Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Silco dies.

Silco wakes up.

Silco stares at his ragged, patched leather jacket, hanging on the back of a door in an apartment he hasn't seen for over twenty years. He blinks one eye, then the other, and the sight of it through either doesn't change. The stench of rotting fish and shitty cigarettes permeates the room as it always did, the seagulls squawking outside still the most obnoxious sound he has ever encountered in his life.

Silco has either entered some kind of terrible afterlife or has, in fact, traveled back in time. 

Silco gives in to the irrepressibly juvenile urge to scream into his pillow.

Unfortunately, his pillow currently consists of Vander's tits.

Vander is so young.

Silco stares at his face, half-admiring, half-horrified, as familiar wild eyes dart around the bedroom. Vander immediately flipped them so he was curled protectively over Silco's body, one hand planted into the mattress at his shoulder, the other curled tight around his - Silco's - their - knife. His ridiculous barrel chest heaves with adrenaline, bunched muscles slowly loosening when he realizes that nothing's about to burst through the window or kick down the door.

Vander looks down at Silco, features bewildered, close enough to kiss. 

Or headbutt.

"Sil, what the fuck."

Admitting to thinking he's dead or involved in magical time travel will not go over well, no matter how open-minded this maybe-real Vander is.

"Bad dream?" Silco tries.

Vander groans, shoving the knife under the pillow and flopping back down on the bed, pinning Silco beneath him. His beardless cheek rubs against Silco's chest as he splays his limbs out like a starfish, ignoring any attempts to shove him away.

"Vander-- Get off, you useless lug--"

"Maybe later," Vander mumbles. "Sleep now."

"I will stab you," Silco hisses.

A grumbling shift. The quiet thunk of metal into wood.

"...did you just throw my knife."

"My knife. Shh."

Silco considers screaming again.

Vander is a) young, b) probably real, and c) snoring loud enough to shake the walls of Silco's shitty old apartment.

Silco is a) young, b) probably not dead, and c) about to vibrate out of his skin.

He eventually manages to worm out from under Vander's sleeping bulk, padding over to the small desk on bare feet. His ragged collection of books line the shelves above it, and he runs a finger across the spines until he comes to his current journal, identified by being at the very end.

He skims through the most recent entries, and thank fuck, they've already purchased the Last Drop.

He did not want to go back to the mines. 

This means the Lanes are already decently well-established, and the unions successfully won the fight against Piltover's dangerously careless handling of the mines. Chemtech will be on the rise because of it, an alternate power source desperately needed while the mines are made safer, manpower redirected to building the Kiramman vents in the meantime. Piltover has enough fuel stocked in reserve to last the winter during the mine closures, but Zaun doesn't.

"Sil?"

Silco and Vander spent much of the current time period rallying the community together, using their near-complete control over the Lanes to enforce energy rationing and equal food distribution. They gathered the most vulnerable of their people - the children, the elderly, the sick - into shelters to consolidate where fuel and heat were needed most; Vander constantly had food simmering on the stove at the Drop to feed hungry mouths.

"Sil."

Speaking of children - one of Hextech's founders was from Zaun, weren't they? Viktor, the pale, sickly shadow of Piltover's vaunted Man of Progress. Singed spoke of him from time to time, the crippled boy with brilliant potential, but Silco never had the chance to meet him in person. Maybe he can find him this time, keep him in Zaun where he belongs. 

"Silco."

Actually, he should probably steal that obnoxious Talis boy, too. There's no way he's leaving Hextech in the hands of Piltover again--

"Canary."

Silco blinks. 

He hasn't heard that nickname in decades.

He lifts his head, staring at Vander - and fuck, he really is young, they're both so young - in bemusement.

"What?"

"I can see your brain steaming from over here," Vander says, hauling himself into a sitting position on Silco's too-small bed, muscles bunching in a way that is frankly unfair. "Why don't you come back to bed? I'll make it worth your while."

"Too much to do," Silco replies automatically, narrowing his eyes as he studies his once-friend, his once-lover, his once-enemy. 

He wishes he could summon up the simmering fury and bitter disappointment that usually surfaces when he thinks about Vander. When he thinks about the Hound of the Underground going belly-up for the topsiders, when he thinks about how passive Vander became after their failed fight for independence. 

He tries.

He fails.

After all, Silco turned out the same way in the end, didn't he?

He would have given up everything to keep Jinx safe.

And Vander is young, his features open and trusting, his mouth curved in that insufferably cocksure grin that always makes Silco want to bite it off. He's looking at Silco without regret or anger or disgust, hands open and unthreatening as he pats the mattress beside him. 

"Please?" Vander offers.

There's still hope in him, yet. There's still a drive to carve out the future they always dreamed of, with blood on his teeth and gauntlets still firmly on his fists. He's still fighting, and that makes all the difference in the world.

If Silco is clever, if he is careful, he might actually be able to get everything he wants, this time around.

He places the journal on the desk and stands up. Vander's gaze is heavy-lidded and admiring as he stalks back over to the bed.

"If you ever hurt me," Silco says, "I will carve out both of your eyes and throw you into the Pilt. And then I will kill you."

Vander blinks up at him.

"Seems reasonable. That mean you want to be on top?"

Silco growls and shoves him onto his back, stifling the ensuing obnoxious laughter with his teeth.

Yes, actually.

Yes he does.

Silco fills three empty notebooks with any information from the future that might be remotely useful, and then another two with a ruthlessly revised plan for achieving Zaunite independence. 

There will be more blood shed this time.

It will not be theirs.

"You really think that new councilor can be bargained with?" Vander asks, resting his chin atop Silco's head, arms wrapped around him as he writes at the desk. Silco forgot how much of a furnace he is, but he's not complaining; his dockside apartment never did have decent heating. 

"Bargained with, no," he scoffs. "Blackmailed and bribed, yes. Hoskel barely even attempts to hide his vices. More importantly, have you installed shelves in our room at the Last Drop yet? I need somewhere to put all my books."

Vander's arms loosen. A moment later Silco's spun around in his chair with a startled squawk, pen clattering to the floor as he scowls up at Vander's too-bright eyes.

"Our room?" Vander repeats, grinning widely. "You mean you're finally going to move in?"

Oh. Right.

Silco only kept this apartment for so long out of sheer stubbornness, the first time around. He needed a place of his own, a place to be able to breathe, and despite owning half of the Last Drop, it took him a long while to cave into actually taking up permanent residence. 

Vander, who puts down roots like the stubby ferns deep in the Fissures, stretched wide and deep to gather what scant sustenance they can, never quite understood.

But Silco needs a proper base of operations, now, somewhere to untangle the webs of the present and the future so he can create his own design, and, well. There was a reason he took the Last Drop back after Vander died.

It never had stopped feeling like home.

"Yes," Silco sighs when Vander's smile starts to dip, when his silence goes on a little too long, "I'm moving in. Don't get too exci-- Vander! Put me down right now!"

Vander, laughing and twirling them around the room, does not put him down.

Where did that knife end up, anyway?

Silco always had an uncanny sense for danger, back when they worked in the mines.

It was both how he got his moniker - not that he let anyone other than Vander call him that, and even then not at first - and part of the reason why people listened to him. He warned workers away from mine shafts that caved in only a few days later, insisted on evacuating even before the Grey started leaking unexpectedly through the pipes. He was the first one in whenever they broke new ground, slipping through the narrow cracks to check for firedamp before any of the others went in.

He can't remember the last time the Lanes felt so safe. 

"Sorry Mister Vander!" chorus a gaggle of preteens as they narrowly avoid knocking Vander to the ground, his arms full of boxes of Silco's books. They don't even stop to properly apologize, waving back as they continue their race after some kind of glowing mechanical butterflies, dodging recklessly through the crowds.

"Stay out of the road, you menaces!" Vander shouts. "You're gonna get someone-- And they're gone. Little shits."

His tone is immeasurably, indulgently fond.

Silco reaches up to remove the box at the top of the stack, giving Vander a little more unhindered vision.

"I've got it," Vander protests. 

Silco rolls his eyes, hefting the box under one arm, a rucksack of clothes and necessities slung over his opposite shoulder. Vander had insisted on carrying the oversized pile even though they'll have to make another trip anyway, grinning as Silco shoved more boxes into his arms, flexing smugly as he took on more weight.

Apparently he really didn't want to give Silco a chance to change his mind about moving in.

"Yes, yes, you're very strong. And now you'll be saved the embarrassment of tripping over your own feet and breaking your face. You're welcome."

"My hero," Vander croons. 

Silco kicks him in the leg to get him moving again.

It's nearing noon, not that one can really tell through the heavy layers of smog. The main thoroughfare they're walking up is lined with shops and market stalls, actual business now set up atop the framework of his and Vander's smuggling trade. It was always meant to be this way: so long as good came out of what they scraped together, with cracked nails and bruised fists and back alley deals, the years of toil would be worth it.

There are children playing in the streets, families laughing together as they shop, no thugs or chem addicts lingering in the alleys. The rest of Zaun may still be rife with chaos, still in desperate need of structure and succor, but the Lanes are a place of peace.

Maybe that's why Silco was so leery of moving into the Last Drop originally. He's a facilitator, an architect; he's always been willing to tear himself and anything else to pieces, to get blood on his hands and dirt on his knees, just to build a safe place for his people. 

He's not someone who belongs inside with them.

"Now, there's only the one shelf for now," Vander says cheerfully as they approach the Last Drop, "But I promise there can be more shelves. I will build you so many shelves."

