."

"How can you tell all that from just a glimpse?" Y/N asked, momentarily distracted by his apparent knowledge.

Sinister's smirk was all teeth and dangerous charm. "I've destroyed thousands of worlds, dove. You learn to assess a planet quickly." He winked, the gesture somehow making the casual mention of genocide even more disturbing. "Useful skill for picking vacation spots too."

Another barrage of energy blasts cut through the air, this one closer than the last. The heat from the blasts washed over them in uncomfortable waves, leaving skin tingling and hairs standing on end. The GDA was done with warnings.

"Go!" Omni Mark urged, his hand finding the small of Y/N's back—not pushing, just guiding, always respecting her autonomy even in crisis. The warmth of his palm radiated through the material of her flight suit, gentle yet urgent. "I'll ensure Angstrom follows and seal the doorway behind us."

Mohawk didn't wait for further discussion. With a feral grin that promised violence to anyone who tried to stop them, he swept Y/N into his arms and leaped toward the portal. His movements were fluid and powerful, muscles bunching beneath her as he carried her weight with effortless strength. Just before they passed through, he paused, looking down at her with unexpected vulnerability.

"Together?" he asked, the single word carrying the weight of promise and question and hope all at once.

Y/N's hand came up to rest against his cheek, thumb tracing the strong line of his jaw. His skin was warm beneath her touch, the slight stubble creating a pleasant friction against the pad of her thumb. "Together," she confirmed, something warm unfurling in her chest at the brilliant smile that transformed his usually fierce expression.

The smile that broke across his features was transformative—years of rage and anguish momentarily washed away, revealing glimpses of who he might have been before tragedy shaped him into a weapon. In that unguarded moment, Y/N saw not the killer he had become but the hero he might yet be.

Then they were through, the world dissolving around them in a kaleidoscope of color and sensation. Reality itself seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously, conventional physics surrendering to the impossible mathematics of multidimensional travel.

Y/N felt Mohawk's arms tighten protectively around her as reality itself seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously, the experience both terrifying and exhilarating.

When solid ground reformed beneath them, they stood on a grassy knoll overlooking a valley bathed in golden light. The ground beneath their feet felt somehow more vibrant than Earth's soil—as if the very molecules contained more energy, more potential. The air tasted sweeter than Earth's, with subtle notes of unfamiliar blossoms and mineral-rich soil. Each breath filled her lungs with intoxicating freshness, oxygen seemingly more potent, more invigorating than what she was accustomed to. The twin moons hung in the sky like watchful guardians, their surfaces etched with patterns different from Luna's familiar face.

One by one, the others followed—Phantom Mark stepping through with characteristic grace, No-Mask arriving with quiet determination in his unprotected features, Lensless bouncing through with childlike enthusiasm, Sinister sauntering through as if dimensional travel was nothing more extraordinary than crossing a street. Last came Omni Mark, dragging a semi-conscious Angstrom with him.

"It's done," Omni Mark stated, releasing Angstrom who collapsed to the grass with a pained groan. He dusted his hands off, "The portal is sealed. No one can follow."

Y/N stood in the circle of these men—these variations of Mark Grayson who had turned their grief into rage and their rage into destruction. Men who had crossed dimensions to find her, who had chosen to stay with her despite the cost. Men who now looked at her not as a replacement for someone lost but as herself—flawed, confused, but ultimately her own person.

"What now?" she asked, the question encompassing far more than their immediate future.

Omni Mark stepped forward, removing his dark lenses to reveal eyes filled with quiet determination. Without the barrier of tinted glass, his blue eye gaze was startlingly direct—intelligent, perceptive, and unexpectedly gentle. "Now we build something new," he said simply, offering his hand to her—not demanding, just inviting.

"Not an empire," he continued, his gaze briefly flicking toward Viltrumite Mark with understanding rather than judgment.

"Not a fortress," another glance toward Mohawk.

"Just... a life. Together."

When she took it, his fingers closed gently around hers, the touch grounding and elevating her simultaneously. His skin was warm against hers, with his free hand, he gestured toward the fortress in the distance. "There's our new home. A place where we can be whoever we choose to be."

"A fresh start," Phantom added, his masked face tilted toward the twin moons as if contemplating their significance. The alien light reflected off his mask, creating patterns that seemed to dance across the surface like living things.

"A family," Lensless contributed, already bouncing on his toes with excitement at exploring their new world. His energy was infectious, bringing a lightness to the moment that balanced the gravity of their decision.

"A kingdom," came Sinister's smooth addition, his yellow and black suit glowing almost gold in the alien sunlight.

"No," Mohawk corrected, his usual aggression softened by something more tender as he gazed at Y/N. The permanent furrow between his brows eased slightly, aggressive posture relaxing into something that better matched the gentleness in his voice. "A home. Just a home."

