Chapter Text
Viktor blames the flowers for his downfall.
It’s strange. He hasn’t seen another single soul that morning in the little garden community he had cultivated. Where has everyone gone? Why is he here alone? He doesn’t see the children splashing or playing in the stream or the old ladies balancing a straw basket on their hips. The world is eerily quiet until–
One minute he's gathering tulip bulbs, and in the next, he's snatched from the waist and thrown to the riverbed. His crutch splashes to the stream. Pain blooms on his side, but the mud cushions the worst of his fall. The basket topples over and the yellow flower petals scatter across the water as he thrashes, sputtering, fighting to stand up.
A grip encloses around his ankle, yanking him close. “Stay still Zaunite–”
Face mask. That familiar navy blue and gold trim uniform. An Enforcer!
Viktor’s fingers closes around the handle of his crutch, swinging it down on his assailant’s head. The man shrieks, the sound echoing in the remote canyon as he recoils.
Scrambling to his feet, Viktor hisses in pain as he uses the staff to anchor himself. He needs to get out of here. Needs to get back to his lab–
A rough hand threads through his wet locks while a sweet cloth is held to his wet face, forcing him to breathe in the fumes until his limbs become jelly. Viktor blinks rapidly, his vision fading as he goes limp in the enforcer’s arms.
What were they doing here? There's no way anyone would find him, not in the deep fringes of Zaun where the grass grows wildly and the water has run clear. Ever since he planted the first seed, curtains of ivy had climbed and clung to the concrete walls in the years past shielding his hideaway.
He had been so careful too. Maybe it was always a matter of time before the oasis would be discovered and it had to be by these wretched Pilties, no less. Perhaps he had grown too comfortable in his solitude. It’s with these last few thoughts that his panic subsides into an unwilling slumber.
Well, Viktor reasons as his lashes finally fall shut, better to be alone than to be betrayed.
When Viktor awakens, he’s tied up in the back of a large cargo hold. The ear-piercing blare of the foghorn and the sloshing of the choppy waters confirm his fears. He's sure of it.
“Dock’s in ten minutes. Get the merchandise ready,” A gruff voice says.
He's in Piltover.
And he's in the same place as–
Eyes widening, his stomach lurches. Viktor hadn't set foot in this godsforsaken city for several years, and to come back under these circumstances, Viktor wants nothing more than to tear the entire world apart, to fight back with spitfire venom, and to slink back into the safety of his lab. But for now, he'll start with the man untying his gag.
Snapping at the hand, Viktor sinks his incisors in deep. A scream tears through the man's mouth. The metallic taste springs on Viktor’s tongue, and it's not until scorching pain shoots through his entire being that he jolts uncontrollably, body writhing, and he finally lets go.
The electric rod fizzles, the entire air stinking of steel and his panicked pheromones.
The man screams, clutching his wound. “Filthy fucking bitch! Fucking Zaunite scum–”
“Enough! That should keep ‘im until–”
“I don't fucking care! He could be feral! He bit–”
The enforcer holds the other man back. “Easy! He's an Omega, we can't harm–”
The only way they could have found out that he’s an Omega is if they…
Ice cold dread slices through him, exposing every raw nerve to the surface like a live wire. Oh Gods. No. They found out. Of course they did! They must have performed the exams on him while he was asleep. Blood tests. Physical examinations while he was asleep! The idea of someone touching his body, their hands pervading everywhere, examining every inch of his flesh, violating him–
Biles rises up in his esophagus and Viktor snarls, teeth clenched, trying to breathe through the pain. His entire body convulses against the lingering effects of the electroshock. He clutches his stomach and curls to his side, muscles spasming involuntarily.
He needs to get out of here! There's no telling what they'll do to him, now that they know. Wiggling forward weakly, he tries to push up to his hands and feet, but it's useless.
It's hardly a fight when a team of lab coats rush in to hold him down as his veins are injected with a sedative, yanking him back into a heavy, deadweight sleep, his consciousness fading without his permission.
Viktor groans awake. He realizes two things: his limbs are free and he's laid up in the finest bed he's ever slept on. Head pounding, Viktor barely has time to take in the velvet-lined walls and gilded trim before three attendants file into the room.
They're Betas. Two women and a child—one grey-haired while the other one was around his age, and a girl no older than eight. They were definitely Betas, judging by the subtle eucalyptus and mint scent floating in the air, calming with mild, neutral scents. They were dressed in ironed, modest pinafores, and their stoic demeanor betrayed nothing he could surmise.
“Where…am I?” Viktor slurs.
“I'm told you gave our handlers quite the struggle. Make no mistake, insolence won't be tolerated, and there are guards stationed outside of your room should you try to escape. Understood?” the grey-haired lady says sharply.
He nods, gripping his head. The drugs were still in his system. It’s not like he can attempt to do anything in this state. It'd be foolish to even try and waste what little energy he had left.
His limbs tremble, weak and sluggish, but for once, he's not in pain. Whatever they gave him, it’s strong enough to numb his nerve endings. The good stuff, Viktor thinks, back when he could afford decent painkillers.
Cold air hits his form as Viktor rises, the sheets slipping from his thin shoulders. Oh. He’s entirely nude. Heat sears into his cheeks, but Viktor doesn't let on about his discomfort. Thankfully, his caretakers wrap him in a thin sheet when he wobbles forward like a newborn fawn, while another attendant hands him a glass of water.