"The shelves are fine, Vander," Silco sighs. 

The shelves are not fine. He will definitely be needing more shelves.

"No, I said I would get you shelves, you're getting shelves. We'll turn the basement into a library. Wall-to-wall shelves." 

"Shut up about the fucking shelves."

Vander cackles as Silco shoves open the door to the Last Drop.

The Lanes are safe, peaceful. The Last Drop has always felt like home. There was no reason for Silco to expect danger in this place.

"Bozos!"

He was wrong. 

Silco may, theoretically, possibly be having a fucking breakdown.

Vander grunts as he immediately tries to backpedal out of the Last Drop, large frame preventing him from escaping through the doorway. One of the boxes falls, smashes into Silco's back. There's sounds of alarm, of concern, distant through the pounding in his ears. 

He's on his hands and knees on the floor, gasping desperately for air. 

It's hard to breathe through ash.

He's sitting in one of the booths, a large hand between his shoulderblades, pressing down until his head's nearly level with his knees. He chokes on nothing, clawing at his throat, at his face, until small hands grab his wrists and pull them away.

It's even harder to breathe through water.

He's being pulled up, hugged back against a broad chest, his thrashing prevented by his arms being pinned to his sides. He can't escape, there aren't any weapons in reach to save him this time--

Something is shoved onto his face. Familiar, smelling like sorbent filters and tasting like pressurized chemicals. Mining gear: an oxygen mask.

Air rushes back into his lungs.

He's--

Crying.

"--okay, you're okay, we've got you." Rumbling against his back, quiet and concerned. "Just breathe for us, love. That's it."

"There you go." Slim fingers brush sweat-damp hair away from his face. "Take it easy, Sil. You're safe."

Silco inhales a shuddering breath and opens his eyes.

An impossible face looks worriedly back at him.

"Felicia."

The thing is, Vander was right.

Silco did kill Felica and Connol.

There was a moment, under the water, when he wondered if he should just let it happen. A moment where his grief matched Vander's, but in resignation rather than rage. The protest had failed, he'd brought the Enforcers down on their heads with lethal consequences, and one of his best friends was dead - while the other rightfully blamed him for it. 

Wasn't it justice, then, if he died for his failures? 

But Silco's a trencher, a sumprat, survival instincts carved into his bones before he could even walk, and he was never going to go down easy.

"--bully him into it?"

"Of course not! I mean, I've been trying to get him to move in for a while, you know that. But he's the one that brought it up this time."

Silco, draped across the bar in the spot that was once always his, head pounding and cheek pressed to the polished wood, listens idly as the people he loved and killed worry about him.

What a fucking mess. Breaking down at the sight of a dead woman. 

Embarrassing. 

He spent all morning planning for a better future, calculating how to make sure that what happened on the bridge will never happen again, and yet somehow forgot to take into account that the bridge hasn't happened yet.

Silco only now remembers how scattered his thoughts were at this age; how easily he became too focused on one thing to the exclusion of all else. Useful, for keeping track of the many plots that go into forging a new nation. Less useful, when he's also supposed to keep track of something on the stove.

Or remember that certain dead people aren't actually dead.

"--panic attack? But I've never seen one this bad before--"

Oh, that's a good idea. Well done, Felicia.

"--acting weird since he woke up. Said he had bad dreams, but I wonder if something else happened--"

No. Bad Vander.

Silco peels himself off the bartop, swaying slightly as he settles back onto the stool. He gropes blindly for the whiskey that Vander keeps under the counter, retrieving it with a practiced touch and immediately uncapping it to drink straight from the bottle.

The voices in the kitchen stop.

Trauma comes part and parcel with growing up in the undercity. Even between him and Felicia and Vander, there are some things they never speak of in detail. It's enough to know that Felicia lost a childhood friend to the Pilt, that Vander's last contact with his father ended in bloodied fists; that having a pretty face isn't necessarily a good thing, for Silco. 

Trencher folk are tough, hardened by experience and scarcity and life, but it's not uncommon for it to become overwhelming, at times.

Even diamonds shatter when put under enough pressure. 

"Sil?" 

Silco takes another fortifying swallow of whiskey, braces himself, and looks up to meet Felicia's gaze.

"Hey, Fel."

She's wearing the bulky coveralls she uses for work at the machine shop, indigo hair pulled back into a messy bun, a streak of lubricant oil on her chin. Like him and Vander, she's still young, but - she was only ever young, in his memories. 

She never had the chance to be anything but.

By her expression, he hasn't quite managed to keep the devastation off his face, but at least he hasn't dissolved into blubbering again. 

Felicia leaves the kitchen with Vander trailing after her, going around the bar so she can pull up a stool next to him, while Vander takes his usual spot behind it. They've all lost a bit of muscle since leaving the mines, but her arm is still comfortingly strong as it wraps around him, the smell of axle grease painfully familiar even after all these years.

"Feeling any better?" she asks. 

"Yeah," Silco rasps. He doesn't complain when Vander gently but firmly replaces the bottle of alcohol with a glass of water. "Sorry. Not sure what set that off."

He ducks his head, casts his gaze to the side. It's what he's always done when he doesn't want to talk about something involving his past, and by the weighty silence and subtle shifting of what must be an unspoken conversation above him, the tell hasn't gone unnoticed.

"Don't worry about it," Felicia says, squeezing him. "Just let us know if there's anything we can do to help, okay?"

Silco wonders if he can get them to swear to never leave him, immediately dismisses the thought for the ridiculous notion that it is, and summons up a tired smile.

"Of course," he lies.

He decides to leave the would-be chem barons alone, for now.

The good thing about knowing the future is that now Silco can change the future. He can fortify the Lanes even further, spread his influence to topside years early, prevent that day on the bridge from ever happening. He can invest in the really good dumpling shop near the docks that eventually closed, and place bets on things he knows will work out, and make sure that Vander never ever tries to--

The troublesome thing about knowing the future is that the more he changes, the less reliable his knowledge becomes.

For better or worse, Zaun needs chemtech to survive. The drugs eventually permeate the city - and Silco took ruthless advantage of that, in the future - but the refined version that can be used as a power source goes a long way to relieve their dependence on coal. The mines are mostly owned by rich Piltovans; if the fuel even makes it back down to Zaun, it's at an outrageous markup despite being produced there in the first place. 

Desperation over the upcoming winter will spur more advancement of the technology, make it something viable for widespread use, and it needs to happen. 

"Can probably kill Finn, though," Silco mutters, tapping his pen against the desk agitatedly. "If the little bastard's even around yet."

"Finally getting your hit list in order?" Vander asks from the office doorway, bearing a bowl of something steaming and a cup of what better be coffee. "Not sure that should really be a priority, right now."

"Your idea of what's important and mine are very different," Silco scoffs, already reaching for the mug. 

Vander places the bowl down instead.

Silco's eye twitches.

"Vander."

"Silco," he replies evenly. "Eat some food first. You didn't have breakfast and barely ate anything last night."

Silco stands up.

Vander takes a wary step back.

"Sil," he warns, "I am holding the coffee--"

Silco lunges. 

One spilled and re-filled cup of coffee later, Silco settles into the ratty secondhand couch they'll replace in four years with a quiet sigh, warm mug in his hands and the buzzing under his skin faded to a dull murmur.

Vander sits across from him in an armchair, unforgiven.

"You should still eat," the sulking lump says, nodding to the bowl on the low table between them. "And maybe tell me what's gotten you so distracted lately."

Silco makes direct eye contact as he swallows back the rest of the coffee, finally setting it down to poke grudgingly at the stew.

"Not hungry," he says, trying a bite anyway. Hmm. Acceptable. "And what, exactly, have I been distracted from?"

He's filled three more journals and re-purchased more of the books he owned in the future, and while Vander did end up hanging more shelves in the bedroom and office, the threat of adding more in the basement is becoming a very real possibility. Silco's memory is excellent, but it's also been nearly three decades, and even he can't perfectly recall all the minutiae of what happened around this time. 

He's been quietly poking around to get a handle on things again: who's in power and who's out of favor, what businesses are making moves, even just what current fashion is, because knowledge is everything and he is currently severely lacking in it--

"Our people, Sil," Vander says exasperatedly, which draws Silco up short. "The fuel shortage. How we're going to stockpile enough resources for everyone to survive the winter. That crew from Bilgewater that keeps harassing the dockworkers, and Margot trying to muscle Babette out of the Lanes-- I've been dealing with it all the best I can, canary, but you've always been better at leading than me."

Silco stares. 

What complete and utter bullshit.

And--

"You would be fine without me," he says blankly. "I know you would be."

Vander wrinkles his nose.

"Why would I ever want to do anything without you?" 

The quality of the air in the past is fucking awful. 

Silco's never had so much trouble breathing before.

Vander reaches over, taking the empty bowl - what? when did he finish that? - out of Silco's grasp to return it to the table. He replaces it with his hands instead, large fingers laced with Silco's own, slimmer digits. 

"So maybe let me in on what's got you so stressed," he murmurs, "Or at least tell me what I can do to help. We're in this together, remember?"

Silco wants to laugh. Or maybe cry.

He'd thought that they were in it together, too, up until Vander decided that they very much weren't.

"I need..." Silco closes his eyes, sighs. Decides that at least some truth is necessary, here. "I'm looking into an alternative fuel source for Zaun. But I don't remember-- I don't know anyone that might be able to crack it. I know there are people working on it, but they're not our people."

"A different fuel?" Vander leans back, surprised. "That chem stuff you've been looking into recently - you think that's viable?"