Y/N looked between them—these men from across the multiverse, each bearing the face of Mark Grayson yet transformed by circumstance and choice into something distinctly other. Men who had been monsters but might choose to be more. Men who had lost her once and found her again.

"A choice," she whispered, understanding blooming inside her chest like a flower seeking sunshine.

"For all of us." Her gaze traveled between them, seeing not just what they had been but what they might become. "Not versions of the same person, but individuals with the freedom to grow in different directions."

As the alien sun began its descent toward an unfamiliar horizon, casting their shadows long across virgin soil, Y/N felt something unfurl within her chest—not quite peace, not quite certainty, but perhaps the beginning of both. Whatever came next, whatever they built in this new world, it would be their choice—not fate, not destiny, not cosmic constants.

Just choice.

And for now, that was enough.

–––––––––

Wow, I can't believe it's over... !!UNLESS!! ☆ If y'all want separate individual chapters dedicated to the Marks in their new universe with Y/n :) Fluff Ansgt Smut you name it (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡

Following Fluff/Smut series!! 𝙰𝚣𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝙷𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚜

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soylent-crocodile · 2 months ago

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Caracalla Boons

(Tithe Collector by Steve Prescott)

These are boons for @thecreaturecodex's wonderfully awful Caracalla, who I personally much prefer over Golarion's Trelmarixian. As written, Caracalla is not currently a Horseman, and already has a set of Harbinger-scale boons. (That is, three spell-like abilities). Consider this to be here for if she ever does dethrone the old dog and take her place as Horseman of Famine, and enjoy.

And for the record, I don't think any of the four Marine prestige classes particularly fit Caracalla, although she'd still make a mean Souldrinker or Sinstalker.

Obedience: Take money from someone poorer than yourself. This can be through any legal or illegal means. Spend one hour justifying to yourself why you deserve the money more than they do. Gain a +4 profane bonus on saves against emotion effects.

Evangelist Boons

First Boon Blood from a Stone- Pilfering Hand 3/day, Stone Discus 2/day, or Symbol of Exsanguination 1/day

Second Boon Take the Tithe- A number of times per day equal to 3+your Charisma modifier, you may demand a magical tithe from those around you. This is a standard action and requires you to be holding an open bag. When you do this, 100gp of coins is forcefully taken from the pockets of each creature within 30ft of you and placed in the bag. Creatures who lose 100gp or more this way take 2d6 negative energy damage; creatures who had less than 100gp to be removed take 6d6 negative energy damage. A successful will save with DC equal to 10+½ your character level+your Charisma modifier negates the gold effect and halves the damage.

Third Boon Grip of Famine- You are an envoy of starvation and need in its purest, most destructive form. Gain Horrid Wilting as a spell-like ability usable 3/day.

Exalted Boons

First Boon Despoil Hope- Fool’s Gold 3/day, Summon Swarm 2/day, or Curse Terrain 1/day

Second Boon Opulent Casting- When casting a spell, you may add 100gp per spell level to the material components of the spell. (The gold is consumed by the casting.) If you do, that spell is cast at a caster level of 1 higher and increases the DC by +1.

Third Boon Army of Famine- As a standard action up to 3 times per day, you may touch a dying creature to instantly slay it unless they make a will save with DC equal to 10+½ your character level+your Charisma modifier. Creatures slain this way return 1 round later as staggath loyal to your mistress Caracalla. They may follow your orders and will typically fight alongside you in whatever combat they find themselves in, but afterwards will try to find a way to Abbadon to join her army.

Sentinel Boons

First Boon Famine’s Crusader- Mount 3/day, Wartrain Mount 2/day, or Phantom Steed 1/day

Second Boon Punish the Undeserving- Whenever you break an item with a sunder maneuver, the opponent holding or wielding that item takes 2d6 damage that is half negative and half piercing plus your charisma modifier. Gain a +2 profane bonus to sunder checks, and performing a sunder does not trigger an attack of opportunity.

Third Boon Conspicuous Consumption- Caracalla rewards you wearing your wealth; gold-plated weapons you wield gain a +2 profane bonus to attack and damage rolls and are considered to be cold steel, silver, and adamantine for the purpose of overcoming DR, and gold-plated armor you wear gain a +2 profane bonus to their AC bonus. Additionally, while wearing at least 1,000gp worth of non magical jewelry, you gain a +4 profane bonus to charisma-based skill checks.

#soylent original #feats spells and items #divine obedience #caracalla #anti capitalism

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metaconsteels · 5 months ago

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In the world of heavy industry, reliability and durability are paramount. When machinery needs to withstand extreme stress and demanding conditions, the quality of its components is non-negotiable. Metacon Steels rises to this challenge, specializing in high-quality cast steel gears, cast steel components, and cast steel cylinders that power industries worldwide.

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wearsteels · 3 months ago

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India's Largest Manufacturer of Manganese Steel Castings - Wear steels

Wear Steels Pvt Ltd, India's largest manufacturer of Manganese Steel Castings, serves the Mining and Thermal Power industries with ISO 9001-certified quality.

