I woke up with a splitting headache, my hands tied behind my back, seated on a cold metal chair. The room was dark, lit only by a flickering overhead bulb. Shadows danced on the walls, and the faint hum of machinery buzzed in the background. I knew I was in trouble before I even registered the figures standing around me.
Silco's goons.
They wore patched green and black uniforms, like some makeshift militia. Each carried a weapon—a crowbar, an iron bat, or a pocket knife. It wasn't the kind of wake-up call I expected.
It was hard to see their faces. The dim green light only lit the bottom half of the room, leaving them in shadow.
Before I could gather my thoughts, a voice spoke from the darkness.
"So, why were you in the pit?"
They were talking about me. Of course, they were who else would they speak too. The voice came from a figure seated in the center of the room. They were slouched back in a long chair, trying to turn it into some kind of throne.
The voice was muffled, distorted by a mask.
"Why did one of Vander's dogs sneak into Silco's territory?"
That word—"dog." It churned my stomach. They thought I was one of Vander's people.
I didn't answer.
One of the goons stepped forward—a massive guy with arms like steel pipes. As he moved into the light, his rough face became visible, twisted into a sneer. Without saying a word, he punched me in the stomach.
Pain exploded through my torso, and I doubled over, coughing. My lungs screamed for air, but I stayed silent.
The voice in the shadows came again, colder this time. "Nothing to say? Is your loyalty worth taking a beating for?"
Another punch. This time across my jaw. Blood filled my mouth, metallic and sharp.
Still, I said nothing.
I wasn't a spy. I wasn't one of Vander's dogs. I had nothing to tell them. But I wasn't about to plead or explain myself, either.
The punches kept coming, slower and sloppier as the guy wore himself out. His breathing turned ragged, and his fists dripped with blood—more of his than mine, by the look of it. Finally, he stepped back, muttering under his breath.
The room fell silent. Just the hum of machinery and my own heavy breathing.
Then the figure in the shadows stood and stepped forward.
At first, the mask threw me off—a smooth, featureless surface with green streaks glowing faintly in the dim room. But when they removed it, my stomach sank.
Vi.
Her hair was black, streaked with pink. She wore a uniform that looked like a Piltover enforcer's gear, but the colors were wrong—black and green instead of blue and gold.
"You," I rasped, my throat raw from the beating. "What the hell is this? Why are you working for Silco?"
She laughed—a short, sharp sound without a hint of humor.
"For a spy, your information's outdated," she said. "I don't work for Silco. I work with him. Unlike Vander—that traitorous coward—I'm loyal to my father."
Her words hit me like another punch.
"Silco's not your father," I said. I don't know why I said it. Maybe out of habit, from my timeline where Vi hated Silco as much as I did. But this wasn't my world. These weren't my friends or family.
She ignored me and started pacing, boots echoing on the metal floor. "Silco is the Chem Governor of Zaun," she said, snapping her fingers.
The room lit up, revealing what I'd thought was a torture chamber. It wasn't. It was an office.
Photos and paintings lined the walls. Images of Zaun's industry, revolution, and independence. Slogans painted in bold letters: Zaun for Zaunites. A New Age for Zaun.
Propaganda, plain and simple.
It was starting to make sense now. This wasn't just a different timeline. This was a different Zaun. A Zaun where Silco's vision had come true. Golden statues of him loomed in the photos, and banners proclaimed a Zaunite nation.
"You're working with him?" I spat. "After everything he's done? After everything Vander fought for?"
She stopped pacing and turned to face me. "Everything he's done," she repeated, her voice sharp. "He saved me and Powder on the bridge. He gave us a future—one where we don't have to live under Piltover's thumb anymore."
"Vander wanted peace," I said. "Real peace. Not whatever this is."
She shook her head, anger flashing in her eyes. "Vander wanted survival. He wanted to keep hiding in the shadows while Piltover spat on us. Silco gave us freedom. Vander betrayed Zaun when he made deals with the Enforcers. Silco gave us a nation."
"This isn't freedom," I said. "It's control. Silco's using you."
"Hope doesn't win wars," she said, her voice cold. "Action does. Sacrifice does."
I looked around, scanning the room for anything that could help—an escape route, a weapon, anything. But all I saw were those damn posters and the eyes of Silco's loyalists, watching me like a dead man walking.
I turned back to Vi. "If this is what you've become," I said, "what would your parents think of you?"
Her expression darkened, but she didn't hit me. Instead, she leaned in close, her face inches from mine.
"You don't know me," she said, her voice a low growl. "And you don't get to question me. Remember, you're the one being questioned."
She turned to the goons around her. "He's not a spy. He doesn't have anything valuable. Send him to the mechanics' labs. His skills as a tinkerer will be more useful there."
Her words hit harder than any punch.
She looked at me one last time. "Keep tabs on him. He's a Zaunite. Better to have a live one working for us than a dead one in the streets."
With that, she stepped back into the shadows, leaving me alone with the goons.