“Poison?” Viktor asks.
The grey-haired Beta woman shakes her head, tight-lipped. Another attendant, the youngest girl, breaks into a small snicker before she's elbowed harshly to the side by her older companion.
Eying the liquid, he stares at it for a moment before downing the entire thing. The cold water soothes his parched throat.
Handing back the empty glass, he croaks, “I'm in Piltover, aren't I?”
Without answering, his escorts help him to his feet. Without his crutch, Viktor limps with them as he's gingerly guided to the adjoining room where a steaming tub awaits. It's criminal that the bath hall is the size of his entire apartment, needlessly extravagant in its polished bronze fixtures and shiny marble flooring. A crystal chandelier dangles from high above casting prisms on the cream walls.
Viktor winces as he dips into the porcelain basin, lowering himself down as his muscles inadvertently relax. Ice cold showers with dribbling water pressure was what he was used to. He can't remember the last time he's had hot water, much less a bath—a luxury he's learned to live without these past seven years.
Too bad he's probably about to get his organs harvested.
“Am I to be eaten?” Viktor chuckles humorlessly. “Perhaps, I’ll be used in some sort of experimentation?”
“You're awfully calm for someone in your situation,” the younger attendant says.
“I really was hoping for poison in that drink, you know. I suppose a swift death would be too optimistic.”
The woman lets out a delighted, surprised sound and the little girl laughs too. The matron shoots them both a look and their smiles disappear, quick as a snapped piano string.
“Enough small talk. We have to get you ready in time.” The elderly woman carefully selects a glass bottle from the cabinet and hands it to her assistant.
“Ready in time for what?” Viktor questions.
“To be devoured, of course,” The matron replies.
“Oh, is that it,” Viktor deadpans.
The matron raises a brow. “My, you are a calm one.”
Little does she know, he's just like anyone else that grew up with the shadow of Piltover hanging over their heads. Fear is a part of their daily lives: it climbs in his skin and freezes him cold, but Viktor has always been an anxious creature, carefully prepared for the inevitable. What was the use in worrying about falling when the very earth he walked on always shook? With his legs, no matter where he went, there was never any balance for him to stabilize, no solid ground, and no support except for one person–
Viktor banishes those thoughts from his head. He'd rather not think of the past.
The attendants wordlessly lift and scrub his arms and the soles of his feet. Another person tends to his hair, working the floral shampoo through his tresses and gently combing through the knots. Attentively, they cleanse him with fresh water, rinsing away the soap and grime. He's never been the subject of this much scrutiny in his life; the attention leaves him eager to be dried off by the time they're satisfied, his skin scrubbed raw and moisturized by body oils they slather on.
“I’m not a prince, or an ambassador, or a foreign emissary you know. I can do it myself,” Viktor says, flushing, as he stands and leaves the tub.
“You're an Omega, and that is reason enough,” the matron says.
“I suppose so,” Viktor says.
Before long, Viktor’s dressed in a silk robe—a fine covering wrapped around his body while the young girl dries his hair. Such fabric would have cost an entire month's salary in Zaun, he notes bitterly. They affix a collar to his neck and Viktor clicks his tongue in disdain, frowning as the old woman locks it in place. He has half a mind to fight back, but it'll do him little good.
He's never been treated like this in his life, not even all his time in Piltover. Then again, maybe this is how Omegas are treated now as the new status quo. Viktor wouldn't know. He had not associated with much of society since he returned to Zaun from across the bridge.
He's given a small cane that's ill-fitted for his height as they enter the hall. The guard curtly nods at the elder woman before they begin their transport. Ushered down the corridor, Viktor takes note of his surroundings. If he had to guess, he's at a high-end brothel judging by the gaudy oil paintings and the ornate decor. The carpet lays plush beneath his feet and the rugs are intricately woven with exotic designs imported from either Shuriman or Ionia.
Tall windows welcome in moonlight, and through them, Viktor makes out the manicured hedges and a tree-lined driveway. Laughter and yelling suddenly spills into the silence of the hall, bouncing off the high ceilings as they pass by a door, Viktor tenses up at the smell of cigars and the oppressive Alpha pheromones leaking through the crack.
More Beta attendants rush past him, glancing at him curiously as he hobbles after his handler with the guard trailing behind. He passes by another chained Omega, his hands bound in front of them, the collar around his neck is similar to his own, but the difference is that this Omega has two armed guards.
Hm. Viktor is mildly offended that he's not seen as more of a threat. Then again, what can he do with a disabled leg in this state?
The theatrical dressing warehouse he enters is nauseatingly bright and bustling with people flitting about their stations. Every area of the expansive room has a dedicated department, and the first thing he notices are the male and female omegas being fretted over in front of the long line of mirrors and chairs.
Farther away, Viktor can make out the plush, ornate fabrics lining the far wall on display racks. At their tables, seamstresses buzz tirelessly from their sewing machines to their mannequins as they hastily affix fabrics to the bodies. Zipping from their tables to the dressing area, their younger charges rush outfits over, dodging one another.
Up and down the rows, the vendors push their carts filled with accessories, face and body paints, and jewelry. They brush past as each station’s tailor and manicurist snatch items from the baskets discriminately.
“I need lapis for his nails! Does anyone have lapis–”
“Someone get me a pin please!”