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sunriseindustries · 1 year ago

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Sunrise Brass Industries are Manufacturer, Exporter, Supplier of customized Components in Brass, Stainless Steel, Copper, Bronze, Gun Metal and special alloys at Jamnagar. https://www.sunriseind.co.in/index.html

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rpalloys · 2 years ago

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Stainless Steel Casting Machine Tools Component

Stainless steel casting has revolutionized the world of machine tools, providing components with unmatched durability and precision. In the realm of manufacturing, the quality of machine tools directly impacts efficiency and productivity. Let's delve into the realm of stainless steel casting for machine tools and explore why it stands out in the industry.

The Advantages of Stainless Steel Casting

When it comes to crafting machine tool components, stainless steel casting offers a myriad of advantages. The inherent durability and longevity of stainless steel make it an ideal choice for components subjected to high stress and wear. Additionally, its resistance to corrosion ensures a longer lifespan for the machine tools.

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Despite its numerous advantages, stainless steel casting for machine tools comes with its set of challenges. Complex designs may require specialized skills, leading to higher labor costs. The initial investment can also be a barrier for some manufacturers. Overcoming these challenges requires a strategic approach to reap the full benefits of stainless steel casting.

Case Studies: Successful Implementations

Examining real-world examples of industries successfully implementing stainless steel casting in machine tools provides valuable insights. From aerospace to automotive, the positive impact on machine performance and reliability is evident. These case studies serve as testaments to the effectiveness of stainless steel casting.

Choosing the Right Stainless Steel Alloy

Selecting the appropriate stainless steel alloy is crucial for the performance of machine tools. Factors such as the application, environmental conditions, and required durability influence alloy choices. Manufacturers must match the specific requirements of machine components with the suitable stainless steel alloy to ensure optimal performance.

Future Trends in Stainless Steel Casting for Machine Tools

The future of stainless steel casting in machine tools holds exciting possibilities. Integration with smart technologies, a focus on sustainable practices, and evolving industry standards are shaping the trajectory of the industry. Staying abreast of these trends is essential for manufacturers aiming to stay competitive in the market.

Customer Testimonials

Real-world experiences with stainless steel casting provide valuable insights into its impact on machine tools. Customers across various industries attest to the improved efficiency, longevity, and overall performance of machine tools equipped with stainless steel components. These testimonials serve as compelling endorsements for the reliability of stainless steel casting.

Comparative Analysis with Other Materials

To understand the full scope of stainless steel casting, it's essential to compare it with other materials commonly used in machine tools. Analyzing the strengths and weaknesses of stainless steel in comparison to alternatives helps manufacturers make informed decisions about material selection.

Maintenance Tips for Stainless Steel Machine Tools

Proper maintenance is crucial for maximizing the lifespan and performance of machine tools with stainless steel components. Regular cleaning, timely inspections, and effective lubrication practices are key to preventing issues and ensuring smooth operation. Addressing minor issues promptly can prevent major breakdowns and extend the life of the machine tools.

Conclusion

In conclusion, stainless steel casting has emerged as a game-changer in the realm of machine tools. Its unparalleled durability, precision, and resistance to corrosion make it the material of choice for manufacturers aiming for top-notch performance. As industries evolve, the role of stainless steel casting in shaping the future of machine tools is undeniable.

#RP Alloys & Steel Forgings #Machined Stainless Steel Cast Parts #Cast Components #Cement Machinery Cast #Steel Parts #Stainless Steel Casting #Aotomotive Steel Machined Casting Parts

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lentiggine7 · 3 months ago

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The Yin and Yang of Engineering: Jinx/Viktor

Chap. 1: Tinkering with the absurd.

The scent of scorching metal and candle wax lingered in the air, mingling with the residual ozone of active Hextech. The laboratory existing as an ecosystem of its own — a microcosm of calculated order, in which every movement was rigorously orchestrated, every instrument meticulously placed, every breath synchronized to the steady hum of interconnected machinery. The crisp scratch of graphite against parchment, the measured clink of tools — the usual praxis. Something, however, had already begun to disrupt its equilibrium.

Viktor sensed the disturbance before he saw it. A minute displacement in the air pressure, a fractional shift in the ambient acoustics; the subtlest irregularity. Then, the faintest creak from above.

He let his fingers continue their measured course along the Hextech circuitry before him, grip steady, focus ostensibly unscathed. A test, in part—to see how long the anomaly would linger before announcing itself.

He had already detected the pair of pendulous blue braids dangling into his peripheral vision; had already cataloged mass, velocity, and descent trajectories should the anomaly, as anomalies often do, spiral into a paroxysm of unpredictability.

"You look very ugly from this angle, y'know?" came the snickering, upside-down voice. The words were laced with a gummy, lopsided grin.