"Yes," Silco says firmly. "It will work."

They didn't get into the chem trade, last time, too wary of the untested nature of the stuff and its origin as a drug. Silco hadn't intended to do differently this time, but if he does, if they get a foot in the door, that would give them a massive edge keeping the spread of it under control. He could prevent gang wars that eventually broke out, the rise of the criminals he turned into the barons of his empire--

If all goes well, they won't even be necessary.

"And you want to find someone who can work with the stuff?" Vander tilts his head consideringly. He releases Silco's hand to dig around in his pockets.

Silco does not miss his warmth.

"Not sure if they'd be capable of what you need, but Benz bought a bunch of toys from an inventor recently, and they use a little bit of it. If nothing else, they might be able to point you in the right direction. I was going to give this to Fel."

He pulls a little piece of clockwork out of his pocket and hands it to Silco. It's surprisingly delicate: a skeletal butterfly made out of thin rags and scrap metal, with a tiny vial of green liquid on the back that lights up when he thumbs the switch. After a few moments of ticking pieces and whirring pistons, the butterfly lifts up off his hand, fluttering in a relatively straight line towards the far wall.

"That's impressive," Silco admits. 

Then he frowns. 

"It's from Benzo, you said?"

"Yeah, he has more at his shop."

Ugh.

Silco does not like Benzo.

Silco has never really liked Benzo. 

Benzo's inventor is a child.

"What the fuck, Benz," Vander groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"I gave him good coin for them!" Benzo protests. There's a row of the little butterflies on the counter in front of him, all unique and exquisitely crafted, priced at twelve bronze washers apiece.

"Which was?" Silco drawls.

"Five washers each," Benzo replies defensively. It's an acceptable price, given the risk of buying them for resale in the first place, but maybe a little ungenerous when bartering with a child. 

"Benzo," Vander scolds. 

"I also gave him a box of scrap he was eyeing! Think the kid needed something in there to fix his cane, but he didn't want to tell me what. Probably worried I'd overcharge him for it."

"His cane? Benzo!"

Silco stills. 

Surely it can't be this easy.

"He had a cane?" he asks carefully. 

Benzo grunts, turning away from Vander's heavy disapproval to look at Silco. 

"Yeah, mousy little thing with a lame right leg," he says. "I tried to offer him a place to rest for a bit, but he didn't seem keen on sticking around. Told him I'd take a look at anything else he made, too, but he hasn't been back yet."

"When was this?"

"About a week ago, I think."

Silco doesn't think any of Viktor's accolades included work with chemtech, but it couldn't be hard for the co-founder of Hextech to figure out the refinement process. 

"Tell me immediately if you see him again," he instructs Benzo sharply.

Benzo rolls his eyes at the demand, waving a hand.

"Yeah, sure."

Silco turns to Vander, who's examining a glass figurine that looks hilariously small in his massive hand.

Something wicked and mischievous lights in his chest. 

"Vander," he says, waiting until he has his attention, "Did you still want kids?"

Vander drops the figurine on the floor. 

There is a slim chance that Silco is wrong, and the young inventor with a cane is not, in fact, Viktor of Hextech.

If that turns out to be the case, he's pretty sure he'll have to take the kid in anyway.

"--that's enough blankets? It's been getting colder, and our heating isn't exactly reliable--"

Silco stares at the mountain of blankets and pillows piled atop the couch in the Last Drop's basement, surrounded by glowing string lights and boxes of half-unpacked child-sized items. There is one crate entirely full of toys.

"Vander," he says cautiously.

"--thinking about adding guard rails to the stairs, though maybe it would be better just to tear them out and put in a ramp--"

Silco retreats back up to the bar.

It's only been three days.

There's been no word from Benzo yet, and Silco started looking around in the areas children often congregate, making a few careful inquiries here and there. He doesn't want to put a target on the kid's back by letting people know he's looking for him, but despite knowing that nothing happens to Viktor to prevent him from growing up, Silco still feels an odd, restless urgency about finding him.

Using the search to escape Vander's sudden affliction of baby fever is just a bonus.

The kid isn't even a baby!

"You brought this on yourself," Felicia points out blithely as Silco retrieves his jacket from the stool next to her. She's been absolutely zero help in reining Vander in, blatantly encouraging him in his quest to prepare for possibly having a kid underfoot.

Silco can't wait until she's pregnant. 

He will have revenge.

"So you've been saying," he replies sourly. "Feel free to say it less."

She cackles, unrepentant, as he slips out the door.

He at least has a decent lead, this time: he managed to snag one of the gremlins that almost knocked Vander over to ask where they'd gotten the butterflies they were chasing. It took a coin or two to get her to open her mouth - a proper child of Zaun, that - but eventually she revealed that they sometimes traded supplies for toys with a crippled boy down near the old water filtration factory.

Silco could have kicked himself for not trying the river earlier. He knew the boy worked with Singed, and the doctor's laboratory in the coastal caves was positioned in such a way that much of what ends up in the Pilt eventually flows past him.

That was how he found Silco, after all. 

Thankfully for Silco's sanity - if Vander actually has somewhere to direct his mothering instincts, maybe he'll stop throwing them around at everyone - he does find the boy at the artificial tidepools near the filtration center.

And it is the Viktor of Hextech: there weren't nearly as many pictures of him as there were of his partner, but Silco made it his business to know people, and he can see the future man in the child's youthful features.

The boy regards him uncertainly as he approaches, a half-built mechanical boat in his lap and a box of metal scraps at his side. He can't be more than ten years old, cheeks still soft with baby fat, tousled brown bangs falling over big, golden eyes.

Perhaps Silco's assumption that Viktor would be able to crack chemtech had not fully taken into account his current age.

"Mister Silco," the boy greets quietly. 

Silco stops a few yards away, surprised.

"You know who I am?"

A nod.

"You and Vander run the Lanes," Viktor says. Silco recognizes his accent, vaguely, something not-quite Freljordian with a shade of northern Noxus. "That's why there're foundling houses now."

Ah, that would explain how well the boy looks, despite clearly being unable to fend for himself like the other street kids of the undercity. His clothes are worn and patched, but they're well-mended, and he doesn't have the dark circles beneath his eyes that speak of nights spent searching for a safe place to sleep.

The foundling houses aren't much, just a handful of them established since Silco and Vander started pushing their more community-minded enterprises, but they offer what they can. A cot and a meal or two a day can make all the difference to a child that has nothing else.

"You're right," Silco agrees, sitting down across from Viktor, keeping his posture open and relaxed. "And you're Viktor, aren't you? You're Tatiana's boy."

Viktor's golden eyes widen.

"You knew my mama?"

Indirectly. Almost entirely through research, after the fact. Sevika never quite understood why Silco wanted every scrap of information that could be found on the media-shy co-founder of Hextech, but as the technology rose to prominence, he considered it a necessity. A Zaunite in a position of power was rare, and though he never did find anything that could be used against Viktor, clearly he'd made the right choice.

Take that, Sevika.

Wait, how old even is Sevika right now? Late teens, maybe?

Teenage Sevika. What a horrifying thought.

A tug on Silco's sleeve draws him sharply back to the present, and he barely keeps from startling when he realizes Viktor has scooted over to sit closer to him.

"Ah - yes," he manages. "Not well, but I worked in the mines near the textile mill. We crossed paths occasionally. She was a good woman."

Mostly not a lie. Silco did work in those mines, and he did encounter the mill workers, who were often spouses of the miners and mingled during breaks. 

It's entirely possible that he met her at some point.

Viktor smiles, soft and a little sad, and looks up at Silco with newfound trust in his eyes.

Silco hasn't allowed himself to feel guilt for manipulating people in nearly twenty years. 

He's certainly not going to start now.

"The Grey took her," Viktor says. It's matter-of-fact, but his voice still shakes.

It's also a worrying statement: if a parent dies from grey lung, it's a good bet that their child has it too, whether from the environment or being affected while in the womb. Something to look into - and prevent, if possible.

Silco knows Viktor makes it to adulthood, but it can't hurt to be sure. 

"The Grey spares no one," Silco agrees quietly. His own lungs are scarred from it, Vander's and Felicia's too, but they could at least retreat from it while not working. The shitty dockside apartment was all he could afford, but it was worth it not to have to live directly by the Fissures where the runoff built up and the gasses were the thickest.

He always told himself, over the years, that it wasn't his or Vander's fault that the unions took so long to assemble. That they fought for change as soon as they could and as hard as they could, and that they shouldn't feel guilt over not being able to force Piltover to build the vents earlier.

With a trembling, orphaned child in front of him, it's harder now to believe that's true.

Unsure, Silco reaches out, hesitating briefly before wrapping an arm around Viktor's shoulders. But the boy turns to him immediately, burrowing against his side, just a single hiccuping sound betraying the depths of his grief. 

He cries silently, as all children of Zaun learn to do.

"It's alright," Silco murmurs. There's something fragile and unsteady teetering in his throat, something almost-foreign, something that he thought he could only ever feel for one other person. 

He pulls Viktor closer, and the weight settles in his chest as skinny arms wrap around him in return.

"I know it doesn't bring her back, little one," he says, "But things will be better now. For all of us.

"I promise."

The future of Hextech and possibly even chemtech in hand, Silco can focus on the next phase of his plan for Zaun: removing topside's control over his city, piece by piece.

To do that, he needs to start--

"Love, where did you put that fancy set of whiskey glasses we got from Benzo?"

"Kitchen, top shelf, right side. As I told you earlier."

