music for the vibes ;)

||

Whether in states of dreaming or in the wake of day, man is prone to desire power over all sorts of heights. Maybe that's why humans want to fly.

She would fantasise about it endlessly. 

But then, what child did not wish to soar above the black clouds of smoke covering the Undercity? And for once take a breath of fresh, unpolluted air?

There are those who fear heights and are instantly pulled away from edges, a mechanical reflex developed for the primal purposes of survival — yet that instinct of basic self-preservation seemed to have evaded her rather completely, because she tended to gravitate towards high places rather than away from them.

The closest one could get to flying in that desolate hole they were doomed to call home, was climbing.

And it was usual practice for many.

A knack for scaling buildings was an ability expected of a Trencher: children as young as six could be seen scampering down rooftops, clambering up one rickety construction or the other.

Most did it for fun, or out of a certain need: escaping from particularly tenacious enforcers who'd dare follow them into the depths of Zaun, running from vendors angered by their theft, or simply attempting to impress a fellow, wretched soul such as themselves.

To her, climbing was an obsession.

A deep-seated, burning need.

One that makes your fingers itch with want, that sends your mind spiralling into a restless, twitchy mess until you're there, you're doing it, so the voices urging you can finally stop.

It happened that one day, too.

Or rather, it had been happening for a week straight and she needed it to quit. But she had to be patient, so she'd spent that week planning, scheming, analysing every nook and crevice of the building from afar to the most minute detail.

And finally, the faithful night arrived.

Her hand gripped the decaying, metal pipe, and she pushed, jamming her raggedy shoes between crumbling bricks, pulling herself up.

Her palms pulsed: she was unsure whether that was the adrenaline pumping her heartbeat all the way to her cranium, or the innumerable scratches that marred her skin from the previous times she'd indulged in her secret hobby. Her hands were tingling dangerously, alerting her of possible infections — but she was too young to know what caused amputations at that age.

So she moved forward.

That day — that one faultless day — she made it to the top of the abandoned clock tower.

She'd sweated, and gasped, and wrestled, until finally, she stood at the very top.

It was the tallest construction in the district. And she had eyed it for months but had never really dared try anything, because she had been taught at a very young age to know her limits, to stay in her predetermined spot, to never dare surrender to foolishness.

But she'd done it.

The fresh, bloodied scrapes, the aches, the dizziness, and the lack of breath in her lungs, had all been worth it. Because once she stood at the edge, stapled in front of the gigantic, illuminated, semi-working clock, the sight that presented itself to her had been like nothing she had ever seen.

The twinkling of the lights below, the traders and children running rampant down in the square, the labyrinthine alleys that wound and twisted all the way through crooked houses, and led all the way up to as high as anyone could ever hope to get.

Piltover.

She watched the glistening tips of the golden city of progress, that lay submerged into a fit nightly fog, only barely visible along the skyline.

Far away, and up so high it made her mouth water.

She remembered the way her heart had beaten.

The way the wind felt on her cheeks, how the strands of her damp, chestnut curls stuck to her moistened forehead.

And that was it, really.

The pinnacle of it all.

She had never felt freer.

The lights of the city shone, the swirling of toxic gasses somersaulted above the rotten architecture, and she could have sworn she spied a stray star in the sky.

She belonged there.

Up, at the very top.

It was there, above the city, that she felt more at peace than ever.

She felt like she utterly belonged.

That day had been perfect.

All had been perfect.

But then...

There was this... thing.

The pain.

Feral, animalistic screaming filling her ears.

Roaring desperation bouncing off dark walls.

They were her own screams.

And they ricocheted off furniture, they filled every corner of her brain, and everything hurt, everything burnt, everything felt excruciating.

She scrambled, fighting, kicking, desperately trying to remove herself, to get out of the tight straps eating through her wrists and strapping her to the operating table.

The city lights from her better memories morphed.

From millions and thousands of flickering twinkles, into two big, round, destabilised patches of a bright, white glare.

The surgical lamp, which he used to illuminate her.

Tears and snot streamed down her face and mixed with her blood, a metallic, disgusting concoction that seeped through the gaps in her teeth and plunged down her throat, to the point where the urge to wretch was becoming more powerful than the one to keep screaming.