Viktor let out a stolid, measured exhale, slowly tipping his head up. “And you resemble a bat.” he replied evenly, tone as measured as his calibrations.

The statement elicited a gnarly laugh from Jinx, who was suspended from an overhead beam. Her entire body was folded into an improbable pose, legs hooked over the steel girder as though gravity were merely a suggestion.

The neon glow of Zaun’s skyline bled in through the lab windows, casting fragmented light over the contours of her rounded features, the faint smudge of soot dusting her jawline, the subtle asymmetry of her pupils—one slightly more dilated than the other. A tell, perhaps.

Viktor merely adjusted a stabilizer. “Should I begin to question how you got up there?”

Jinx twisted midair with a surprising economy of movement. The vertebral rotation was precise, controlled—almost acrobatic.

Then, without warning, she let go. Viktor tensed, a reflexive tightening of his grip on the edge of the workbench. The poor scientist had already begun to map trajectories, force differentials, probabilities of injury, only for the jinx to land in a perfect crouch, one hand brushing the floor for balance before springing up with the fluidity of a creature built for unpredictability.

Jinx twirled once, for no discernible reason other than self-amusement, then flopped onto one of his worktables, her limbs sprawling on the surface with careless abandon.

“So, Doc?” Jinx drawled, tilting her head toward the intricate lattice of Hextech components strewn before him. “whatcha cooking up in that fancy contraption of yours?”

"A minor enhancement,” he answered, gesturing at the faintly pulsating gemstone embedded in the device. “One that may stabilize Hextech output during large power draws. We—” he hesitated, momentarily considering whether to lump himself in with Piltover’s more refined approach "—some of us forget how violent these energies can be when not properly harnessed.”

“Violent energies, violent minds,” she mused, referring to his earlier statement, while patting down the dust on her patchwork trousers. “Nothing a little disorder can't fix.”

“Entropy requires boundaries,” Viktor corrected, keeping his voice gentle despite the admonition. “A container. Else it consumes itself and everything around it.”

"Alright, philosopher," she snickered, "so, what you're telling me is 'no boom'?"

“Absolutely not. No utility whatsoever in explosions."

Jinx's ebullient expression dropped to a saturnine one. “Boring,” she huffed, scrunching her nose. “why are you like this?”

“Functionality,” Viktor returned evenly, “is not contingent on spectacle.”

“Roger that.” she sneered. Jinx twisted at the waist, swinging gently like a pendulum.

She peered at him through the electric haze, turning a small metal sphere over in her hand—one of her bombs, he surmised, judging by the labyrinth of tiny, improvised coils etched along its surface. It was disarmingly compact, unpolished, but brimming with haphazard brilliance. There was artistry in its asymmetry, like a half-remembered blueprint from a dream.

She pressed the sphere into his palm. “Try to make this stable now, yeah?” her tone brimming with the same sardonic twang she always carried. Yet beneath that, a flicker of sincerity: an invitation to test the boundaries she had set.

Viktor’s metal brace squeaked softly as he shifted his weight, accepting the device with steady composure, analyzing the craft with composed fascination. “I am usually up for a challenge,” he replied, a faint thread of wry humor lacing his tone. “However… I must insist you not hang from my rafters again without warning. The structural integrity—”

“Yeah, yeah," she immediately interrupted him, snorting, "... deal."

Viktor set the bomb gently on the worktable and glanced at her. In the silent seconds that followed, there was no condescending tut-tut of a Piltover academic, no sanctimonious lecture of what she could have done better. Merely an unspoken accord that if they could each appreciate the other’s mania—and keep its calamitous potential in check—there was something worth building there.

He adjusted a delicate filament, the faintest suggestion of amusement sparking behind his amber eyes. “You mistake methodology for rigidity,” he randomly mused, glancing sidelong at Jinx.

Her nose wrinkled again, waiting for him to elaborate.

He rolled his wrist as he set a filament connector. “A scientist does not calculate every step merely to banish unpredictability. Calculation is comprehension—to understand a system so deeply that you know precisely where to push and when to pull. Not to prevent chaos,” he added, letting the final phrase hang, “but to direct it.”

Her lids flickered in hesitant acknowledgment; skepticism warred with fascination in her mismatched gaze. “So what you’re saying,” she pressed, “is that you do like messing with things, you quaint, boring guy.”

A soft hum escaped Viktor’s throat, ignoring the insults. “The core of invention is not the mere desire for control, but curiosity,” he continued. “The difference,” he said mildly, “is that I prefer my experiments remain intact by the end of it.”

She slid off the table and prowled around the lab, trailing her fingers over metal and wire, rifling through blueprints.

Jinx moved like she thought in tangents: erratic. Nonlinear. Pausing here, skipping entire sections there, only to circle back if something caught her eye again, in what one could call a stochastic, staccato fashion.

Viktor, wisely, did not intervene. He had long since learned that when it came to Jinx, indirect engagement was often a more effective deterrent than forbiddance.