To do that, he needs--

"Hey Sil, did Connol say where he was going before he left?"

"The tailor's in the south market. He ripped his gloves. Again."

"Fuckssake."

To do that--

"Mister Silco?"

To do that, he needs some peace and fucking quiet.

Silco lays down his pen very, very carefully, and looks up with a strained smile.

"Yes, Viktor?"

The boy ducks his head, hovering in the doorway. 

"Can I borrow another book?"

Silco's forced geniality immediately softens into something more genuine. 

"Of course," he says warmly. He pushes back from the desk, motioning Viktor to come join him in front of the wall of cabinets and shelves. Most of the books in the office are technical in nature, texts on infrastructure and history and science and law, all of which might be necessary when planning a revolution or making it look like the Last Drop actually does make its money only off of sales.

Silco hadn't gone so far as to buy children's books for Viktor - though Vander might have - but he'd admittedly been a little surprised when the boy had wanted to borrow 'A Mathematical Introduction to Automaton Manipulation'.

Given Viktor's current and future brilliance, he probably shouldn't have.

"Do you want the advanced level next?" he asks as Viktor hands him the book, sliding it back into place up on one of the shelves. "I don't own it - I never needed more than the most basic understanding - but we can see if there's a copy at one of the Promenade bookstores."

Viktor, who'd devoured the book in only a matter of days, shakes his head.

"Do you have any maps?" he asks instead. "Of the undercity?"

Silco blinks. 

"Not in any of the books, but I do have blueprints of most of the city. Why?"

Viktor looks up at him, round face shining with excitement.

"Mister Vander told me all about the vents they're installing to start fighting the Grey! I don't know a lot about architecture, but - do you think I could see where they're building them?"

Silco glances, very briefly, back to his desk.

Then he crouches down next to Viktor to pull open one of the filing cabinets.

"Let's have a look, shall we?" he smiles.

The plan for Zaun can wait just a little while longer.

Silco's first step toward an independent Zaun is to sabotage the Kirraman vents.

"Are you sure about this?" Wyeth asks, leafing through the carefully-annotated copies of the vent blueprints. "I can make these changes, but the risk of getting caught..."

"They've already approved the designs," Silco points out. "Part of the deal was that construction was left to undercity workers; they won't bother to look too closely so long as it works, and the final inspection will only be a show for the politicians."

Wyeth tips his head in acknowledgement, but says nothing.

"And the Lanes will protect you," Silco adds firmly. "If anything happens, you and Inna come to us."

The architect's shoulders slump.

"Alright. I can get it done." His gaze passes over the suggested new schematics again, mouth tightening. "You're not wrong that they need to change."

As leaders of the union that had pushed for the vents' development, Silco and Vander had been given copies of the schematics once they were finalized; Silco had taken a great deal of pleasure being able to show Viktor the plans directly. They'd spent a few hours going over the designs, Viktor happily pointing out how all of it would work.

When they got to the more technical drawings, however, the boy had fallen silent.

"What's wrong?" Silco asked, concerned by the sudden lack of excitement.

"It's just..." Viktor's finger circled the partitions that were spaced through the tunnels. "These can be re-opened. What if they get stuck, and the Grey escapes again?"

Viktor, young and touched by the Grey, was scared that the gates would malfunction.

Silco, older than his physical body and well-aware of how little Piltover gave a shit about Zaun, worried that they would work precisely as intended.

"Piltover cannot control our air," he says grimly. 

Wyeth inclines his head.

"They won't. These designs will work, they just need a little modification. You said it was your boy who suggested them?"

"He's not my--" Silco pinches the bridge of his nose at Wyeth's amused look. "Viktor did, yes."

"Good kid. If he ever wants to get into architecture, send him my way."

"Absolutely not."

Silco leaves Wyeth to spread the word with the engineers and heads back down toward the Lanes. The partitions haven't been made yet, but when they are, there will be a small, nearly-innoticeable mechanism that can prevent them from being opened from Piltover's side of the vents. 

It's been so long that Silco forgot feeling that same fear after the vents were finished: that the cleaner air was too good to be true, and somehow topside would be able to reverse it. It never happened in his future, but now he's made sure that it never will.

Viktor deserves to grow up with that reassurance.

It's late by the time Silco gets back to the Last Drop, exhausted from spending the entire day running around the city. Vander was right: there are things closer to home that need taking care of, people that need help now, not when Zaun is finally established. 

He's been letting things slide, too focused on the future he wants to prevent and not the present that he still has to shape.

Connol's tending the bar, picking up some extra work while the mines are closed, which means Vander's probably in the back handling shipments. Silco drags himself over, tosses back the readied glass of whiskey, and ignores Connol's concerned look to go collapse in the reserved booth back by the stairs. 

He fishes out a cigarette - fuck, he misses the future, when he had more money and actual quality nicotine - and lights up, taking a long, slow drag and sinking into the cushions with his eyes shut and head tilted back.

Viktor's asleep, and down in the basement. His lungs will be fine. 

Silco's lungs need more tar in them.

It wasn't hard to get Margot to back off Babette's territory, especially given that Silco did not particularly care if she hated him for it. He'd also arranged for more shelf-stable food to be delivered in preparation for the winter, far more than they had last time, and talked with the mining union to have them start rationing what coal was left after the shutdowns.

"Well, aren't you a lovely thing?"

There still won't be enough reserves, but once someone cracks chemtech - or even better, if Viktor cracks it, industrious little thing that he is - he'll be able to make more moves to provide wider support for those in the Lanes--

"Got a name, sweetheart?"

Silco blinks his eyes open. 

There's a man leaning on the table in front of him, a wide, smarmy grin on his face. From Bilgewater, by the accent and the clothes. A ship captain, given the stupid hat and the salt-crusted boots. 

A pirate, going by the distinctive tattoos on his skin.

Right, that was the other thing Silco needed to deal with.

Then the words finally register.

"What?" he says blankly. 

The man, pleased that he now has Silco's attention, slides into the booth across from him.

"That's alright," he winks, "I don't need yours. But mine's Jean, so you know what you'll be screaming later."

Silco is--

Is Silco being hit on?

"What."

Jean laughs.

"Not very bright, huh? Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll take such good care of you."

Silco stares at him, baffled. 

He hasn't been hit on in decades.

No one would dare, given his power, reputation, and tendency to use annoyances as test subjects for shimmer; and no one would want to, given his face. 

He waves a hand, cigarette still clutched between his fingers, as if he could bat away the entirety of this ridiculous situation.

"No. Go away."

Jean frowns. 

"No?" he repeats. Then he smirks. "That mean you don't like nice, then? Need someone to put you over their knee, smack that arrogance out of you?"

He leans forward over the table, breath stinking of bourbon.

"Need something shoved between those pretty cocksucking lips?"

Silco glances to the side as Vander emerges from the back, attention drawn to him like a firelight to flame. Vander's face, young and beardless, looks back in assessment, and then lifts an eyebrow in query.

Silco remembers, abruptly, that he is also young.

Ah. He'd forgotten about this annoying aspect of his youth.

Silco tilts his head, a silent summons.

Jean follows his gaze. He sits back with a scowl as Vander heads over, watching as he threads through the bar.

"You could have just said you already had a man," he snaps. 

Silco shrugs, sucking back another lungful of nicotine. 

"Everything alright here?" Vander asks pleasantly. He reaches out a hand and Silco obligingly slips the cigarette between his fingers, stretching his arms back along the booth as Vander takes a drag.

"Yes, my friend from Bilgewater was just leaving," Silco says. Jean stands up with a little huff, nodding curtly.

"Bilgewater, eh?" Vander hums, exhaling smoke. He steps back to let Jean out of the booth, but before the man can take a further step away, he grabs him by the wrist and yanks his arm up behind his back, slamming him facedown onto the table.

"What the fuck! I didn't even touch him!"

"Oh, you never would have," Vander agrees, taking another drag off the cigarette in his free hand. "But you have been waving your dick around at the docks, haven't you?"

The pirate stills. 

Vander leans down, blowing smoke across Jean's cheek.

"The next time you harass our people, your boat won't be more than splinters in the harbor, and then you'll be left stranded here to deal with me."

He tightens his grip until Jean nods, then lets go. The pirate doesn't even look back as he scurries out the door. 

Vander waits until he's gone before turning back to Silco with a smile.

"Have you had dinner yet? I made--"

Silco absolutely does not care. He reaches out and yanks Vander down into a filthy, biting kiss, licking the taste of smoke out of his mouth.

It's taken decades to truly see him again, but--

There he is.

There's his Hound.

The Enforcers need to be dealt with.

Silco didn't really worry about them after he had Marcus under his thumb - why bother, when he had the sheriff himself to do his bidding - but that won't be enough, this time around. He's not going to wait for some easily-manipulated patsy to fall into his lap, and he's not going to stop with just being able to influence them.

The whole institution should be dismantled, burnt to ash and salted after, but Piltover would just find some other way to oppress Zaun. The Enforcers are a known quantity, and now Silco has both the time and the patience to do something about it.

If something cannot be destroyed, it needs to be controlled. 

The question is how to go about it. Corruption is already rampant amongst the so-called peacekeepers, but in a way that they're more likely to ignore abuse than take coin to prevent it. There are very few with actual morals, and while those can be elevated to have more influence, their priority will still always be Piltover.

Maybe he should just kill all of them and start over.

"Or," Vander counters, rescuing the pencil that Silco's been chewing into splinters, "You could just put some of our people in place."

Ideal. 

Impossible. 