"PLEASE!"

"PLEASE, STOP, PLEASE!"

She remembered his eyes as sad.

But her vision was blurry and she was slipping in and out of consciousness, so who could really tell.

Red leaked into her eyes, and it didn't stop, not even when she blinked.

Sweat dripped down her temples in steady streams, fading the outlines of his hunched form.

"PLEASE!"

"PAPA, PLEASE!"

"PLEASE STOP, PLEASE!"

Her tortured screeches fell on deaf ears.

The man barely sighed, or maybe he didn't at all.

But even as she felt herself slipping between states of existence, she could have sworn she heard him whisper.

Quietly, occasionally, more to himself than to her.

"I'm sorry, my little songbird..."

Then a syringe would bury itself deep into her flesh, and her skin would be set ablaze by the liquid inside.

And all she could do, was scream and cry and beg some more.

||

Lyra shot up in her bed.

Her breaths were ragged, freezing sweat coated her bare arms.

Her vision was unfocused, and she blinked, hands shooting up in swift, erratic spasms to shove the sticky strands of hair off her skin.

Everything felt suffocating, her body felt tied down, and she kicked and tore at her thin sheets, suddenly feeling like she couldn't breathe. Her heartbeat was pumping loudly in her ears, and as her feet shoved urgently, wrangling with the material, she slid back and went slamming violently against the wooden headboard.

And she sat there: huddled on herself, against the bed.

Shuddering breaths shook chest, her hands scratched and gripped at the roots of her hair without her conscious permission, her nails dug deep into her scalp, and her wide eyes stared into nothing while her heart raced and beat.

These dreams should not affect her.

Not this much.

Not anymore.

It was all in the past, she was not in his lab, she was not in the Undercity any longer.

No one would find her. No one knew where she was.

She was protected.

She was safe.

It did not feel that way, though. Not with the remnants of her dreams still clinging to her clouded mind — not when the feeling of metal needles still lingered intrusively within the flesh of her limbs.

Right now, all she wanted to do was cry.

It took a long time. Truly, she was unsure how long she'd sat there.

But her breaths started to calm slowly, gradually. Her grasp on her skin eased, the buzzing in her head subsided. And her head fell limply back onto the headboard, where she resolved to remain.

She breathed in.

Then, she breathed out — allowing her hands to drop limply onto the mattress.

And she stayed there some more.

She was so damn tired.

So fucking exhausted.

She just wanted to sleep.

Properly, one goddamn time.

But she couldn't sleep.

And she couldn't cry.

So a cigarette had to suffice.

With great effort, Lyra whirled her flaccid extremities forward, pulling herself up in a dragging, slothful manner — her body was spent, her mind had always been muddled to begin with.

Her bare feet swung off the cotton linen, landing on the carpet beneath her bed.

She sat there, for a moment: stabilising her form against her mattress.

In an annoying twist of fate, flashes from her dream shot through her vision. They were quick and distorted, the pavement below giving away to the image of feet two size smaller, stuffed into rundown brown shoes, dangling above the glimmering lights of the Undercity.

Forcing her eyes shut, Lyra gave a singular, resolute jud to her head.

Just like that, the lights were gone.

She proceeded out of bed.

Lyra shuffled along her floor, feet kicking at the variety of books and scattered papers littering the wooden boards and suffocating her desk. Stomping over the numerous sketches and calculations like she hadn't spent hours producing them, she made her way to the bathroom.

The sight that greeted her in the mirror when her lights flickered on, was a pitiful one. White curls were spiking in haphazard directions and she could already feel the pain her scalp would be put through when she'd attempt to brush out the knots that had formed due to her tossing. A set of brown eyes stared blankly at her, diligently accompanied with a pair of purple eye bags, that looked like they weren't going anywhere anytime soon. The white, oversized t-shirt with the small Academy logo, was hanging loosely off her arms, coated in a thin layer of sweat.

She looked sick.

Miserable and pathetic.

But then again, she supposed that was just in her nature.

Gathering the final crumbs of her energy, Lyra pulled the sink handle upwards. Cold water sprang out, and she leaned down to splash it on her face, moisturizing the layer of skin coating her skull.

When she returned to her bedroom, she went promptly for her front door.