Eventually, she plopped herself down at a workbench—one cluttered with Viktor and Jayce’s shared diagrams—scrunching them aside with a careless sweep of her forearm. Surprisingly, she took pains not to knock them to the floor or tear them. An almost incongruous note of consideration from someone so prone to what Viktor could only describe as deliberate rascality.

Jinx stretched until a series of pops echoed through the quiet workshop, then rummaged in her satchel. Out came the neon-splashed paraphernalia she called her toolkit: coil springs, nuts and bolts of questionable origin, and—of course—her beloved spray cans in garish, candy-colored hues. The stark contrast against Viktor’s methodical array of polished metal components was almost comical.

Yet neither commented on it. Viktor, engrossed in refining a fractal array for stabilizing Hextech surges, offered only the occasional sideward glance. Jinx, with her usual lack of ceremony, fished out a crude welding torch and got to work assembling... something. If the shape seemed headed toward destructive potential, Viktor refrained from remark—he had long discovered that sharing space with her was a delicate dance better navigated by trusting in her ad-hoc, if not entirely safe, sense of boundaries.

Hours passed in near silence. In place of conversation was the rhythmic hum of the lab, the hiss of flux as Viktor soldered circuit boards, the faint crackle of Jinx’s blowtorch. Occasionally, Jinx broke the hush with a sudden whoop or guttural holler, purely to see Viktor jump at the unexpected noise. Each time, she dissolved into snickering laughter. He responded with measured exasperation, arching one brow but saying nothing. Even so, a trace of bemusement flickered across his features, as though he found her antics strangely disarming.

Eventually, the overhead lamps dimmed, a subtle reminder that the hour was growing late. Viktor powered down his apparatus with a final flip of a switch. Jinx, yawning in an exaggerated manner, began stowing her things in a scuffed leather pouch. "Think 'm headin' out now. Night night."

"Night."

The woman had already crept back up with the grace of a nimble rat, scaling the ceiling pipes, her long electric blue braids once more dangling upon Viktor's forehead as he scarcely managed to push them aside. She then made her way to the same improbable entryway through which she had crashed into the lab, quietly humming an off-key tune before vanishing into the sooty shadows beyond.

Viktor, by contrast, had continued his work undisturbed, denying himself even the basic luxury of sleep. When his eyelids finally began to grow heavy and he awoke from a brief micro-slumber, elbows unceremoniously propped on the workbench, he caught, in a dazed haze, the blurred image of a bizarre object with distinct animalistic contours, stationed before him as though it were unnervingly staring at him.

Instinctively, he flinched, covering his head as if to brace himself for the expected detonation which, surprisingly, never came.

The odd bitzer remained still, with no sign of malevolent nature, glimmering quietly under the workshop’s neon gloom — a squat, mechanical monkey-like figure sporting metallic plating with a grotesque smile and an odd coil in its belly.

Viktor raised a brow as he took note of the small sprig attached to its left hand, that held the monkey's weight into an erect position while seemingly mimicking the scientist's own ligneous cane. His attention was then captured by the bright yellow post-it affixed to the metallic ape with a messy bit of tape, scribbled in a deliberately sloppy handwriting:

“name's cookie... he looks like you. yuo can keep it :o)

– J”

Beneath it, a wonky smiley face scrawled in lurid neon ink, as asymmetrical as its creator’s grin.

It elicited a smile from him, who examined it as it rested upon his palm. Albeit a bit rough in its form, the artefact appeared to be crafted with a certain intent, perhaps even care. He pressed a button to test the mechanism, still half-expecting an explosive cacophony. The monkey’s tiny arms flailed in a spasmodic dance, beginning to tremble as if preceding detonation, only to splutter out a few confetti which landed on his ivory jacket. Viktor shook his head, his expression softening to one of amusement.

He let his index carefully trail over its metal plating, before placing it on his workbench beside the half-finished stabilizer, the neon-paint smudges glaring against the refined Hextech casing. For all the incongruity, there was something undeniably… charming about it. Perhaps endearing even. He'd later hang it up in a corner of the lab, a testament to the newfound, improbable synergy.

For the first time since Jayce's abandonment of the lab in pursuit of his councilor duties, Viktor perceived a vague sense of vacancy following the disappearance of Jinx and her shenaningans, which alongside his exhaustion finally prompted him to call it a day and go home, an unfortunately rare occurrence for the inventor.

In truth, this measured respect and fascination had begun well before Jinx’s impromptu acrobatics in Viktor’s laboratory — it had taken root, ironically, in moments where they’d never even met face-to-face.

Viktor recalled being urgently presented with the disarrayed collection of fuliginous, hazardous mechanical constructs—agglomerations of metallic scraps, remnants of gunpowder cartridges, and nearly comical embellishments of dubious taste, alarmingly rumored to have derived from Silco's inner circle.