"The Pilties wouldn't accept sump rats into their defence force," Silco scoffs, drumming his fingers against the notebook propped up on his knees. He's sitting in bed with his back braced against the wall, one of Vander's stupidly large shirts slipping off his shoulder. "They'd never be trusted."

"Maybe not the ones that are clearly from Zaun," Vander agrees as he disposes of the spit-covered pencil, "But we can find people who don't look it. Besides, topsiders treat non-humans almost as bad as they treat us."

Silco blinks.

He's right. 

Oh, the vaunted City of Progress likes to believe they're above such petty things like speciesism, parading their Yordle founder as an example, but there's a reason most non-humans end up in Zaun. Chireans, Vastaya  - even other Yordles have a harder time making a life for themselves topside than humans do. Not a single councilor - save Heimerdinger and whatever Bolbok is - has been anything other than human for the past hundred years.

Babette, Smeech, and Heimerdinger may have all come from the same place originally, but only one of them lives in the sun.

"Forge some papers, get some of our people up to Piltover," Vander continues, "And approach any sympathetic non-humans already in the Enforcers. They're disrespected and paid like shit; offer them some extra coin to take care of their families and support if they ever need it, and you'll have given them more than Piltover ever would."

He's right.

Fuck, Silco had forgotten how well he and Vander work together.

"We don't have the funds for that yet," he temporizes, watching slit-eyed as Vander pulls his shirt over his head. 

Vander snorts, kicking off his boots, and lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. 

"Don't think I don't know about those bets you placed recently," he says. "Or all those investments you've been making. We'll have the money soon enough, I bet."

Vander is so aggravatingly perceptive when he wants to be.

Silco drops his notebook over the side of the bed. He crooks a finger.

"C'mere."

Vander laughs, a little disbelievingly.

"Are you seriously horny just because I came up with a viable alternative to murder?"

Silco is fine with murder. 

He is less fine with how infuriatingly attractive Vander is when he's scheming for their collective benefit. For Zaun's benefit.

"Vander."

"Hm?"

"Get over here."

Vander gets.

When Silco invited Viktor to stay at the Last Drop, he made sure to put rules in place, because every child of Zaun knows better than to trust things that seem too good to be true.

There are set mealtimes, because they quickly realized that the boy is as bad as Silco when it comes to forgetting to eat. Vander was delighted when he realized this meant that Silco also had to take breaks for food, and had tried to institute mandatory snacktimes as well, which Silco flatly rejected for himself.

Viktor, of course, is welcome to eat whatever snacks he wants. 

There's also a curfew, a bedtime that the boy rarely follows because he stays up late reading, and a stern suggestion to stay away from the bar after midnight because that's when the customers are the rowdiest. He's also not supposed to interrupt them while they're having meetings unless it's an emergency, but Vander's definition of an 'emergency' was anything ranging from imminent death to needing more sketching paper.

They're simple things, easy to follow for a child with little interest beyond science and invention, and Silco is unsurprised that Viktor follows them to the letter.

He is equally unsurprised when Vander is the one who allows them to be broken.

The Last Drop is packed when he and Felicia get back from a trip to the docks, jukebox playing merrily in the corner and all sorts of business happening in the shadowed alcoves. They make their way over to find Vander serving drinks with a harried expression and a small figure bundled up on a stool behind the bar, an array of tools and small mechanical trinkets in front of him.

Silco slows to a stop, crosses his arms over his chest, and raises an eyebrow. Vander casts him a frantic look while rattling a cocktail shaker like he's trying to get information out of a snitch. 

Viktor catches sight of him and immediately ducks his head, which does not make Silco feel anything at all.

"Ah, don't be mad at the lad, Silco," calls Pen, an ancient shrew-like Vastayan that's one of their regulars. "He's doing a great job - look here, he fixed up my watch!"

"I am not mad at Viktor," Silco replies, something loosening in his chest when Viktor's shoulders slump in relief. "Viktor is perfect and has done nothing wrong. However..."

Vander hastily pours out the cocktail and shoves it toward the waiting customer, ignoring their protest when liquid sloshes over their fingers to step over toward Silco.

"Sil--"

Viktor sneezes wetly.

Silco's around the bar in an instant.

"Are you sick?" he demands, reaching out to lay a hand on the boy's forehead, only belatedly noticing the pile of crumpled tissues in the wastebin. "How do you feel? You should be in bed."

"'m fine," Viktor sniffles, tugging the blanket tighter around himself. Silco exchanges an incredulous look with Vander. "S just - congestion. Worse when th' air gets bad."

The atmosphere has been worse the last few days, thick and cloying and wet, signs of an incoming storm mixing with the already-present toxic gasses. Also--

Silco's head snaps around to survey the room, but - no one is smoking. 

"Your man told everyone it's a smoke-free night," Pen says, leaning on the bar, his eyes twinkling. "The ones that complained got thrown out."

Silco looks at Vander, surprised, but the man just shrugs sheepishly.

"It was making him cough."

Silco isn't sure what face he makes - something embarrassingly sappy, maybe - but Vander offers him a tentative smile in return, though his eyes are still laced with worry as he rests a hand on Viktor's shoulder. The boy leans into it, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Don' shut me away," he mumbles. "Don' wanna be alone."

Stricken, Silco kneels in front of him, running a hand comfortingly over mussed brown hair. Viktor doesn't feel warm, so it probably really isn't anything serious, but the kid still looks like he's about to be sentenced to Stillwater.

"Of course not," he says gently. "Do you want me to come keep you company until you fall asleep?"

Viktor shakes his head. 

"Can I... Can I stay up here? Please?"

Silco glances up at Vander, who inclines his head briefly. There's something else, then, but Silco's not going to force the boy to spill his secrets at an open bar. 

He holds out his arms instead.

"Alright, how about we go over to the booth? It'll be more comfortable there."

Viktor nods and scoots to the edge of the stool, wrapping his arms around Silco's neck and his legs around his waist. Silco stands up, Vander's hand a reassuring pressure at the small of his back, and heads over to the reserved booth. Felicia took over serving drinks at some point; she waves them off cheerfully, trying to twirl the bottles with a showiness that Connol can't manage and Vander can't usually be bothered to do. 

Silco doesn't tend the bar often. He completely lacks the easygoing nature required, and tips on those nights are terrible. 

He gets Viktor settled in the booth, Vander following to put the tools and gadgets and tissues on the table. He also hands Silco the blanket, and Silco wraps it back around Viktor's slim shoulders, taking a moment to tuck some hair behind the boy's ear.

"I'll be right back, okay? We're going to go get you some sweetmilk."

Viktor's eyes brighten, and he nods with a little more enthusiasm.

Silco follows Vander into the kitchen. 

They're barely through the door before Vander has an arm hooked around his waist, pulling him against his chest and tucking his face into the crook of Silco's neck.

"I'm sorry," Vander says, muffled. "I know he's not supposed to be up this late out in the bar. But he..."

"Tell me."

"He was worried that we'd make him stay in his room because he's sick. Even asked if he was allowed to come up for dinner."

"Allowed?" Silco hisses.

Vander nods against his shoulder. 

"I didn't get too much out of him, but it sounds like his parents were...protective."

Silco frowns, worming an arm free so he can stroke a hand down Vander's back. Viktor's only ever spoken of his parents with affection, and he's never shown any of the familiar signs of abuse. He's a remarkably happy boy, actually, given all that he's been through.

Silco pulls back to meet Vander's gaze, searching for the kind of rage that would inevitably result from learning that Viktor had been hurt, but only tired blue eyes blink back at him.

"Explain," he says.

Vander sighs, tipping forward to press a kiss to Silco's forehead before letting go, stepping away to reach for the ingredients to make sweetmilk. 

He always did deal better with emotions while his hands were busy.

"I think they tried too hard to keep him safe," Vander says, dropping a handful of dried star anise pods into the grinder. "That when he got sick, they didn't want to risk him getting any worse, so they'd keep him confined to his room."

Silco grimaces at the thought of just how often Viktor must have been sick as a child.

"You think it happened every time?" he asks, watching as Vander pours some milk into a pot.

"I think there's a reason he hates it when we try to stop him from doing things just because we're worried," Vander replies, staring moodily at the milk as it heats up.

"He only ever really acted out when we tried to keep him from going over to Benzo's when his leg was hurting," Silco agrees in a murmur. "And his parents were laborers - I can't imagine they were able to stay home with him while he was sick."

Singed always described Viktor as a loner.

He never seemed to follow that to the obvious conclusion that Viktor was lonely.

"I couldn't make him stay all alone after that," Vander sighs. He dumps the star anise grounds into the coffee press, pouring the hot milk over them and leaving it to steep. "I even thought about closing the bar or calling Connol over, but..."

"You did good," Silco reassures him, laying a hand on his back. 

Vander's shoulders loosen like a heavy weight's been sloughed off them. 

It occurs to Silco, distantly, that while he'd known Vander took in Felicia's girls, he never actually put much thought into what that meant. The years of pain and planning that followed that day on the bridge - that night after the bridge, when he'd been shoved screaming underwater by the man he loved - hadn't left him with many feelings towards Vander outside of fury. 

But he'd known where he was, at all times, because he wasn't going to risk Vander trying to finish what he started. He'd known that the girls had grown up, that Vander took on two other foundlings, that the entirety of the Lanes knew who his kids were on sight. He'd known that the children would come for Vander at the cannery.

Silco hadn't wondered, until now, what kind of struggles Vander had first undergone to become a father worth dying for.

He thinks that he might want to find out.