It was left in the same condition it had been the evening before — locked.

Good.

She trodded over to her desk, tightroping in the singular moonbeam emanating from the window.

Thinking truly nothing and focusing on even less, Lyra slid the top drawer open and blindly dug her hand inside. Her fingers were used to the motion: they got to work and snuck under stacks of papers and notebooks, until they clasped a small, carton box.

She pulled it out, absently closing the drawer with her hip.

Then, she leaned forward, unlocking the clasp that kept her window shut.

Lyra snuck the box between her teeth, and, with a swiftness that would surprise an unaware bystander, hopped effortlessly on top of her desk. She stuck her bare feet out, into the nightly air, reaching for the gelid concrete that lined the side of the building.

And she hopped off, as if it didn't matter that she was nine stories above the ground, high above the depths of the bottom bellow.

Lyra shimmied along the makeshift passage, not looking down, or forward, or anywhere at all — not until she was satisfied with her position.

She plopped down, welcoming the cold of the stone beneath her; she flicked the lid of the carton box open and stuffed a dangly cigarette into her mouth.

Tucking her feet to her chest, Lyra lit her salvatory cancer stick. Before allowing the box to drop soundlessly into her lap and her eyes to draw forward.

And after all that work, and all that lengthy, practiced route, she sat there, and simply, silently watched.

She felt no rush or adrenaline now. Her heartbeat was steady, unaffected by heights.

Unbothered by the sights below, or the ones far ahead, or the many stars shimmering at her from the sky.

It all felt meaningless.

Pointless, almost.

It was funny, really: she sat atop the exact concrete tips she'd observed so fervently as a kid, the same buildings she'd craved to climb so desperately and ardently.

And yet, now, it didn't matter. Not really. Honestly, not at all.

It was dark outside, (nighttime, still), but a faint tint of blue had began lighting the rims of the horizon, alerting her that the Sun was starting its leisurely climb up the skyline.

Those were the only times Lyra ever indulged in this little habit of hers — during the earliest hours of the morning, when the Academy grounds stood soundlessly vacant, deserted, and vast in their grandeur.

After all, no Piltovian would ever be found scaling buildings.

It was a tell-tell sign of her nature, of her origins, and that was not something she ever could let on.

Not if she wanted to stay protected.

But it was early, and she needed this.

It was one craving that never truly went away.

So she sat, allowing the wind to slash at her skin, relishing in the bitter taste of burning tabacco, watching as the Sun rose with her mind blank, her gaze empty, her heartbeat steady.

Her eyes swept the territory, drawing the silhouette of the park, visible somewhere in the far distance, of the variously shaped rooftops and windows.

It wasn't until a few, stray rays started to peak out at her from the horizon, and she spotted a cleaner teetering along one of the sidewalks, that Lyra got up and decided to make her way back inside.

After that, she mechanically went through her motions. She changed into her uniform, tying her white cravat in front of a mirror with a stare just as blank as the one she'd given the rare sights outside. She fixed her rebellious curls up into a lazy bun, applied discoloured patches of makeup to conceal the purple bags under her eyes, and grabbed a handful of books. Then, swiping her keys off a drawer, she exhaled, brusquely unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway at once.

Lyra walked down the corridor, unaffected by the soft bustling of students who were starting to awaken. Instead, she focused on the clicking of her heels against the marble tiles, and tried to inwardly fight off her tiredness. It all felt as if she were moving in a sort of constricting bubble — floating, in a blurred, muffled state.

A way of existing that was a tad too familiar to her now, one she'd stopped fighting and embraced a long time ago.

Her daze was only fractionally chipped when she was about to round the corner.

"Ly!"

It was hard not to spot the tall boy jogging towards her: not when he was built like a Noxian fortress. His beaming smile was flashing her way and a wild hand was flailing in the air, desperate to catch her attention. He succeeded — in fact, she was almost amused by the scene.

He was a welcomed sight in her dreary morning.

But of course, he did not need to know that.

So she made damn well sure he saw the ostentatious and over-exaggerated roll her eyes gave into.

"Jayce." Lyra acknowledged, her tone unimpressed, yet eyes sparking with a hidden sort of mirth that she knew he'd discern.

He halted before her, chest rising lightly, grinning a mouthful of teeth down her way.