"The configuration is... rough, though there certainly is a certain knowledge of engineering, if not mere intuition." Viktor mused, carefully examining the device's labyrinthine wiring and ingeniously modified spark fuses of the complex apparatus beneath him.

"Would they be capable of figuring Hextech out?" Jayce wondered aloud, his steps resonating an anxious rhythm across the chamber's floor.

"Eh," Viktor hummed pensively, "I wouldn't exclude it. The possibility does exist."

"With a complete lack of the theoretical basis? No, no. Years of research and tests only for some... sick, delinquent mind to comprehend and emulate so effortlessly? No chance." he quickly retorted, the firm incredulity in his voice coming across as an attempt at self-regulation rather than genuine conviction. "This is merely a... well-thought attempt at scare tactics. To intimidate us into allowing independency."

"The absence of formal theory, or proper equipment, only serves to underscore the inventive potential of such mechanical artistry." Viktor countered, "If only such acumen could be channeled towards something more... constructive." he then mused, lithe fingers delicately twiddling with the disassembled filaments beneath him.

"Potential? Viktor, this is sheer madness. These are seeds of entropy threatening to contaminate the flourishing utopia that is Piltover. I can not tolerate nor allow this, and may be obliged to..." he paused, simultaneously recalling Medarda's words and anticipating the partner's disapproval, "take countermeasures."

The statement did, in fact, earn a mild glare from Viktor, who was intently scanning the device's subversive wiring.

"If I recall correctly, weren't Hexgems, too, violently volatile in their raw form?" Viktor extended his arm, the servos in his brace whirring faintly as he aligned the titanium-tipped cutters with the wire he had deduced to be the linchpin of the circuitry,

"Volatility is often the embyron of great potential," he continued, finally neutralizing the bomb, "the only requirement being the correct catalyst to refine and stabilize its essence."

#arcane #viktor arcane #jinx arcane #viktor x jinx #jinx x viktor #jinxtor #rarepair #there are so many parallelisms..#two sides of the same coin #perhaps #they are both insane engineers #from zaun #gasp!

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dungeon-strugglers · 2 years ago

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✨New item!✨ Cannibal’s Cutlery Wondrous item, uncommon

You can extract knowledge from the food you eat while using this cutlery. As an action while eating the flesh of a creature, you can telepathically ask the creature one question as if you cast the speak with dead spell. The response appears visually and audibly in your mind. This property can only be used to extract information from a creature once. Additionally, you have advantage on any check to deduce knowledge about a creature’s lived experience whose flesh you have consumed.

Curse. If you eat the flesh of a humanoid with this cutlery, you become cursed with an insatiable hunger for humanoid meat. You gain one level of exhaustion for every 3 days that pass without eating humanoid meat. This exhaustion can only be removed by eating 1 lb of humanoid flesh, which removes all levels of exhaustion. If this curse is lifted, the exhaustion is removed as well.

The handles of this fork and knife were shaped from the bones of a ghoul, the steel components were smelted from iron extracted entirely from human blood, and the set was enchanted with the power of the gobblers, vulture-like beings that extract knowledge from the dead by consuming their flesh. - 🖌🎨 Like our work? Consider supporting us on Patreon and gain access to the hi-resolution art for over 180 magic items, item cards and card packs, beautiful creature art and stat blocks, and setting pdfs with narrative hooks and unique lore!🧙‍♂️ Thank you so much for your support! 💖

📜 Credit. Art and design by us: the Dungeon Strugglers. Please credit us if you repost elsewhere.

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chanelle-lize · 2 months ago

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The Sword and the Stone

A fanfic I wrote because I listen to Worlds Beyond Number to micro-dose heart-wrenching trauma. The beginning is a little odd, because the story is based on how I think Suvi and Steel's relationship will change in the future, but I don't have a specific enough theory about the future of the main plot to place the characters within a setting that is any more specific than a marble room that is vaguely dangerous for rebel wizards to be in. Contains blood, betrayal, character death, grief, and Suvi generally having a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. ~1,900 words

A Wizard Trap (which is a trap for wizards) springs as Suvi does whatever Wizard Thing needs to be done to help solve the Big Problem. Blood trickles from her nose and sprays from her mouth as she cries out in pain, taking a massive amount of damage from the trap as it punishes her for continuing to do the Thing that she is doing, yet still she forges forward relentlessly. Ame, Eursulon, and the Fox are somewhere nearby, but Other Things are happening, so they are otherwise occupied.

Just as Suvi successfully does the Wizard Thing, Steel rushes towards the Wizard Trap, sword drawn, ready to finish off whichever traitorous wizard has dared betray the Citadel under her service.

“It’s me! Steel, it’s me!” Suvi calls out, her voice cracking with pain, exhaustion, and the relief of knowing that what she’s done will help fix the Big Problem, and that her adoptive mother will understand and everything will be okay once all of this is over.

Steel halts for a moment as she realizes who is in the trap.

