Apologies & Promises

Episode 9 - Viktor's Suicide attempt

"Am I interrupting?"

I remember that day, years ago. I remember the lost look in his eyes, the fearful hope that blossomed at my offer.
'Our Hextech dream' he'd called it.
And it was just as beautiful as he said it would be.

Things are different now.
He's afraid.
The illness is visible now.
It has traced the lines of my face until all that remains is a gaunt, bony shell.
Death shrouds me.
I think I am afraid too.
Afraid that I will be forgotten with a little too much ease.
Afraid of him being the only one at my funeral.

And most of all, I am afraid that my death with take with it a piece of him, the thing that I love most about him.

The thing that makes him Jayce.

His hope.

How ironic.
The thing I fear the most about dying is the thought that I might take someone else with me.
Perhaps that fear is why I'm here, foot at the edge.

Perhaps it's my guilty conscience, reminding me of the blood on my hands that I can never clean.
Oh Sky...
You didn't deserve this...

This place was the beginning
And it could be the end.
Life and death.
Good and evil.
Two sides of the same rusted coin.

I want to be remembered.
Not as an assistant, or a cripple, or a Zaunite in Piltover.
But as Viktor, co-founder of Hextech, the "Man of Progress"'s partner.
Jayce would like that last part especially.
He always does try to push me into the spotlight, insisting that I deserve the attention.
Isn't that such a silly thought?
My face, on a poster, or a mug.
They would never see me as a symbol of progress.
No, I'll always be just a Zaunite to them.
A terrorist, a murderer.
A threat.

And even if I could've been the second golden boy, do I even deserve such a thing?

How greedy of me, to want a legacy that I have not earned.
And how selfish of me to want to end my own suffering.
For if I am dead, who will be there for him?

Who will be there to correct his calculations, if I am not?
Perhaps Heimerdinger? But he finds our work dangerous, he may not go near the lab.
Who will be there to insult the rich folk when they treat him poorly, if I am not?
Certainly not Mel, for she is one of them. But he's getting braver, so perhaps he will do that himself.
But who will be there to stop him from jumping from a ledge, if I am not?
The answer is simple.
No one.
Because no one knows about that.
No one but him and I.

He sits beside me, a look of understanding and sympathy creasing his familiar features.
"Remember the Distinguished Innovators competition?" He speaks after a moment.

"I remember you notching gears in the carriage over" A soft smile tugs at my mouth.

I picture him with various tools and gears wedged anywhere he could fit them.

"They started cranking the engine and the whole thing was rattling. I thought a loose cog was gonna take someone's eye out" his words held the ghost of a laugh, and something heavier.

"Well at least you didn't throw up" I reply.

That gets a chuckle out of him.
But it is brief.

"Everything made sense then" He sighs, turning his head away slightly

I look away.
Because if I don't, I think I will cry.

"You have to destroy it" I croak.

"I know" He speaks quietly, knowingly.

But he doesn't know.
If he did, he wouldn't have stopped me from jumping.
He would have bid me good riddance, perhaps screamed at me for murdering poor Sky.

And the worst part is, I would deserve it.
Sky is dead because of me.
She only ever did good things.
I should be the one whose ashes were dumped into the river.
She should not have died.

"The Hexcore. I can't do it. You have to. Please"
I sound so desperate.
Broken, even.
And I know that it hurts him to hear it, because his face seems to hold every ounce of sorrow in the universe, all at once.
My chest aches, as if someone has taken my sternum right out of my body with their bare hands.
Perhaps it's the illness doing this.
Perhaps it's something else.

"What about your disease? Without the Hexcore-" He is cut off by my body deciding to remind me that it is withering away.
My lungs are squeezed by an invisible claw inside my chest.
It's so hard to breathe.
The coughing ravages my throat, leaving it raw.

"Promise me" I say, with the desperation of a dying man, and the voice of a dead one.

He hesitates.
I can't bear to look at his heartbroken expression for a second longer, so I turn away again.

"Okay. Okay." He stands, placing his hand on my shoulder, "I promise"

The gesture is familiar, all-purpose.
Sometimes it means celebration.
Other times it's for comfort, giving or seeking.
This time, it could be many things.
Symbolic of his promise, perhaps an apology.
Or maybe it's his way of saying goodbye, just in case I don't wake up tomorrow.

"We lost ourselves. Lost our dream. In the pursuit of great, we failed to do good. We have to make it right" I stare out over the water.

I have to make it right.