They return to the booth with two mugs of sweetmilk: one for Viktor, who reaches for it eagerly, and one ostensibly for Silco, who will give it to Viktor later. Vander fusses over them both before reluctantly returning to tend the bar, and Silco listens attentively while Viktor explains some of his experiments with chemtech through bouts of sniffling.

When the boy eventually succumbs to sleep, listing against Silco's side, he wraps an arm around Viktor to pull him close, and shifts just enough to retrieve one of his knives to lay it pointedly on the table next to his notebook. 

No one dares approach them the entire night.

There's no real point in trying to keep people from calling Viktor their kid, after that.

Viktor cracks chemtech, and Vander ends up having to crack quite a few skulls.

"We need to lock down production," Silco says, hand flying across the sheets of paper as he fills out forms, not even looking up as Felicia and Vander drag two unconscious would-be thieves out the door. They're only unconscious because Viktor's currently at Benzo's with Connol; if he'd been anywhere near actual danger, there would be far more blood needing to be scrubbed off the floor.

"Are you sure that's the most important thing to worry about right now?" Felicia huffs, rubbing her back as Vander shuts and re-locks the front door. 

"Yes." Silco moves on to the next page, leaving blank the spaces for the creator's name so Viktor can fill them in later. "Right now, all anyone knows is that the Drop is running on energy that isn't coal. That's technology that doesn't exist in Zaun, and everyone from the Sumps to Piltover wants to get their hands on it."

He gestures vaguely toward the door, and the third attempted break-in since they installed Viktor's prototype generator.

The Pilties might be a little more subtle about it, sending down Academy engineers that stand out like mold on fresh bread to gawk around the Drop like toddlers, but the undercity industrialists have no such scruples, and they'll start escalating if the knowledge isn't released soon. 

If they escalate Viktor might get hurt or worse, and Silco will not let that happen.

They'll start production, and enterprising scientists and covetous criminals can get their hands on their own versions to try to reproduce, instead of trying to steal the original technology.

They should have waited. They should have been more careful. But Viktor was so excited, so incandescently proud, hopping around on his good leg like a chubby-cheeked bunny beaming and eager to show them what he'd created.

And Viktor hadn't even just invented chemtech. 

He designed a system that could be powered entirely by chemical runoff.

"It would be easier to use just the chems themselves," the boy had admitted, "But they cost so much money, and not everyone could afford it. Besides, where's the challenge in that?"

Ridiculous child.

"You know," Felicia says slowly, sliding onto the stool next to him, "If you're thinking about selling these things, Viktor isn't going to be happy."

Silco freezes. 

"Ah, fuck," Vander sighs. 

"Oh no," Silco moans. 

Sweet, kind Viktor, who has a stubborn streak deeper than the fissures and a near-fanatical desire to help people, is absolutely going to release the generator schematics for free. He'll probably give out the refining process, too, so that even the poorest of Zaun have a chance to cobble together their own power supply.

Silco thunks his head against the top of the bar.

"There, there," Felicia comforts, patting him on the back, but he can hear the laughter in her voice. "He'll probably let you sell things at-cost?"

Silco thunks his head again.

Viktor does not, in fact, want to sell his inventions, but he's still a practical child, so Silco and Vander manage to bring him around eventually.

"I guess we can sell them to people who can afford it," the boy sighs. 

Financing their little menace's inventions in the future is going to be a nightmare.

"And what do you want for your company name?" Silco asks.

Viktor hums, tapping his chin with adorable seriousness.

They agreed that it can't just be Viktor's name on the designs. Silco already has a company set up, ready to start building any current and future projects, which he'll leave in trust to Viktor: all of his inventions will go under that name, which he can reclaim as his own when he's older.

It will be safer for people to think that the inventions are the work of many minds, and not just one young boy, for now. 

Having it attributed to only Viktor means that people will come after Viktor.

"You could name it Hextech," Silco suggests idly.

Viktor wrinkles his nose.

"But that's a stupid name."

It takes Silco an entire ten minutes to stop laughing.

With Blitzcrank Industries distributing generators to the less fortunate and selling generators to the wealthy, the most immediate concern in Silco's mind has finally been put to rest:

Zaun has power that isn't dependent on Piltovan coal.

The foundling homes and community shelters were the first to be equipped, free of charge. Businesses and households can get the generators for the cost of materials. Richer Zaunites and the crime lords pay for materials, labor, and how much they piss Silco off. 

Pilties are given a triple markup, as per tradition. They mostly purchase them for curiosity's sake, however: there's no need for undercity tech when they already have access to wind and solar as well as their hoarded coal.

The publically-available designs do allow people to build their own generators, and while some have, it's still simpler to just buy or request them. The schematics are detailed, but they are Viktor's schematics, and very few people are as good as Viktor.

There's also the fuel, which Blitzcrank Industries does sell or give away accordingly, though some of the refineries are already implementing independent production to get a foothold in the new possible source of income. 

In the end, it all adds up enough to mean that the entire operation is self-sustaining, so they can keep their promise to Viktor that they would only charge those who can pay. 

With all that settled, as well as the food stockpiles Silco had prepared and the imports already ordered, the people of Zaun should have no issue surviving the winter ahead. 

It means that he can finally relax. There are other things he'll need to do eventually, disasters to avert and events to manipulate, but the biggest crisis in the near future has been taken care of. 

It means that he has more time to play attentive student to Viktor's enthusiastic explanations about his inventions; more energy to devote to simple things like cooking a meal with Vander, or playing tellstones with Felicia. 

It means that he's now free to do some of the things that he always dreamed of.

"Will you please," Vander growls, wiping blood off Silco's jaw, "Stop sneaking into criminal lairs and murdering them?"

"No," Silco replies with a toothy grin, shamelessly nuzzling into Vander's palm. He's still riding the high of adrenaline that comes after a good fight, heart pounding and blood buzzing beneath his skin. 

Or maybe that's from the chems he accidentally inhaled.

"You're just mad you didn't get to come with," Felicia sniffs. She's sitting in the armchair across from the couch, cleaning her pistol of gunk, braid half-undone and singe marks on her jacket. 

"I'm furious," Vander agrees tightly. "If you'd just waited--"

"Woulda been too late," Silco disagrees, waving a hand dismissively. Vander catches his wrist before it smacks into his face. "His meeting cancelled last minute. Woulda had to wait weeks for another chance."

And now another future chem-baron is dead, and Silco's long-held fantasy of getting to kill Saito Takeda has finally been realized. The man was a waste of space, an active participant in the oppression and suffering of Zaunites, and if Silco'd had the power to do so in his first timeline, he would have gotten rid of him then.

Eliminating Takeda was even better than sex.

"Hey," Vander protests. 

Oh, that was out loud.

"Sil broke one of the chem containers with his face," Felicia snickers. "Probably won't wear off for a while."

"Well, that explains the black eye," Vander sighs. He finally puts down the bloody rag and allows Silco to crawl into his lap like he's been trying to do since they got back, strong arms curling around him. "He won't be able to see out of it, come morning. If I had been there to help..."

"You make a pretty good alibi," Silco consoles him. He reaches up to pat Vander's cheeks. "A pretty alibi. Pretty face. Baby face."

Vander's body shakes beneath him. Silco lays his head over his heart to listen to the rumble, but Felicia's cackling makes it difficult to hear, so he just sighs and flops onto Vander's chest.

"Wow. He hasn't been this high since Benzo brought that shit pipeweed back from Bilgewater."

"We agreed to never talk about that again," Felicia hisses. 

Yeah, that was pretty awful. Lots of throwing up. At least the throwing up came after all the--

"And that's enough for tonight," Vander declares. He stands up with Silco still in his arms, limbs all dangly and limp like Jericho's noodles. "You gonna be able to get home okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Keep an eye on him, we're not sure what kind of mix Takeda was working on."

"'course."

A slim hand pats Silco on the shoulder, and he lolls his head to the side, blinking into amused grey eyes.

Felicia. 

It's so nice that she isn't dead.

"Uh..."

"I'll get him to bed, don't worry."

Silco hums when the world sways, Vander's grip on him reassuringly tight as they ascend the stairs. He missed him. Even on the darkest days, when everything hurt and he hated Vander with every fiber of his being, Silco still missed him.

Awful, terrible, unforgettable man. Silco has always loved him so much that it hurts.

"Not too badly, I hope," Vander murmurs, pressing a kiss to his temple. "And I love you just the same, canary."

Silco huffs, irritated and pleased, and grumbles only a little when Vander lays him down on their bed. It's an absolutely shit mattress, smelling of mothballs and stale sweat, but it's familiar and warm and theirs. He missed that, too, even when he'd slept on silk sheets.

"You rest there a bit while I go get you some food and ice, alright?"

Silco mumbles an acknowledgement, eyes already sliding shut.

He'd started on his bloody warpath almost as soon as they'd confirmed that Viktor's new fuel system would work. If there was no need for chemtech there was no need for chem barons, and some of them hadn't deserved to live in his first timeline, much less this in one, when he's planning on fixing things.

The hit on Spindlow was carried out quickly and brutally, the only way that man would have ever gone down. Smeech he took out himself, the scampering little bastard not yet the leader of the Scrap Hackers and thus easy to send back to wherever Yordles came from. And now Takeda's dead as well, may he rest in rot. 

Silco has been so productive.

Jinx will be delighted to know that Smeech is dead. She's always thought the twitchy Yordle was creepy, as if she herself hasn't been described the same way. Silco, too, with his eye.