“Suvi…?”

“Mom!”

Suvi begins to cry as she stumbles towards Steel, desperate for comfort, her arms slightly outstretched for a hug.

“Suvi… I’m so sorry.”

Compelled by a self-inflicted Geas spell, the Sword of the Citadel strides forward and aims a deadly decapitating blow at the neck of the Wizard Sky.

Time itself appears to slow.

Suvi’s heart shatters as Steel’s blade slowly swings towards her neck, and she holds Steel’s sad yet convicted gaze with a look of numb disbelief, until, with the clear, silvery tone of a crystal wine glass struck by a knife, the sword glances off some unseen shield, and a flash of brilliant blue reveals a dome of glassy light surrounding Suvi. The very air around her begins to tremble, and the sapphire pendant hanging from her neck begins to glow with a blinding white light.

Steel staggers backwards, sword dangling awkwardly in her hands as her stance momentarily falters. The dome of light chips where it’s hit, then cracks and fractures, silently shattering into slivers of glass light that hover for a fraction of a second before they coalesce into a column towering high over Suvi and Steel's heads, swirling as it settles into the shape of the Wizard Stone.

Steel takes another step back as the shimmering Stone, an eight foot murmuration of glassy midnight blue, appears before her. To Steel she is a giant, but to Suvi, she is just as tall as she remembers.

Stone stares down at Steel with a look of disappointment, rage, and compassion and silently raises a glistening hand. Steel’s eyes, at first flickering with terror and confusion, now lock onto Stone’s shining white eyes. Her arms fall slack to her sides, sword sent clattering against the cold, stone floor, as tears begin to trace down the strange white scars that lace her cheek. As her eyes begin to take on the same shining white glow, her expression twists from confusion to disbelief, and then contorts into a rictus of horror.

Suvi never would have known what was happening to Steel if she hadn’t experienced something similar herself. There were no verbal or somatic components to go off of, but it was unmistakable. This image of Stone had inflicted Steel with something akin to what she would have experienced had she cast the Identify spell on herself. The only difference: this magic was undoing her.

A Mirror Curse.

The thrum in the air intensifies, a deep, bone-rattling rumble joined by a shimmering, bright, otherworldly buzz that bends in pitch like a polyphonic overtone, deeper and clearer, until it begins to resemble the ringing, crackling chime of shattering glass, familiar, yet stretched and distorted as though by some temporal equivalent of a Doppler effect. Time begins to return to itself, and as the present moment finally passes on and makes room for the next, the approaching sound that somehow hadn’t quite gotten here yet finally arrives, and the brilliant crash that should have accompanied the shattering of the bright glass light dome finally rings through the air. Stone’s dark blue figure bursts in a salvo of slivers that spark and disappear like dying stars. The light fades from Steel’s eyes, and the Sword of the Citadel clatters to the floor, dead.

Eursulon, Ame, and the Fox see only this: Steel swings her sword at Suvi’s neck, but it bounces uselessly against a blue dome shield of light that springs up around her. Steel’s eyes flash white as the dome shatters like glass, and she falls dead to the cold, stone floor.

The perfect sapphire pendant around Suvi’s neck, having served its final purpose, cracks and crumbles.

“Mom!”

Suvi shrieks, her voice somehow sharper than the loud shattering of glass reverberating around her. She calls for her mother again and again, but does not move towards Steel. It’s Stone that she wants. She had her back for just a moment, just long enough for her to wrap her protective blue cloak around Suvi one last time, and now she’s gone, and so is Steel. Steel, who Suvi never would have guessed would ever choose the Citadel over her. Steel, who Stone believed could be trusted to take care of her child. And if she couldn’t, if Suvi chose to stand against the Citadel and Steel chose to stand in her way, she knew her child would have a shield to save her. She knew her child would still be safe even if the Citadel that was once her childhood home turned the steel-bladed Sword that once protected her against her.

Ame, Eursulon, and the Fox look on in shock, not believing what they’ve seen and not daring to move, until Suvi, suddenly overcome by wracking sobs, wobbles and drops to her knees, and then down to the floor. All three rush towards her, but Eursulon easily outpaces Ame and the Fox, making it to Suvi’s side in three quadrupedal bounds. Gently, Eursulon slides his paws under her back and knees and attempts to lift her from the cold floor, but she rag-dolls as he lifts her. He slides his right arm back out from under her legs and instead supports her head like one would a newborn baby, pulling her into his chest, and casting Lay on Hands to heal some of the damage she’d sustained from the trap.

The tears welling up in Ame’s eyes are spilling over as she and the Fox catch up with Eursulon. They pause, watching for a moment as he silently weeps, gently rocking from side to side as he clutches a limp, wailing Suvi to his chest. Ame pauses in consideration and looks to the Fox, and they move towards Steel, quietly setting themselves to the work of putting her body to rest.