Jayce Talis was truly a sight to behold: tall, tanned, with broad muscular shoulders and a charming smile that could have launched a thousand ships in warfare.

A blessing to some — an annoyance to her most of the time.

Still, he was one of her increasingly few friends. So, she supposed, one had to make do where one had to.

The more she looked at him, though, the more she could tell that there was something different about him that day.

Her eyes narrowed, suspiciously.

It must've been the exhaustion, but she truly could not put a finger on what exactly stood out of the picture that was the older student.

Perhaps, he'd gotten a new jacket? Did he get a trim? Or was it the hair that... wait.

Her barely-there smile fell completely, and every sign of levity drained from her features.

That uncharacteristic innocence in his eyes.

He needed a favour.

She groaned and rounded her heels in the opposite direction pronto, hissing a rather displeased, rather cutting, and rather final, "No."

"I need—"

"No."

"I need your help."

"No."

"Please?"

"No!"

"Lyra." Jayce whined, and she shook her head in disbelief at his tone, very aware that he was all but scrambling after her in a hurry.

"Good morning, Lyra, how are you doing today, Lyra, I love your new cravat, Lyra, you look very sleep deprived again, Lyra. Why, thank you for noticing, Jayce!" The younger student glared up at the boy. "It's so nice of you to show concern for me, I am truly so lucky to have you!"

He fell in line with her rather easily and laboured to give her the most starry eyes he could muster. "Good morning, Lyra." Jayce crooned, a honeyed grin curling his lips.

She scoffed at the display, pushing down the amusement that suddenly threatened to ripple at the sight of his batting lashes. "So much for any sort of appreciation."

"You're my best friend, of course I appreciate you!"

"I'm your only friend."

"Thank you for that."

She could not resist rolling her eyes yet again.

"Would it kill you to have a friendly conversation with me once in a while?" Lyra asked, attempting to sound exasperated. But the smile that tugged annoyingly at her lips betrayed her shamelessly. A grovelling Jayce Tallis was always the best form of entertainment, and one she struggled not to enjoy.

A group of younger students rushed by them, feet clacking and slapping against the marble floors of the Academy hall. The torrent of bodies made the two debating friends mindlessly side-step into opposite directions, parting in order to avoid a collision.

Yet, even from all the way across the hall, Jayce did not fail to flash her one of his much too unimpeachable (and extremely irritating) beams, "We have friendly conversations all the time!"

"Right." Lyra's eyes slitted at him over the rim of the scurrying heads. "I've known you for seven years and I bet you your steroid induced biceps you don't even know what my favorite colour is."

"Steroid induced?!"

The flock had ceased their migration past them just in time for an aggrandised and comically wounded expression to contort Jayce's features. His jaw slacked in indignation, gaze flickering between her and his arms, while his face twisted rather completely. "That was low. How dare you."

All Lyra did was snort, before resuming her walk, unperturbed.

"No, I'm serious, I'm hurt." The boy snapped out of his theatrics in under five seconds once Lyra's attention diverted, darting after her without wasting a beat.

"Woe is me. How will I live with myself, knowing I've hurt your feelings."

"You're digging a deeper grave for yourself, I'm telling you. I'm inconsolable now." Jayce mused, earning himself a snicker from his companion. His feigned hurtful expression proceeded to melt into a smug one. "But! You could make it up to me."

"Please! Tell me how!"

"Well, about that favour..."

"What's my favorite colour?"

"Seriously, Ly?"

"Yes seriously, tell me what my favorite colour is and the favour's all yours, free of charge." She peeked at him from under raised brows.

"Uhm..."

"Go on then."

"...Grey?"

Lyra halted her steps abruptly, her head whipped towards him and frowned the lowest it could. "You're joking."

Jayce sighed, pausing his step, and brought a hand to his face to rub at his eyes in dismay. "I know, I know, I'm sorry, I'm a shit friend."

"You actually are."

"...I'm sorry?"

Lyra sighed in defeat.

They stood in the middle of the large central hallway, which had by then flooded with students; some rushing to get to their lectures, others mingling amongst themselves. A steady vibrancy had dawned on the space, not loud nor quiet, right enough for anyone to have their own private conversations in peace.