“Does anyone have camellias? Firelilies will do too!” Another handler shouts.
It's the most magnificent display of a circus Viktor has ever seen, and he would appreciate it more if not for its sordid purposes. He passes each aisle where every Omega seems to be in various stages of lucidity. Some have a glazed look over their eyes as they’re being fussed over, while others have handcuffs on them, tied to a metal ring of each table. Quite a few of them have their collars attached to the ring by a chain, while other Omegas have muzzles fastened to their faces. As he passes by each aisle, he witnesses a man held down by the neck to the counter by a guard while men in lab coats attempt to jab a needle to his forearm.
“Hold him still!”
“Behave! Give us your arm or else we’ll–”
“What’s the hold up?! He’s on in ten minutes!” A man with a clipboard hisses. “Why didn’t you administer it earlier?!”
Curses erupt from the Omegan man’s face as he thrashes, his arm pinned back, hyperextended behind him by the enforcer, the shoulder at an angle just shy of breaking.
Viktor’s stomach does kickflips. He averts his eyes as he’s led to the last aisle, an empty row except for the Vastayan woman he's seated next to.
“Sit here,” the matronly woman says. “You won’t need restraints, I take it?”
Viktor shakes his head, clenching his jaw. “Yes, I’m in great shape to overpower your forces.”
“Good. You’re considered an F grade, so you’ll be up last. Usually, we have less people at this time of night, but seeing as how it’s our last night… well.”
F grade? Their last night?
“I don’t have much of a say, now do I?” Viktor says wryly. “But you never know, I could surprise you.”
“Your smart mouth will get you into trouble someday, I can tell. Stay here,” the matron says, finally cracking a small smile. With that, she turns and leaves with the guard.
Where can he go anyway? He barely has the energy to move, let alone be able to run and meander through the halls until he’s found an escape. It’s not that he doesn’t want to at least try, but it’d be a fruitless waste of energy given the drugs still coursing within his veins and the fact he doesn't even know where he is. There’s a very high chance he would be captured again and dragged back, kicking, screaming, and thrown into a cell where a worse fate awaits.
He’s left with the Omega Vastayan woman and her specialists brushing away at her mottled, grey fur. Resigned, she stares straight ahead at the mirror, unseeing, as they clip jewels to her angular ears, her body already draped in muslin and teal silk.
Viktor stares at his reflection. His hair has grown long since he left Piltover, deepening into a honey-gold color from his time long spent in the sunlight of his small oasis. His skin is still ghostly pale, a stark contrast to the dark circles beneath his eyes. His limbs are spindly as ever, too bony, and his body was without much heft. There’s nothing special about his appearance, and to most, no one would ever guess he was an Omega. Even before the war, Viktor grew up hiding his secondary gender with a bit more ease than most. No one thinks to look twice at the crippled Zaunite other than to pity.
“Hello, love.” Instantly, a Yordle pops up behind him with a small step ladder set up by her attendant, the young girl from before. “Beth, grab me some pins please.”
“Here, Ms. Babette.” The girl dutifully hands the Yordle the items before she fishes for a notepad and a pen from her apron.
The Yordle, Babette, proceeds to appraise Viktor with the measuring tape, gesturing for him to stand as she takes his measurements. Beth steadies the tape against Viktor’s waist as Babette rattles off the numbers. She examines his arm length, shoulders, the circumference of his neck to his hips, and down the length of his legs with the deft hand of a practiced surgeon tracing the lines of an incision only she can see.
“Take those numbers to Nessa. Tell her an elegant, subtle touch is needed,” Babette croaks. “Tell her absolutely no polyester this time!”
Beth nods, flitting off to the seamstresses with the slip of paper.
“You can sit back down now sweetheart,” Babette says.
She begins to assess his face and then she pats runny serums on his cheeks and forehead, leaving no corner left unattended. She fans him with a piece of cardboard in between each layer of moisturizer. Finally, Babette retrieves her wooden palette from a drawer, loading it with facial paints and mixing the creamy pigments together until she gently swipes a dollop of it across his skin with a brush.
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did they get you?” Babette asks.
“Deep in the fissures. On the outskirts of pipe ninety-one,” Viktor replies.
“All the way out there? Heavens, that’s far, ha? Why on earth were they all the way out there? I suppose with the current state of affairs, the Enforcers were given the approval.”
Ah. As he suspected. Babette is a Zaunite too. She must have been stuck here after the blockade was set in place. It wasn’t unusual for the Zaunites before the War to be rounded up and interrogated. Some were tried and sent to Stillwater for safekeeping, he had heard. It’s a fate he was spared for getting out when he did.
“Haven’t got much sleep, hm?” She muses.
“Not in the last decade,” Viktor says. “For obvious reasons.”
Babette chuckles, continuing to gently dab the powder onto his face. She has a gentle touch, the brush barely stipling his undereye area. “War tends to ruin sleep.”
“Yes, well, it’s hard to get eight hours when the world’s on fire,” Viktor says.
Babette laughs high and bright. “Chin up. They’ll regret making you go last.” She winks at him.
Viktor clears his throat. His accent was thicker than normal. “I doubt even your sorcery can fix this.”
“You doubt my skills, kid? Listen, I’ve worked with hundreds of hopeless cases at this brothel over the years. Not including my place, well, when I had a place—back home. And you—” She shoots him a challenging look in the mirror, their gazes matching in the reflection. “You are anything but.”
