Viktor hated the end of Snowdown.
It was cold, the days ended far too quickly. Of course, it never snowed in Zaun, the chemical wasteland it was, and whatever small smidgen of childish wonder he might have had died a long time ago in a college dormitory.
Blitzcrank had been stolen around this time. Any hope for the future had been extinguished that day, and Viktor could still remember the emptiness that clawed at his insides. There was ice in his chest. He had had no motivation to light a candle, to even throw a blanket over himself - and he had been so cold.
He busied himself immediately, not wishing to relive the worst moments of his life. He found himself making adjustments and enhancements to his third arm. Maybe he would add another rotor, expanding the movement capacity. Or perhaps extend the stem to lengthen its range? There was always strengthening the foundation to bolster the stability of -
Viktor clenched his fists, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet. He couldn't force himself to work tonight. He was...
He was cold. And tired.
With a scowl, he stepped away from his work bench. His feet carried him to one of the few windows in his home and with curiosity getting the best of him, he looked outside.
Although there was no snow - there was never snow, he chided himself - children ran through the gravelly streets, chasing after one another. Viktor could hear their laughs from inside, and suddenly, an old memory tore at his chest. One where he had been happy, laughing when Blitzcrank had tried to repeat a sentence of his and ended up combining words together, not too different than a two-year-old mimicking a parent.
He ran a hand over his face, banishing the memory. He wasn't supposed to feel things anymore. He was a machine; he had no heart. The naive, hopeful spirit was gone. That Viktor was dead. He was the Machine Herald now, the progenitor of a new way of living. He would bring immortality to the common, he would beat death. He would better the world through techmaturgy -
He began to laugh. In spite of the world, of fate. Of himself.
Viktor wasn't dead. He still had the same goal: to better humanity. It was twisted and it was unorthodox - but nothing had changed. The ends justified the means. Viktor wasn't dead, so when was he going to stop lying to himself?
He was cold. But metal was supposed to be cold.
He settled on making himself sweetmilk. It always seemed to make him feel better. He mixed a blend of dark powder and Dunpor cream in a saucepan, amber eyes unfocused on his task.
He had learned the recipe from his mother, and he could remember her pouring the warm liquid into the mug clutched in his small hands. (It had been a cold night and the warmth died from his fingers after finishing the drink far too quickly.) He had made it for the boy who stumbled upon his home, weary and afraid of the rumors about him, but still willing to talk with him despite their odd circumstances of meeting.
By the time he was absentmindedly sipping at his drink, he recalled sharing a cup with his professor. They had been discussing possible upgrades to Blitzcrank, future plans for the steam golem, and -
Viktor had been naive.
He placed the mug into the sink, flavorful taste dying on his tongue.
He found himself walking back to his work bench. He had no desire to work tonight, but there was nothing left for him besides this. Besides his work. Besides the Glorious Evolution.
On one of the hallway doors he passed was a calendar, barely held on by its blue thumbtack. It stuck out like a sore thumb among the technology adorning the rest of the house, but he had no intentions of changing it. Its edges were fraying and it was from quite a few years ago.
It was the same calendar that Blitzcrank had put up for him, back in his dorm room. The steam golem must have asked somebody for help, as there was writing in some of the boxes for the days. The current month had the most writing on it, from Snowdown to New Year to...
Oh. Today was his birthday.
He sat down at his work bench.
He was cold.