"Alright." she conceded, crossing her arms over her chest, with books still tucked under her armpit, "Fine. What do you want?" Lyra questioned, betrayed by an amused smile.

Overall, the boy was good company. And they had been friends too long for her to be able to deny him anything. The problem lay in the fact that he knew this, and shamelessly took full advantage of it: which was what irked her most.

As if to prove her point further, his apologetic expression washed off him, and his eyes lit up with the smearing of his ready, beaming smile. (It honestly made her consider whether he had ever been apologetic to begin with).

"Okay, okay, great, I need your help." Jayce mumbled, elated.

"Note the lack of surprise on my fac—"

"I think I've had a breakthrough."

This did catch Lyra's attention.

Her eyes widened a fraction, and she scanned his face with hidden, restrained curiosity, in an attempt to decipher something she already knew the answer to.

"Hextech?" She muttered, surprised, her voice measured and hushed.

Lyra was very aware of Jayce's little... hobby. This came not so much out of his own volition, as out of her own efforts and toils. Having been acquainted since the Kirammans first became his patrons, she was comfortable enough in their friendship to snoop around when he would not give her a straight answer himself.

The boy was anything but subtle at the worst of times — so, when he took up his innovative project, Lyra spotted that something was amiss from a mile off. He was unusually antsy and uncharacteristically wistful for those few weeks, and she took it upon herself to find out why exactly that was.

In truth, Jayce was an interrogator's dream.

All she had to do, was press on the one thing he cared about most: his ego. Feigning disinterest in his project was a piece of cake, and it was all rather smooth sailing from there on. She still occasionally chuckled at the memory of his face, the shade of a ripe tomato, as he angrily ventured to prove to her that his work was worth of her's and everyone's attention.

A lot of arm waving was involved. Truly, quite a knee-slapping memory.

When he came clean, they agreed that the project had to be kept on the down low. They were both familiar with the Piltovian sentiments regarding magic and did not wish to stir matters before they had proof Jayce's theory worked.

Luckily, Lyra was all about defying stereotypes.

And keeping secrets.

So, while she had her own research on her hands, she'd often assisted Jayce by proofreading and rewriting some calculations.

After all, she was renowned within the Academy's circles for her engineering skills.

Somehow, though, Lyra doubted that today her help was needed for checking a few decimals.

He nodded enthusiastically at her question, which only caused Lyra's eyes to slant further, her arms and annoyed facade dropping entirely. She blinked repeatedly, now entirely focused on his words, a detail he noticed and took as his cue to continue.

"I was up all night working on these calculations." He explained, reaching into his Academy jacket to pull out a few stray papers, that he shoved inelegantly her way. "And I think this time it might actually work!"

Hesitant, Lyra skimmed over the sketches and numbers. When she found no flaws, her eyes shot two sizes wider.

It shocked her how Jayce actually getting the math right was not the most astonishing thing on that sheet.

He actually did it — the calculations added up.

"I just need these parts." Jayce continued, gesturing vaguely at the scribbles on the page, patiently standing and waiting for Lyra to take in the new information, yet unable to truly contain his giddiness. But his face morphed a second later, replaced with something that was not quite nervousness, but sheepishness, that signature, charming smile still shimmering her way. "And... I was hoping, you could tell me where I could find them? Since you, you know... know your way around this stuff?"

Other than being known for her engineering skills, Lyra was also famous for being quite... resourceful, when it came to acquiring equipment.

Word had spread around after she showcased one of her projects a few years back. Some of the parts were nearly impossible to acquire, while still remaining very legal. They were a rarity, which only added to the awe of students and professors alike.

Since then, many had approached her seeking help.

While she did initially give a few indications to certain students, she had long stopped doing it — mainly, out of a fear that certain people would start asking questions she did not particularly want to answer.

Because, whilst she did buy her parts from hidden Piltovian shops, the only reason she knew of the places to begin with, was due to the knowledge she had acquired from her familial relations, a long time ago. Obviously, she could not risk prying people connecting certain dots — so, she decided to promptly and discontinue her services for good.

Still, her ingenuity in terms of material remained a hot topic amongst many in the Academy. Which is why Jayce's request did not come as a particular surprise.

One of Lyra's eyebrows rose in amusement, "Am I your dealer now?"