Her smiles spreads, gesturing at him with her make-up brush.
“Trust me, darling, when I’m through with you… you’ll still look like you. And they'll want ya.”
That’s what Viktor is afraid of.
Babette sounds like she’s been smoking cigarettes her whole entire life. Viktor studies her in he mirror as she works. Her red hair was done up in a bun, barely held together by pins, the messy strands wildly framing her face. Meanwhile, her wrinkled face betrayed a sort of warmth… as if he weren’t a commodity to be sold off.
Beth returns before long, taking to fussing over Viktor’s fingernails with some kind of block that she runs over his nails. She fiddles with his hand and Viktor squirms, unable to reconcile with the attention they lavish on his body on all fronts. Babette finishes with his face and the look is more subtle than he thought. Gone are his dark undereye circles; he looks less tired, his skin radiant and dewy, like he hasn’t experienced the daily airstrikes on his underground lab for the past seven years.
“Final lot! Look alive, look alive! Before there's an embargo on fresh products for the foreseeable future!” A man barks to a crew slipping in and out of the doors. “C’mon now, get a move on!”
Final lot?
“What does he mean?” Viktor asks.
“Oh… didn’t you hear, dearie?” Babette asks. Her hands freeze.
The Yordle tending to the Vastayan woman shoots him a disapproving look; she shakes her head before she resumes her work. Similarly, Beth ducks, burying herself in the task of painting Viktor’s nails at his side.
“You didn't hear? Where have you been?! Tch.” The Vastayan woman from the next seat over rolls her eyes. “Piltover’s struck a ceasefire with Zaun.”
“What?!”
Viktor’s blood runs ice cold. All of the air evaporates from his lungs. A ceasefire? Is this… he must be dreaming. It’s impossible.
“That's right. That means no more prisoners, trade restrictions, or a need for these places. Fat lot of good a ceasefire will do us, though. We're their last stock,” the Vastayan woman spits out. “Excellent timing, huh?”
He hadn't heard any of it. There was no need to go out other than to visit Singed occasionally, and to harvest his flowers and crops. He kept far away from the crowds and even then, he took care to go completely unnoticed without bothering to check the headlines. Holed up in his lab with his research, he did read an article every other week, but what was the point? The conflict between Zaun and Piltover brought unending news of more casualties, more destruction, more bombings, kidnappings, and failed strategic moves. It was like the twin cities were locked in an eternal embrace, never allowing the other to withdraw their shared death-grip.
But for Piltover and Zaun to come to a ceasefire for the first time in years?! This is unprecedented. He wonders what Silco was offered in order to agree to it.
Still, Viktor stares at his reflection, stunned. His skin itches. His palms begin to sweat. A ceasefire? Was it a trick? Misinformation perhaps? He had not considered the possibility in so long, and in the time he spent in solitude, he had nearly forgotten that peace could ever be a viable option.
“When did this happen?” Viktor croaks, his stomach in knots.
“Last night. Everyone was busy celebrating. It was all over the radio, the papers—thought it was safe to wander out for the festivities–” The Vastayan woman cuts herself off, teeth clenched. “Fuckin’ Pilties. This won’t last. Doesn’t matter, now does it?”
“She’s right. Don't get your hopes up,” says the gruff Yordle clothing her. She doesn’t sound too happy either. “You’re our final pieces of merchandise before the markets close indefinitely.”
Begrudgingly, Viktor has to agree. Whether or not there's a ceasefire, it doesn't seem to help him in this situation, especially not when there’s a swell of uproarious applause and laughter erupting from down the hall every time the door swings open.
Suddenly, a powder keg of emotions ignites within Viktor all at once—indignation, shock, and anger. It's just his luck that he's here, at some filthy auction house, dolled up to become a slave just when freedom was just in reach!
Clenching his hand tight in his lap, nails digging into the meat of his palm, Beth glances up at him curiously as she finishes polishing. She quickly fetches a small bowl of water and adjusts his hand to dip in it, with stray flower petals floating between his fingers. Then, she gently tugs on his clenched fist and Viktor allows her to continue her work.
“Stop it. Enough of this dour talk, ha?” Babette chides as she dabs his face gently with powder that makes his nose itchy. “Hm, you don’t really need much. Lucky you.” She finishes up with his face and sets down her brushes on the table.
“You have lovely hair! Oh, this we can work with!” The Yordle says as she hops up higher on her stepladder and she takes a few tufts, weighing them with her hands. “You there! Fetch me those flowers!”
The cart squeaks by, brimming with everything from delicate glass bell ornaments, fabric blossoms, to real, fresh flowers. Bouquets fall from the sides like a waterfall as Babette hops down from her step stool. She carefully scrutinizes each stem, her hands disappearing into the field of petals, sifting through the bulbs.
“Hm. Not this one. Though you do look good in blue, perhaps red?” She squints her eyes, holding up a stem to the light and examining a pink camellia. “Too powdery, this one. And this one, too flashy. Ach.” She makes a face, pursing her lips.
“Ah-ha! Here we go.” Babette holds up the yellow flowers to the light, strung together by their hardy stem, not unlike the flowers he cultivated back in Zaun. Hopping back up her ladder, she meticulously weaves the yellow blossoms into Viktor’s strands.