Suvi wails herself hoarse, her body dead-weight in Eursulon’s arms. But as she feels and hears him breathe, her breathing also changes. Her wails calm to hiccuping sobs. Her breath falls in time with his. The tone returns to her muscles, and she begins to bear her own weight. Eventually, she reaches a hand up, clutches a tuft of Eursulon’s fur, and breathes a deep, shuddering sigh. Eursulon’s hug tightens slightly as he curls around her and breathes a shaky sigh of his own in response.

As though somehow waiting for this signal, Ame and the Fox join them. Ame rests a gentle hand on Suvi’s shoulder as the Fox noses his way under Eursulon’s armpit and worms his way between Suvi and Eursulon’s chest. Overwhelmed by the additional affection, Suvi once again begins to sob. Ame gives her shoulder a comforting squeeze.

Eventually, Suvi stops crying again, and after a short, intimate silence, she takes a loud, long inhale through her nose and declares, “We have things to do.”

“Hm?” from Ame.

“What?” from Eursulon.

“I wasn’t sleeping, you were sleeping,” from the Fox.

“This is… so nice, but we do need to complete our mission, and this hug is getting so warm and I want to get out.”

“Of course,” Eursulon intones, loosening his grip on Suvi a little too abruptly.

The four untangle themselves from the grief heap and begin readying for their next objective. Suvi prestidigitates the blood from her clothing before becoming preoccupied with adjusting and readjusting a button on one of her cuff sleeves.

“Ready to go?” Ame asks.

“Yeah, uuh…” Suvi glances at Ame, then back at her cuff, but it’s long enough for Ame to see her eyes beginning to water again. “Is… “ She falls silent.

“…Suvi?” Eursulon quietly probes.

Suvi glances towards Eursulon’s voice, but doesn’t turn her head. If she turns to look at him, she’ll have to look at the spot where she saw Steel’s body fall.

“Is she…,” she makes out, before her voice cracks and falters.

“Oh! Uh…” Ame fumbles nervously, “I assumed… I didn’t, um… I’m sorry, did you want to say ‘goodbye’ first?”

Suvi looks up. “You already did it?”

“Yeah.”

Suvi’s shoulders visibly drop away from her shoulders and she exhales a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

“Okay… okay…”

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah!” Suvi gives a shrug of nonchalance and flashes a smirk that accidentally squeezes a couple tears onto her cheeks that she quickly wipes away with the back of her hand. She steadies herself with another deep breath, then swiftly looks over to the spot in the room she was trying to avoid. Her heart lurches as her gaze meets the little brass censer of ashes placed neatly on top of Steel’s spell book next to Steel’s sheathed sword, but she fights back the wave of emotion and strides forward with a soldier’s grace.

Suvi bends down on one knee and looks like she’s about to simply pick up the items, but she pauses as she reaches for them. Slowly, she readjusts, shifting to a full kneeling position, and she slowly pulls the sword about halfway out of the sheath before letting her fingertips gently rest along the blade.

After a little longer than a minute, Suvi slides the sword back into its sheath, wipes her face with her hands, stands, clips the sheath onto her belt, then picks up the censer and spell book. She turns around, startled and slightly embarrassed to find Ame, Eursulon, and the Fox silently watching her.

“I was casting Identify,” she declares a little too loudly in the echoey, marble room. Suvi hates the awkward pause that lets her voice bounce around the room unimpeded.

“On the sword.” Another awkward silence.

“And what did it tell you of the sword?” Eursulon inquires.

“It’s… fine.”

“Ah... Good.”

“So, there are no dangerous enchantments on it then?” Ame asks. Suvi visibly winces, turns, and strides out of the room, and the rest of the group quickly follows.

“That is why you cast Identify on it, right? To see if there was something wrong with it?” Suvi's stride lengthens, a change that is barely noticeable to Eursulon, but a notable increase for Ame.

"Suvi?"

“There was nothing wrong with the Sword.”

Suvi rounds on Ame, who bumps into her in her haste to keep up with her longer-legged companion. She takes a step back and looks up at Suvi from under the brim of her hat.

"It's a sword. It cuts and it kills. That's what it's for. There's nothing wrong with it. It does what it's for."

“Ok... That’s good, then.”

Suvi stares down at Ame a little longer before answering.

"Yeah."

Turning back around, she brushes off her jacket, and, after a moment of fiddling with the button on her cuff, begins striding forward once more.

#this is the first fanfic I ever put out into the internet wilds I think #I'm in the queue to get an AO3 account so I'll also post it there when I get it #I never did fanfic in my youth though so I need help understanding literally all of it #please infodump essential fanfic writing knowledge in my dms please thanks #fanfic #fan fiction #the wizard the witch and the wild one #worlds beyond number #suvirin kedberiket #the wizard steel #the wizard sky #the wizard stone #the sword of the citadel #hey remember how brutal Suvi was about the Chalice because she chose to be that? hm.

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