He chuckled, "Something like that."

She hummed, smiling humorously in response, as her eyes returned to examining the calculations in her hand. Thoughtful and focused, she studied the sketches of the parts the boy required, circled and categorised on the far right of the paper.

Lyra pressed her lips into a thin line. As much as it physically pained her to admit it, Jayce was right.

She did know where to get that sort of equipment.

The only problem lay in the fact that they weren't going to be easy to acquire...

"Please, Lyra?"

Jayce's voice pulled her attention to him. There, where she was presented with his sincerely pleading eyes, as well as his visible struggle to restrain his excitement.

"This could be it." He prompted, hopefully.

She couldn't say no to him.

She wholeheartedly wished she could, but she could not.

Sighing, Lyra reached and grabbed the pencil jammed between the pages of one of her books.

She shuffled the lone paper onto her palm, careful not to tear it under the pressure of the sharp tip; and she scribbled a few words on the bottom corner, at which Jayce's smile spread impossibly wider.

"This is the place you need." Lyra announced finally. "Owner's name's Benzo. It's a small shop, and it won't come cheap, but if anyone has the parts, it's him."

Jayce's eyebrows drew together in confusion, busying himself with observing the map Lyra had sketched out for him. "Ly, I'm not trying to undermine your art skills here... But where exactly is this? See, it's unclear, you've got this shape and— what even is that, that just looks like a misshapen blo—"

"It's not in Piltover, Jayce."

His agape expression propelled to her quicker than she had the time to blink. "The Undercity?" Jayce hissed, incredulously.

"Shout louder, don't think the people in Noxus heard you quite well."

Jayce did not seem to pick up on the younger student's attempt at humour, his eyes still wide in a way that made him look like a very startled animal.

"You're kidding." He growled, making her raise a quizzical eyebrow.

"While I do have a great sense of humour—"

"Lyra, the Undercity? Really?"

It was his tone.

Those twinges of fear wedged between each syllable, dulled and diluted entirely by blind anger — the classic Piltovian reaction to the mention of her place of origin, one which she was definitely plenty used to from everyone now.

Not from Jayce, though: and it struck a particularly strung up cord.

Perhaps she had just been tired, or maybe it had been Jayce after all — but something inside her shifted then; stirring an old, forgotten and wildly irritating feeling of something that wasn't really fury, more like defensive distaste.

It made her scoff in a way that dangerously resembled snide, "What, it's not your preferred date spot?" Lyra huffed before she could catch herself.

She bit her tongue straight after.

Shit.

No.

Calm down.

She couldn't allow herself to display such hostility whenever the Undercity's reputation came into question.

Not that she ever did, otherwise her cover would have been blown years ago.

But for whatever reason, Jayce's opinion seemed to matter. Maybe because he was one of her only friends Topside, if not the sole one anywhere.

The universe had smiled upon her that day, though, because Jayce did not seem to pick up on the bitter notes in her voice. He was too busy burning holes in the sheet clutched between his fingers, stuck at an impasse with himself.

"This is so risky... how do you even know if the parts are there?"

"He'll have them." Lyra made sure her tone sounded more levelled when she replied, but was unable to rid it completely of its tense edge. Still, it came out sounding more like she was resolute in her council rather than ticked off. "Half of these parts are illegal or require special permits, and unless you want to get real honest with Grayson, I don't think you're in the position to be picky."

"Okay, but—"

"This is your best bet, Jayce."

Jayce's lips pressed into a thin line. A frown crumpled the skin astride his brows, and his eyes flickered back and forth between his work and his boots.

Lyra could see the conflict in him: one side of him wanting to pursue his dream, while the other debating the inevitable legal intricacies of it all.

Eventually, he sighed in resignation and mumbled a rather dejected, "Alright."

His expression made her demeanour soften.

The annoyance from earlier melted and trickled off entirely, and so did the stony look perpetually imprinted into her features.

The sight of his distress tugged at her heart.

After all, as a scientist herself, how could she not sympathise with the common moral dilemma of risk-taking?

Lyra's countenance twitched, thoughtfully. Before she grumbled a feeble, begrudging and wholly defeated, "Get changed first."