“It'll be alright, love. Better here than in the shops. Or worse,” Babette says, voice hushed, “Zaun. You're at the high market.”
“High market?” The Vastayan woman's voice ticks up as her own attendants set pins into her hair. “We're at the high market, are we?!”
“Oh yes! Yes, yes. We cater to Piltover's esteemed families. Well, the ones that… don't have qualms about our, ah, wares. Although…” Babette coughs. “I suppose you'll still be well cared for.”
What she means is, Viktor will be kept as a pet. A consort. A concubine. A plaything. Bile builds in his gut, churning madly as he assesses his options. If he's sold to an Alpha, he might be made to bear kits, kept as a brood cat himself.
Damn it all.
He bites the inside of his cheek. If he's lucky, maybe the Alpha he's sold to will tire of him and turn him out. Or worse yet, he'll be sold again to a more unsavory benefactor. He's no stranger to the horror stories in both Piltover and Zaun of what happens to Omegas captured and sent to the black markets. Viktor just never thought he would be one of them.
After all, he had kept his heat fully suppressed after all these years. There wasn't any reason for anyone to suspect him of his secondary gender. Not until now.
“Is it only Omegas at this market?” Viktor asks.
“Oh heavens, no! We have well-bred Alphas too. Some Betas. And they're from every corner of Runeterra, not just Zaun or Piltover. Omegas are still a rarity no matter where you go though,” she says as if it's a comfort.
“The high market! Thank the Gods. And here I thought we were being sold off to the shops!” The Vastayan woman actually sounds relieved. If Viktor had to guess, it had to do with the clientele. What the Vastayan woman probably didn’t know, is that the people are rotten even with copious amount of money.
The window shops, however, are arguably much, much worse.
“No, they closed those a few months ago. Can’t buy Omegas that way anymore,” the gruff yordle tending to the Vastayan says. “Now where will I go to make my living? Tch. The Council’s lost their damn minds.”
“Hush, Shirla. We’ll be fine. There was a time before this, you know.”
Right. There was a time before the bridge disaster and when they didn't sell off kidnapped people. Enemies of opposing nations were fair game—a disgusting practice Piltover had implemented shortly after the war had started. One that was finally ending tonight after seven long years.
And Viktor was its final sacrifice.
Before long, Beth returns with a few dresses with a tailor in tow. The thin robes drop from his shoulders and the tailor slips the cool, smooth fabric over his body. They lace him up in a white silk dress, luxuriously soft against his skin. Babette fixes a gilded ornament to his soft curls, interwoven with the stray petals in his hair.
For the finishing touch, she replaces his metal choker in favor of a delicate, gold, filigreed collar, snapping it around his throat. Instinctively, Viktor tenses, wanting to tear at his neck. It’s dehumanizing. Barbaric.
“There now. Simple. Elegant,” Babette marvels. “You won’t look like a show pony like the other Omegas, because you don’t need to. Your charms lie inside, I can tell.”
When they’re finished fussing over him, Viktor’s cheeks tint pink, shifting in his seat uncomfortably as he’s forced to face his reflection. He hardly looks demure, but at least the makeup is subtle and not heavy-handed like the others. The long-sleeved dress he wears is thin and airy, hugging him in ways he’s not used to.
The tailor grins, probably more relieved that he doesn’t need to redo the seams again. Beth, meanwhile, stares up at him as if she’s in a trance, only snapping out of it when the tailor beckons for her to leave. Even the Vastayan woman next to him steals a glance and she clicks her tongue softly.
“Oh, honey,” Babette breathes, “I’ve outdone myself. They won’t be able to take their eyes off of you.”
Viktor lets out a dry scoff, looking away. “That’s precisely the problem.”
Viktor hisses when the needle pierces his forearm, injecting him with Gods-knows-what. If he had to guess, it’s suppressants mixed with something to keep him pliant. The Vastayan woman he was sitting next to is up right now.from his viewpoint through the slit in the door, she’s shivering so uncontrollably that an enforcer has to drag her to the exit on the other side of the stage.
Swallowing, Viktor noses into his scent gland at his wrist. He’ll do anything to soothe his rapid heartrate. He can practically feel the pheromones leaking from the other side of the door each time it swings open to collect the next Omega. He’s already had to wait an agonizing two hours before it’s finally his turn, and by now, he’s thought of countless escape routes—none of them with any sort of viability.
He can't afford to be too rash, not with his leg like this. He'd be electrocuted and reprimanded before he can figure out where to go. He can lockpick using the hairpin that Babette had affixed to his head, but he doubts he can get far without detection.
He remains seated in a chair as enforcers crawl along the side stage, huddling together as they prepare for the end of the event. They’ve been openly sneering and talking loudly about how they’d like to sample the merchandise, and it takes everything in Viktor not to stab them with one of his hair ornaments. Disgust fizzles inside of him, but he’s done a good job of ignoring their leering gazes raking up and down his form.
“Uppity Omega bitch.”
“I would have broken him in so good,” an enforcer sneers.
He catches this childish insult as the needle withdraws and the doctor slaps a piece of gauze and tape to his arm. His handler, Babette, quickly fixes his dress, lowering the sleeve and assessing her work.
“There, love, all done. Not much longer to go now,” Babette says.