He hopes she doesn't blame herself for killing him.

"Sil? I brought ice."

Silco opens his eyes.

Silco opens...one eye.

He can barely see through his left eye.

He can barely through his left eye and Vander's hand is coming toward his face.

Silco snarls, feral and inhuman. He scrabbles backward on the bed, away away awayawayaway. Vander stops in his tracks but his arm's still outstretched and maybe he's stopped for now but that's what you thought before and he still drowned you and drowned you and drowned you and--

"Sil? Are you--"

"Don't fucking touch me!"

It's not a scream, but it comes close.

Vander flinches, recoiling violently, and Silco can't stifle the hysterical laughter that bubbles up his throat like river toxins because, oh, now he stops. Now, after the damage is already done, after Silco already knows that the man he loves couldn't give a damn about him, now he has regrets?

Vander should have killed him when he had the chance.

"Sil," Vander rasps. There are tears in his eyes and devastation on his face and Silco may have actually screamed that last part aloud.

He has to get away.

"Love, please let me help you. You're not in your right mind right now, the drugs must have done something--"

Drugs.

Shimmer.

Silco needs to get to the doctor if he wants any chance at saving his eye. 

He rolls off the bed, staggering under the weight of his own body. Vander sways forward on his feet but doesn't move, hands spread unthreateningly at his sides, looking wrecked and wretched and yes, good, he should feel terrible--

Silco backs up toward the wall, not looking away from Vander for even an instant, clawing at the glass behind him. The latch catches under his fingers.

"Wait, don't--"

Silco heaves the window open and hurls himself outside.

"Silco!"

Silco lands on the ducting wrapped around the Drop and immediately takes off across the adjoining roofs. Vander won't fit through the window; he has time to put distance between them. There are handholds aplenty as he throws himself between the buildings, a life spent navigating the iron playground of Zaun leading him steadily down via the pipeworks. 

He can't hear the sound of any pursuit over the pounding in his ears and the wheezing in his lungs, but he takes the time to double back anyway, to duck down filthy alleys and squirm through narrow openings to cover his trail as best he can. It might be paranoia, given that Vander didn't seem eager to hurt him this time, but he refuses to take any chances.

There are many reasons Vander is called the Hound of the Underground, and right now Silco is terrified of all of them.

Eventually he makes it to the lowest levels of Zaun, sloshing through the tide pools where he met - where he met...who? Someone small. Someone important. Someone...

He staggers along the river, hand against the rocks, until he comes across a familiar opening. The entrance to the cave is shallow and short, but Silco still barely makes it with how badly he's shaking. 

He manages to get the door open and tumbles through it just as his body finally gives out.

"Doctor," he rasps. 

Reveck turns, his startled, unscarred face rippling in Silco's blurred vision as he sinks to the floor.

"Help me."

There is shimmer in his veins. 

It's raw, unrefined, burning more than it ever has before. 

He hasn't missed it.

How are you familiar with shimmer?

The doctor saved him, after the bridge. He washed up on the shore half-blind and delirious with pain, the river toxins eating his flesh, desperate for either relief or death. He had nothing to lose when Reveck offered him a syringe with shining purple liquid and the possibility of healing.

You know the name Reveck?

Doctor Corin Reveck, exiled scientist of Piltover. Has some kind of dramatic past with Heimerdinger. Wants to solve death. Easily convinced to add the twisted monstrous shimmer to his research so long as he's given funding sufficient enough to cover his healing invention as well.

That does sound like a good deal.

He's trying to stay away from the doctor, for now.

And why is that?

He doesn't want to be dissected. He knows too much and too little. He might be able to advance the shimmer research with what he remembers, but he never really paid too close attention to the science. Viktor might be able to help, but he doesn't want Viktor in danger. 

Who is Viktor?

So young. So brilliant. So good. Destined to change the world. His son, though he'll never admit it aloud. He's not sure he has the right, with his past and future sins.

And what are those?

Getting Felicia and Connol killed. Flooding the city with shimmer, making addicts and wretches of the people of Zaun. Killing Vander's kids. Killing Vander. Throwing Zaun away because he never would have given up his daughter, never--

Ah, daughters. The greatest gift a father could have.

Both of his children are gifts. Separated by time and by space but still his, even if Viktor wasn't his before, even if Jinx killed him, they are precious and he will burn the world again to protect them. Jinx isn't here yet but she will be and he won't let Viktor live in anyone's shadow this time, he won't let him wither away when he's brilliant enough to outshine the entirety of both Piltover and Zaun--

This Viktor sounds very...intriguing.

You have given me much to think about, young man.

He...what?

Sleep now.

Silco sleeps.

Silco comes back to consciousness just long enough to form the opinion that he would have rather not.

And then he throws up.

He can barely move his head, twisting his neck just enough that it at least makes it over the side of the metal slab he's laying on. His throat feels like he's been gargling nails as he spits up purple-tinged bile, gasping and gagging wetly on the familiar, sickly-sweet taste.

It's shimmer.

He shouldn't have access to shimmer yet.

What happened?

Silco tries to reach up to wipe his mouth, to get the taste of sick off his lips, and it's then that he realizes he's restrained.

He goes very, very still.

A leather strap across his forehead is what prevents him from moving his head. There are cuffs around his wrists and ankles, affixed to the metal table. Two IV bags hang from a stand nearby, one of purple liquid and one of green, the tubing leading toward his elbow but not currently flowing. The ceiling above is unfinished, rocky, the salt scent of the ocean thick in the air.

It's Singed's laboratory. But Silco shouldn't be here yet; he hasn't even decided what to do with shimmer this time around. Unless--

No. He can't have returned to the future. He still has so much to fix, he's-- He's still loved, here, he has Vander and Viktor and Felicia, it can't all have been some cruel fever dream, please--

"Ah, you're awake."

Silco sucks in a ragged gasp. He wrestles his breathing back into a more even rhythm, because no matter what happened, he must be in control.

There are footsteps, and Singed steps into view.

He isn't Singed yet.

Doctor Reveck is younger than Silco ever met him, his sallow face clear of burn scars and pockmarks, and the relief that floods Silco's veins makes him sag against the table.

He hasn't returned to the future.

Then he tenses up again, because he is currently in Reveck's laboratory, strapped to his surgical table, with absolutely no prior relationship with the man to establish trust.

"Doctor," he greets cordially, like they're on equal footing and he isn't the man's captive at best and experiment at worst.

Reveck inclines his head. 

"You must be Silco," he says. He reaches into a pocket and Silco stiffens, but the only thing withdrawn is a penlight, which is shined into his wincing eyes. "The Lanes are in quite the uproar, looking for you."

"And you didn't deem it necessary to inform them of my whereabouts?" 

Reveck chuckles, putting the light away and meeting Silco's gaze.

"Not when we seem to have so much to talk about. You know a great deal about me, and yet I have never met you before." He tilts his head to one side. "Not in my lifetime, at least."

Silco stiffens.

His last clear memory is of slipping out of Takeda's compound with Felicia, fire burning bright behind them, woozy with accidental chem inhalation. There was - the Last Drop, laughter, Vander's warm arms. Panic and running. But the details escape him, like trying to see through the Grey at night, groping for any kind of solid ground. 

Takeda had been working on some new kind of chem, yes, but... Reveck has his own arsenal of mind-altering drugs.

"What do you want to know?" Silco asks warily.

He can only hope that he still has some secrets to share. To a scientist, a subject with no mysteries was a subject not worth preserving.

Reveck smiles, as if he knows where Silco's thoughts are going. 

"From what I gathered, we were acquainted in your future, and you helped support my research."

He's not asking questions.

Shit.

"I would be willing to do so again," Silco says cautiously. He's honestly not sure if he actually is: if he continues with his revised plan for Zaun, then there will be no need for it this time. Not in the form he encouraged.

But he always has believed in contingencies.

And not pissing off the person who has you strapped to a table.

Reveck hums noncommittally. He reaches for something outside of Silco's field of vision, the sound of metal and glass clinking together. 

"Perhaps. But I believe you have more to offer my research than money."

He holds up a vial filled with crimson liquid.

"Did you know," he continues, "That you have trace amounts of the Arcane in your blood?"

Silco goes cold.

Reveck often lamented, early in their acquaintance, that he had no way to research the healing capabilities of magic. Most mages were offensively-minded, and finding one to speak to was impossible in Piltover, where they were brutally shunned if not outright persecuted. He'd started looking into other avenues of tapping into the Arcane instead, capturing and experimenting on magic-touched animals; he'd even gone all the way to Freljord to hunt murk wolves. 

It was a fascination to the man: a mystery that remained out of reach, for all the science he tried to throw at it.

"If it's blood you want," Silco says carefully, "I can arrange to donate it to you on a regular basis."

There certainly hadn't been anything odd in his blood before. If his trip through time somehow altered his body, he needs to find out how, immediately.

But Reveck shakes his head and sets the vial back down.

"Not in the quantities I will eventually need, I fear." When Silco jerks against the restraints, instinctive, alarmed, the man tsks. "Don't worry, that will be a long way off. But I will keep you close in the meantime, to make sure that nothing threatens your survival."

"I am not your specimen," Silco spits, caution abandoned. "You can't keep me here--"

"There's also the child you mentioned, who may be able to help with my research."

Silco freezes.

Then he hurls himself against the straps pinning him down. Snarling, bestial, rocking the table enough that it screeches across the floor.