She rolled her eyes when confusion shifted over his features, "Otherwise you might as well stick a 'please, rob me' sign on your forehead." The younger student explained. "I'll cover for you at the lectures."

A flash shot through Jayce's eyes.

One that resembled the hope and wonderment you'd expect from a five-year-old child: his grin widened beyond comprehension and elatedness stretched its way across his face. "Awh, Lyyy!"

Lyra huffed an annoyed breath under her nose. "I'll just say you got a cold or something."

At that point, Jayce's smile could be described as nothing less than shit-eating, to the point that Lyra wondered for a second how it didn't hew the tissue of his cheeks.

"Marry me." He squeaked.

Lyra grimaced, but despite her better wishes, a humorous smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You're gonna make me change my mind."

With that, she spun on her heels and started making her way down the hall yet again, leaving her giddy school-girl of a friend behind.

In all their chatting, she had become aware of the decreasing amount of students surrounding them, alerting her that time truly never did wait for anyone and classes were about to commence.

"Thank you!" Jayce's skittishly gleeful voice called after her, "I'll see you at dinner?"

Lyra whirled on herself then, but didn't quite pause her walking away, speaking with fake reprehension that was betrayed by her grin. "Yeah, you owe me, so it's on you!"

"Wouldn't have it any other way. Thanks, Ly, seriously! See you later!"

She shook her head at his retreating form. "Whatever, steroids."

And with a grace that was singular to Jayce Talis and Jayce Talis alone, he offered his gratitude to Lyra in the manner only a gentleman ever would: he threw a pointed middle finger in her direction.

It made her laugh.

She stuck her own out at him in response, and watched as he disappeared behind the corner on the opposite side of the hall, bringing his lewd gesture along with him.

Chuckling to herself and shaking her head at her friend's antics, Lyra spun back forward, rounding the twist that led to her lecture.

Jayce's enthusiasm did not fail to lighten her spirits at the worst of times.

So Lyra smiled happily, finally getting the feeling that, after all that morning hassle, her day was taking a turn for the better. She'd attend her classes, see Jayce for supper, then maybe coax a chess game out of him, if she was lucky.

Overall, it was bound to be a rather ordinary, rather mundane, but still an impeccably and brilliantly nice da—

Smash.

An overwhelming buzzing flashed in her scalp.

A skull-splitting headache shot through her temples.

She only vaguely registered the sound of papers and books dropping to the floor.

Fuck.

That fucking hurt.

If it wasn't for the low "Oof." she heard somewhere above, she would've thought she walked into a solid column.

A discombobulated Lyra stumbled slightly back, blinking in an attempt to calm her now positively throbbing head. Her free hand flew to her forehead in a futile attempt to control the aching, and she mumbled, or rather hissed a categorically displeased and pained, "Ouch..."

The repercussions of her lack of sleep washed over her like a tide wave, and her limbs suddenly felt heavier.

Her eyes opened, but the floor looked blurred and fuzzy, and she stood swaying on her feet for a short second, before her surroundings came back into view.

Immediately, she dropped to the ground — chucking her own books aside and bouncing to hastily collect the stranger's dropped belongings.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry. I honestly didn't see you, I was distracted. I'm really sorry, truly, are you alr—" as her gaze slowly rose, her words died in her throat.

Her attention hauled concretely into a pair of tailored Academy shoes.

Slick and shining, smart shoes, well taken care of just as her own pair was.

Meticulously cleaned for hours out of the burning reminder of never owning anything as nice during her childhood.

It wasn't the shoes that had caught her attention.

Rather, it was the bottom of a cane that rested by them.

A very high-quality cane, which she knew not because of any specific knowledge of canes, but rather due to the intricate Piltovian engravings decorating the white ivory.

Canes were not a common sight in Piltover. They were a fashion statement in the more elite circles, but even her moronic classmates wouldn't be so abrasively posh as to bring one to class.

Still, canes were definitely a thing around the city.

Lyra knew that.

She knew that very well.

But even then, a familiar pinch of dread shot through her stomach. It was irrational in nature, but she consistently got one whenever she heard even the slightest tapping of a cane in the distance.

The sound brought up too many memories that she did not particularly care to revisit.