“I have the rest of my life to dread,” Viktor replies, a dry scoff leaving his mouth. “Is there any chance of you slipping me poison?”
The Yordle gives him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, dear. For what it’s worth, there are much worse places. Worse owners. Worse lots in life.”
Viktor grits his teeth. “You don’t know Piltover. They are the cesspool.”
“I got lucky, I suppose. Some perks of the trade came in handy because of my name. I had my own brothel in Zaun and a few of my Piltie clients–friends–took a liking to me and my girls. I was arranging an event on this side of the bridge when it happened. I’ve been working here ever since,” she murmurs. “I know the sort of place that Piltover is. But Zaun isn’t much better.”
“Clear the area! Let’s go! We have a tight schedule to keep!” Someone barks.
“Start cleaning up! Get them ready for pick-up! Final product called!”
“Last auction starting!” A Vastayan worker yells. “Ready on ten!”
“I hope your Alpha will be kind. I’m sorry, dear.” Her small palm gives him a squeeze on his hand. “You’re a resourceful one—oh!” She’s shoved to the side as another worker rushes past her.
Viktor helps her up, sucking in a small breath as his knees creak with the motion. “Are you all right?”
Babette nods, glassy-eyed. “Best of luck, love.” She’s ushered away, a stagehand pulling her by the arm, but not before she flashes him one last sympathetic look.
“You’re up!” The guard nudges him through the door.
The presenter’s thunderous voice amplifies in his ears to resounding, raucous laughter.
“And for our final product of the season! He may not be our finest, but he’s an Omega found in the outskirts of the trenches, near a pretty stream, completely unmated, untouched—” The announcer allows for a fresh wave of fascinated murmurs to crest over the crowd before he continues his flagrant story. “Now I know what you’re thinking, but he comes with a certificate of health from three independent doctors—he’s fully capable of whatever your heart desires…”
“That’s your cue!” The proprietor, a gold-toothed fishman, shoves him forward, nearly knocking him off balance.
Viktor wants to run. He needs to get away. He can’t risk being sold to some rich, sick Piltie, forced to be some disposable toy for them. He should have taken his chances earlier. Feeling his panicked pheromones rise in his body, he knows it’s blunted by the cocktail injected into his bloodstream, suffocating his ability to emit them. He has no choice but to take the build-up, the needling pain licking up his limbs and the sense of doom flooding every fiber of his being, his body clawing at him for his pheromones to escape from his scent glands for respite.
The drugs keep him docile, he realizes. They keep them subdued for precisely the moments like these, when reality hits. Keeps him from accidentally causing someone’s full-blown rut or worse, a frenzy among the Alphas and Betas in the crowd.
He’s trembling by now, gripping his cane, knuckle-white and desperate. His hand shoots to his face, but it’s no use escaping. Every Omega knew it by heart. Gods. That stench. It’s been years since he had been near enough to smell strong Alpha pheromones, let alone an entire amphitheater’s worth. It’ll kill him.
“C’mon now!” A harsh push jolts Viktor forward.
“I–I can’t–” Viktor stammers. His vision blurs.
“Do we need to drag ya, huh?” The hand on his arm grips him hard enough to indent his skin. “Get up there an’ just sit pretty. Hear that? They’re waitin’ for ya out there.”
“The drugs–the–the… I don’t feel well. It’s too–”
“Ha? We’ve pumped you with plenty.” The proprietor raises a brow, lips curled into a snarl. “You’ll be fine! Any more and you’d be comatose. Now get out there!”
Nearby a guard stalks forward, with a rod in hand. Stumbling forward quickly, Viktor steps out, leaning on his cane with a little too much faith.
The lights are nauseatingly blinding, flooding his vision. Viktor looks away, gaze downturned as he makes his way up to the center platform, dropping carefully to his knees and setting aside his cane. His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest, fluttering madly in his ribcage like a trapped bird. He can feel their stares piercing through his body, sizing him up, and swallowing him whole.
Alpha pheromones flood the room, oppressive and heavy like gravity grinding him into the ground, keeping him tacked to the floor. It’s rude in any other situation, but in a room filled with the nobility, it’s the stupid, lowly, primal desire to dick-measure—to see who’s the superior Alpha. His legs are shaky like a newborn fawn and a headache unfurls in his temples.
From what he can tell, there's people standing in the front orchestra. There were onlookers in the dress galleries, the upper balconies, and the private box tiers. The Piltovan elite. Viktor feels the weight of their scrutiny exposing every inch of him that he might as well be naked.
“He's got a bum leg, looks like.”
“He doesn't need to walk since he'll be on his back most nights.” A cacophony of laughter follows immediately after.
“Pretty one, isn't he?”
“Put some meat on those bones and he wouldn't be leaving my bed.”
“Whoever buys him will have fun marking him up. He looks nice for a sumprat.”
Viktor's stomach lurches. He wants nothing more than to sink into the ground and cease to exist. He feels like a small child again, alone and unable to find refuge. To think, after all these years, the walls he kept up high and sturdy would come crashing down here beneath the haughty stares and the derision of others.
Sweat pours down his neck and he keeps his head lowered, his hands braced to the floor as he forces himself to huff in cleansing breaths, and yet every lungful is full of disgusting Alpha pheromones. There was only one set of pheromones that ever calmed him down, but those days had long died.