"Don't you fucking touch him--"

Reveck reaches calmly for the IV bags, removing the clamp on the tubing leading to the green liquid. It immediately begins to flow down the line, and Silco sucks in a breath as cold rushes through his veins, the taste of metal flooding his mouth. 

He can't let Reveck get to Viktor. He won't.

Silco's vision blurs, his fury turned pleading, his clenched hands trying to reach out instead. The attempts are clumsy, lethargic, his body swiftly becoming something distant and foreign.

"Y' have me," he slurs. "Don' need him. Please. I-- I'll tell you everythin' I know. Please."

A warm hand rests on his brow. Blue hair, steel eyes. Thick fingers and a gentle smile. Sharp, sharp needles.

"My friend," Felicia-Vander-Reveck says, "You will do that anyway."

The glittering void swallows Silco whole.

Reveck asks questions, and he cannot refuse to answer.

Vander drags him to a cell, chains his wrists and neck to the wall. His movement is limited, confined to the pallet on the floor and the dingy toilet and the stained sink.

If he tries to escape, tries to attack, gas fills the room and puts him back under. 

If he refuses to eat, Felicia forces food down his throat. If he refuses to drink, he is tied back down on the table and fluids are pumped directly into his veins. 

He fights anyway. 

"This would be much easier on you if you cooperated," Reveck observes, hanging a bag from the IV stand. It's one of the rarer periods of lucidity, the cocktail of drugs usually keeping Silco disoriented burned from his system to prepare for the next round of experiments. 

"Fuck you," he rasps through cracked lips.

He's lost muscle and fat, the chill of the caves sunk into his very bones. His arms are painted in a rainbow of bruising, his hair lank and unbound, skin chafed and sore around his wrists and throat. He barely still has the energy to struggle, but tries anyway, shying away from the hand that reaches for his elbow.

The straps bite in tighter today. 

It is not a good sign. 

"This is the first concentration of your blood and shimmer that has remained stable enough to test," Reveck says as another needle sinks beneath Silco's skin. "It has produced good results in animal subjects, and should have more advanced healing properties than regular shimmer. Please inform me of any side effects you experience."

Silco scoffs, unable to hide a wince when a scalpel draws short and shallow across his exposed chest. He doesn't know who or what Reveck experimented on to perfect shimmer in his original timeline, but he's certainly taken on that role, now. Dozens of cuts litter his skin in varying stages of healing, the shimmer dosage adjusted each time and carefully recorded. 

He watches idly as liquid flows down the tubing, crimson blood having taken on a satin sheen with whatever Reveck's been doing to it. He can feel when it hits his veins, but instead of the usual chill it's - warm, almost. Like sitting by a fire being steadily fed with more coal. 

It's hot.

It's too hot.

Sweat beads on Silco's forehead. He pants roughly as the ceiling above him shimmers in a heat haze, his throat desert-dry. Flames lick around the edges of his vision and he tugs helplessly against the restraints, struggling to move away from the encroaching fire.

The blaze spreads across his vision like rising wings, a crimson bird wreathed in embers and heralding death.

"No, no, nonono--"

The inferno rushes in. 

Silco screams. 

Even after everything, after Vander sold out to topside and cut a deal with the enforcers, after he  went soft and spineless and abandoned the rest of Zaun in favor of just the Lanes, Silco still would have forgiven him.

The realization came far too late: Vander had been given to the depths of the Pilt for years before Silco came to terms with the fact. The specter of him lingered after his death, but that wasn't new; Silco had been haunted by Vander from the moment he met him. 

No one else could ever or would ever carve themselves into his heart like Vander did. 

It was in the way he wondered what Vander had done to take care of Jinx during her episodes. It was how he realized that his weekly meeting with Ran wasn't necessary anymore because they were no longer monitoring Vander's movements. It was when he knew Finn was trying to court Sevika's favor and the doubt flickered enough to make him ache for Vander's steady, unwavering presence at his back. 

If Vander had offered to switch sides at the cannery - if he'd agreed to drop his ridiculous alliance with the enforcers and re-join the fight to protect their people - Silco would have accepted in a heartbeat.

It's a little easier to tolerate the idea, now. At the end of his life he was faced with the choice between Zaun or Jinx, and while he didn't have a chance to put it into action, he knows what he would have done. It went against all that he thought he was - ruthless, driven, willing to do whatever it took to get what he wants - and that had been a bitter pill to swallow, but Silco was at least honest enough with himself to admit the truth. 

He might not have trusted Vander completely in that theoretical reality, almost certainly wouldn't have fallen into bed with him again, but he'd still wanted him. He wanted that piece of himself back, the part of him that he thought had been excised with filthy river water and the sharp cut of betrayal.

Silco would have done anything to give Vander a second chance, once.

He just hopes that he can keep his own.

Silco is either dying or hallucinating, and he's not entirely sure which one he prefers.

"You should not be here," says the glowing, four-winged bird roosting in the corner of his cell. It's sitting on the side that's adjacent to the galaxy, the walls melted away to reveal a swirling, multi-colored cosmos.

Silco's wall just has mildew and the anchors for his restraints. He'd complain if his throat wasn't torn to bloody shreds.

He shrugs in the bird's direction instead, even that bare movement enough to make him shudder in pain. The burning beneath his skin hasn't really abated, but he's found that if he stays very still, it dulls into a low simmer instead of a turbulent boil.

The bird ruffles its feathers as constellations spin gently behind it. It's a massive thing, burning crimson-gold, only half of its body actually inside the room. It stretches its neck over to peer down at Silco's prone form and he shivers beneath the scrutiny. He feels a little like one of those bugs pinned down to corkboards, splayed open for observation, unable to hide any of his faults.

"I suppose the damage has already been done. We will just have to see if things end in disaster again."

Well fuck you too, drumstick.

Silco's not sure how long it's been since Reveck dumped him back in his cell, voiceless and trembling, not even bothering to chain him back up. Whatever's in the new mixture hasn't even granted him the gift of unconsciousness, no matter how much he would prefer it: the pain of even breathing is enough to keep him horribly awake. 

The doctor seemed pleased with whatever the results were, making intrigued noises and scribbling in his notebook while Silco screamed and screamed. The cuts on his body had healed up almost instantaneously, and the ones Reveck added during the procedure had been similarly quick to close. He'd also drawn more blood, now infused with the new mixture, and left Silco thrashing on the table as he went to immediately analyze it.

It had probably been a relief to both of them when his voice finally gave out.

The bird pulls back as the galaxies begin to recede, the cell walls becoming visible once more. The air feels lighter when it draws away, as if it was exuding some kind of pressure just by being there, a celestial body in its own right with the mass to match. 

It pauses to tilt its head to one side for a moment, as if listening, and then uses its beak to knock over the chair in the corner.

Silco blinks.

Hallucinations don't usually do that.

He's still puzzling over that anomaly as the bird disappears, taking the stars with it - and that's when he hears the sound of pounding footsteps. The sound of shouting, of things crashing and breaking.

The sound of the cell door slamming open.

Agonizingly, Silco lifts his head.

The figure standing haloed in the doorway is unmistakable, tall and broad and as familiar as his own shadow. 

"Silco," Vander chokes. 

He looks awful. There are dark circles gouged beneath his eyes, a truly terrible beard running untamed on his haggard face. He's got his old mining gauntlets on his fists and streaks of blood on his cheek and there's something feral and horrified and haunted in his gaze.

He's the most beautiful thing Silco's ever seen.

Vander takes a staggering step forward. The gauntlets clatter to the floor. A moment later Silco's being gathered up in strong, comforting arms, the white-hot sting of being moved barely registering over the sense of safety that washes over him.

"Sil," Vander rasps, large hand cupping Silco's face tenderly. "Oh, love, what has he done to you?"

Silco can't manage more than a wheezing rasp, but he rests his head against Vander's chest despite the sharp flare of pain, eyes squeezing tightly shut.

Vander, he mouths.

"I'm here," Vander murmurs. The kiss he presses to Silco's temple burns sweetly. "I've got you."

He cradles Silco against his chest, slipping an arm beneath his knees to lift him up; Silco lets out a hurt sound and Vander freezes.

"Are you okay? Where does it hurt?"

Silco flicks his fingers, exhausted.

"Everywhere?"

Vander starts to loosen his grip. Silco stiffens, reaches out and grabs, getting fistfuls of shirt even as his fingers feel like they're breaking. He tucks his face into Vander's neck, trembling.

Please, he begs silently. Please. 

Don't let me go.

"Alright," Vander says after a moment, sounding utterly shattered. "Okay. I-- I'm gonna get you out of here. Hang on."

His arms tighten as he goes to stand up, lifting Silco with him. He's trying so hard to be careful, moving slow and steady, but fire sears through Silco's veins all the same. He convulses, back arching, body twisting desperately to escape the flensing knives scraping beneath his flesh.

"Fuck. I'm sorry," Vander whispers, sinking back down to the ground. The tears that Silco's too drained to shed drip down his forehead nonetheless, Vander's words wet and broken. "I'm so sorry, Sil. If-- I can..."

Vander wraps an arm tentatively around his throat. The move kicks up panic in the back of Silco's hindbrain, yes, but--the desire to escape the pain thunders far more urgently. He's seen Vander use this move to pacify unruly drunks hundreds of times.

This, he knows Vander can do.

Silco leans forward into the pressure around his neck, a silent invitation. Vander lets out a sob but his grip tightens all the same; the flow of oxygen cuts off and darkness swarms Silco almost immediately. 

He sinks, achingly grateful, into the familiar depths of oblivion. 

Maybe he was always meant to die with Vander's hands around his throat.