She couldn't help herself now: she stared, gawked and gaped at the harmless object, her hands having long forgotten their hasty attempts to restore order in the stranger's fallen items.

Her mind was raging with thoughts too fast for her to comprehend.

Fully oblivious to her own silence or her manners, Lyra stayed hunched and splayed over the floor, ogling the cane with entranced, agape eyes.

Stop that.

Don't be stupid.

This is all because of your dream this morning.

Don't be an idiot.

It's not him.

We've been through this many times.

It is just a goddam cane.

It's not him.

It can't be.

It could never be—

"Should you not be in class?"

It's a funny feeling when the world crashed around you.

It feels a lot like a nasty fever.

First, your heart-rate shoots up.

Then, the cold sweats follow.

And suddenly all you want to do is either curl up in a compact ball and die, or —in this specific case— hurl everything you've ever eaten onto the marble floor.

Those five words.

Five simple words — they sent the reality she had meticulously crafted for herself over the years into the gutter in the span of one second.

Her head snapped upwards so fast that a vertebrae in her neck cracked.

But she barely even registered it, instead catapulting her eyes into those of the stranger she'd bumped into.

Her throat seized up, strangling a pathetic whimper.

Everything stopped.

It wasn't the cane.

It had been a familiar sight, sure, but she'd only focused on it for so long as an annoying habit.

His accent was also something she could've let slide. Loads of people had an accent, it wasn't uncommon in a place like the Academy.

But those eyes.

Those deep amber eyes.

She knew those eyes.

Her mouth went completely dry.

Her stomach twisted, and her abdomen spasmed.

Her head began to spin and she physically felt herself paling.

All she could think was how thankful she was to be already on the floor, because she suddenly felt her legs begin to shake uncontrollably.

The command to cower and flee immediately was all her brain was screaming at her to do, but she could not have moved if her life depended on it.

And it did.

He stood tall, the lights casting shadows over his angular features, wrapping around his slender form and countenance. Only his eyes seemed to shine through from inside the darkness, pulsating with a whiskey-coloured glow.

No...

It can't be...

He gave her an expectant look that prompted her to reply.

But Lyra was currently wrestling with consciousness, the bile in her throat, and the sweat on her palms.

"U-Uhm..." she spluttered, and was surprised to hear the uncharacteristic, pathetic tremor in her voice.

She couldn't speak.

Her mind was reeling, her vision whirling.

He cocked an eyebrow down at her.

"I doubt your patrons invest in you for you to childishly trot about Academy halls." He spoke, eyeing her with distate.

Wait.

With distaste?

What?

That was when his venomous tone registered in her mind. As well as his glare and his steely expression, that almost seemed as if they meant to incinerate her where she sat.

Lyra's shock morphed into surprise, "Excuse me?" Her voice felt alien to her own ears, breathless and soft.

She watched as his eyes flickered momentarily sideways, to where Jayce had disappeared.

Huh?

Had he seen him?

Surely—

"Frivolously fraternising with students will not get you far in this line of work."

That snidely look.

What the actual fuck?!

The weight of his accusatory assumptions finally sank in, and Lyra's own brown eyes turned three shades darker.

"Excuse me?" She growled, eyebrows furrowed to the extreme.

Gripping the papers she had collected for him, Lyra snatched her books off the floor and shot to her feet, legs pumped by the overwhelming adrenaline she was feeling.

She shouldn't have overreacted.

This was not a big deal.

She should have kept it cool.

But damn it, her whole body felt on fire.

All instincts and impulses were screeching at her to go go go, fucking scramble and run, her heart was about to burst into bloody shambles.

So when his eyes bore into hers with that patronising stare, all the old anger that she'd worked so hard to bury rushed back and out.

Lyra was no longer fazed by the amber swirling within his eyes, or his new height, or those brown locks of hair that had remained unchanged since she last saw him all those years ago.

Instead, she got up in his face, and seethed hatefully with every ounce of strength left in her miserable being, "And being a condescending dickhead will not get you far in yours."

His eyes widened in furious bewilderment.

But he had very little time to contemplate her words or tone: because Lyra roughly shoved his papers into his chest, making him momentarily stagger back.

"Good day!" She all but barked, swerved past him and stormed down the hall without glancing back once.

||

One down :) many more to go.

[edited]