He should have fought harder to get away. If only he didn’t get out of bed today. If only he didn’t check on the flowers. Was everything that he ever did always meant to lead him here anyway? Had his lot in life really amounted to nothing more than this? Was he always fated to return to this cage?
We’re going to get out of here together someday, Viktor. Somewhere far away from Piltover and Zaun, I promise.
Viktor doesn’t know why he thinks of him now. The words he clung to for comfort had been extinguished along with any flame of his affection. Years ago, he had left across the bridge with nothing but the research papers stuffed in his satchel and the clothes on his back, determined to start anew. But now, he’s right back where he started, a slave stuck in Piltover. Tears fall from his lashes, quietly plopping onto his hands and darkening the wood beneath.
“We’ll start the bidding at ten-thousand valors! Do we have ten–right, yes, to the gentleman in green with number eighty-one.”
“Fifteen thousand!”
“Fifteen thousand valors to number fifty-five.”
“Seventeen thousand valors!” Someone else shouts.
You’re the strongest person that I know, V. That familiar voice.
A part of him curses himself for being unable to cast those memories aside. For being weak enough to allow the image of that man in, and yet, somehow those same words give him courage.
Hastily wiping his eyes, Viktor lifts his head, his hair ornament catches the light and casts prisms on the floor. His vision blurs and Viktor blinks, trying to adjust to his surroundings, but the drugs injected into him leave his senses dull and enfeebled with every second.
He forces himself to sit upright, glaring out into the faceless crowd with renewed vigor, his chest bursting with indignation. He’s not going to take this lying down. He will find a way out. So let them bid. Let them underestimate him. It makes standing over their bed, bloodied, their scent glands cut out, all the sweeter. Viktor knows one thing for sure: he won’t be the fragile, compliant Omega they take to bed so easily. He just needs to endure, for now, until he finds a way out.
It’s what he’s always done.
It seems like his resentment doesn’t go unnoticed, because the volume in the theater amps up to a noisy chatter. He finds it difficult to focus, wincing as the heady mixture of Alpha pheromones overwhelm his senses, swirling in the air around him as if it’s an attempt to own him without even touching him.
“Fuck. He’s gorgeous,” someone says.
“Such pretty eyes.”
Viktor grits his teeth when the bidding volleys back-and-forth between the horde up to the millions. The increments are now by multiples of five. Leave it to the nobility to spend money like wasting water from a faucet. It’s an obscene amount, numbers that Viktor could never deign to understand for his body, his very freedom being sold away.
“Ten million,” a man shouts.
“Fifteen million,” a woman’s voice counters immediately.
“Before we continue! Some fun facts about our Omega, our examiners have noted that his pheromones smell like flowers and one reviewed it as ‘jasmine after a refreshing rainstorm’—hopefully, that will change some people’s minds–”
He imagines himself to look quite like the high-priced courtesan now. But no matter how much you dress up a cheap doll, it’ll always be just that—a shoddy, broken toy. It’s not until his vision adjusts to the lighting that he begins to scan the crowd. They’re the same as he remembers. Gaudy, ornate, haughty, and cruel.
That’s when Viktor sees him and his pulse fucking halts.
Their eyes lock. Amber meeting with gold.
It can’t be.
The entire world stops. All sound falls away. The air absconds from his lungs.
Oh Gods, no.
He’s different from Viktor’s memories. No longer clean-shaven and boyish, the man appears gruff, his beard full and groomed. The hair is longer now too, no longer slicked back with hair product or cut into a meticulous fade. None of that pretty boy, idealistic look remains on the man’s features, but Viktor knows that look no matter where he goes; it’s the same eyes haunting him every night even after all these years. It’s unmistakable.
He’s taken to hallucinating him of all people, but that isn’t possible. Why would he be in a place like this? That person wouldn’t be here. He’s probably stuck in some lab somewhere or he’s escaped far away. Viktor doesn’t like thinking about the glaring alternative. But the specter from across the crowd looks just as shocked as he does, unmoving, completely frozen.
And then the ghost’s lips move.
“Twenty-five million!” The man roars, silencing every other bid. The hall deafens into a muted, stunned silence. Only the sounds of people shifting in their seats emerge as their attention falls to the man.
“Thirty-five!” A woman’s voice shouts from the opera box above.
The man glances up and he glares at her. “Fifty-five,” he yells back before the announcer can moderate.
“Sixty-five,” her voice is inky smooth, commanding. Amused, she says, “Councilor, you won’t win this.”
“Over my dead body,” he growls. “Back off, Admiral.”
Ambessa raises a brow. “I’ll add him to my collection. Don’t worry Councilor, you can use him when you visit.”
“Mother,” Mel snaps.
From this angle, Viktor can make out her faint outline in the theater box, but his consciousness is fast fading from the amount of pheromones weighing on his back, his shoulders, and his head, causing his limbs to break under the immense pressure—all vying for dominance against one another. He blinks rapidly, fighting his urges, fighting to stay upright. Vision blurring, he dips his head as the room begins to spin.
“Looks like we have a bidding war between…” the announcer squints before the mic’s feedback squeals. “Councilor Jayce Talis and Admiral Ambessa Medarda! Why, this is quite the surprise! Come here to enjoy the last day of sales, have we? How exciting!”
People gasp, and heads turning, the crowd explodes in a flurry of gossip and excitement, tittering amongst themselves. Viktor can only make out the people speaking to each other in the front row, flooded with so much chatter all at once. Their voices meld together in a piecemeal mist, overlapping one another that Viktor finds it difficult to follow in his drug-fueled haze.
“Councilor Talis?! He came?!”
“He voted to end the markets and yet here he–”
“What's Talis doing here?!”
“It's the last day of the market. They're shutting everything down at midnight.”
“Is that Councilor Medarda with him too?” Someone says, craning their head. “Oh it is!”
“Mel Medarda too? Where?”
“Hypocrite. Men like him are dogs. Thought he was too–”
“The nerve of that man. He's just like the rest of us after all–”
“Ahem. Settle down everyone! What a wonderful treat for all of us! Shall we continue the bidding?” The announcer booms into the microphone.
What was Jayce doing here?! This can’t be happening. There’s no way, no possibility, or reason that they would meet again and in a place like this?!
Panic seizes Viktor anew and the fresh fear blooms in his chest, climbing up his esophagus. He wills himself to get up, to move, to do anything but sit there, but the drugs are in full effect now, and his body fails to listen to his screaming thoughts. He’s paralyzed, swallowed by the overbearing pheromones swirling heavily in the air. In between the sheer amount of Alphas in one room, the mix of their putrid scents, and the drugs inundating his system, Viktor falls forward, collapsing onto the ground.
He can’t move a single muscle as he tries to force air into his lungs. He feels like his entire body is being torn apart and there’s nothing he can do about it. The booming voices dim into a rhythmic, disembodied sound to his ears.
The memories he’s long buried comes rushing through his mind. Jayce, small and innocent, tugging on his shirt. Jayce, with a tooth-gapped grin, proudly declaring his acceptance into the secondary school of Piltover Academy. Jayce, dutifully waiting for him at Zaun’s side of the bridge, waiting for him so they could walk together to school. And then there’s the both of them floating in the air, stars in their eyes, the night Hextech was born.
“SOLD! To Councilor Jayce Talis! For ninety-million valors! One of our most highest ticketed auctions ever!” The announcer roars.
The entire crowd detonates into explosive applause as ribbon streamers and confetti rain down in the theater, bits of colored paper fluttering all around them like candied snow. Even Viktor can hear the cheering, his consciousness barely hanging on by a single copper wire.
Sold. He was just sold. His life was worth ninety million valors. Ninety million valors is an inconceivable amount of money that could have saved countless lives in the Undercity. It's impossible. What’s even more unbelievable: Jayce, of all people, is the buyer.
“No, no…” Viktor whispers disbelievingly. Oh, he's going to be sick. Anyone but him. Anything but this.
“Thank you everyone for attending our last auction! We will be concluding in compliance to the Council’s orders. Please collect your prizes at the ticketing counter and we will make all of the necessary transport accommodations. We hope to see you all again someday! Again, please come meet Aritza at the ticketing counter for further instructions on how to claim your wares. Hopefully, our markets can reopen again and we can–”
There's shocked, electric chatter as Jayce rushes to the stage, the spotlight following after his figure as he races down the aisle, shoving his way through the standing crowd. He's even more handsome than Viktor remembers, his face had grown a full beard and all of his boyish features had transformed into a gruff ruggedness. Sweat drenches Viktor’s neck, his gilded collar slick and itchy.
Jayce hops up over the stage’s apron, nearly stumbling as he approaches.
The sound of Viktor’s pulse drowns out everything else—the voices warble together and he feels like he's going to throw up or faint, whichever comes first.
Warmth engulfs him like a weighted blanket. Lifting his gaze, Jayce had peeled his coat off and wrapped it around Viktor’s form in one swift motion. Slowly, familiar pheromones flood his nostrils—cedar, forge flames, and notes of citrus veil over his form, replacing all other smells as if they were being carefully cleaved from his senses. It soothes his overloaded scent glands and quells the fear inside of him without his permission.
Gods. Oh, how he had missed this.
“Looks like Councilor Talis can't resist claiming his prize!” The announcer booms and the entire theater erupts into another round of applause accompanied by scandalized, electric gossip like it's a celebratory occasion.
“Viktor,” Jayce breathes, incredulous, holding him close.
Jayce is bigger than he was before as if that were somehow possible, his body hard and firm like a marble statue. His hands wrap around Viktor’s body, his touch trembling until he settles his hold on Viktor. Through his dress, Jayce’s heat sears into his own, and he swears he can feel Jayce’s forge-calloused fingers ready to tear into his flesh. Without warning, he lifts him up into his arms without difficulty.
Jayce turns and begins to walk toward the backstage, the air cooling immediately as the curtain begins to close. Viktor presses his cheek against Jayce’s solid chest, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. His body feels like an anchor, exhaustion seeping insidiously through every cell. He’s still scared, of course, but it’s far better than being forced to inhale the poison he was subjugated to.
It’s nothing but a physiological response, Viktor reasons—a memory of when they used to scent one another for comfort.
As his consciousness fades, Viktor doesn’t pay attention to the crowd’s exhilaration, their deafening acclamation or their elated cheers. No. All Viktor hears is Jayce’s rabbit-fast pulse and a low growl emanating from his former partner’s throat, a renewed promise that causes a shiver to race up Viktor’s spine within Jayce’s tight, desperate grasp.
“You’re mine, Viktor. I’m never letting go ever again.”