The Empires were built with blood and funded by swords. Zaun had been built with sweat, the labor eased by the greasing of palms. But all cities end the same. Humans and machines and all the products of their labor are just dust, organized. When organization failed, ashes.

These were Janna's thoughts when she finally found shelter. Her flight in the undercity could only end in one place. All roads lead to the scrapyard. She had scraped her skin on busted girders moving through the condemned areas, but when her feet found pipes, she knew she was near the foundries.

Then she saw the haze again, what she associated with sky. Fresher air fed her lungs. She needed that. The footsteps and their guns were still behind her. That was when the morbid thoughts reached her. The perfect hiding place presented itself. A malfunctioning golem had fallen in the OreZaun recycling yard. Most of its electronics suite had already been salvaged by a metal brother, allowing Janna room to crawl into its cauldron-like chest and hide from her pursuers. The inspiration struck as she saw her arm pressed against the hull inside. She bled the color of rust.

"Fucking kid could be anywhere!"

Demacian word and accent. The hollow voice of the masked leader.

"Fan out! Dekka, cover that exit. Mjoller, send out the drone."

Ironspike and Freljordian names.

The voices and necessity battled to control her breathing. She could hear their machine whirring to life and flying over the scraps in search of flesh. She should have recognized the colors of their uniforms. These men were Bloodthirsters, mercenaries, nobodies from the nowheres of everywhere. They did anything for anyone, because you can't disinvite outsiders from society.

A boot crunched against the accumulated rust of the ground near her. A rifle muzzle poked the hole she'd crawled in through. Janna clamped her lungs, waiting, hoping. Then the sound of a ping, like a stone dropped against the golem's chest, and the sounds of panic.

"Was that-?"

"Fuck! Rain! Find cover! Call back the drone!"

"What about the-"

"That's her problem! Get cover!"

And then the sound of showers. Boots turned and ran for steel and concrete roofs, anything to stop Zaun's relentless acid rain. On that day, time had favored them less than Janna. And that was all she had to be thankful for.

The showers turned to steam, and long after they ceased, the hissing of nature at man continued, ending abruptly when the golem's head fell from its shoulders. Janna coughed rust. But at least she had something to look up through. Daylight was burning the last of its strength, and the rain had burned a hole in the haze. What she saw beyond that haze always confused her. Another ocean, like looking down. But this one was white and bumpy. Jenna had told her it was called a cloud, and that it was covering something pretty.

"Frak the cloud," she'd said.

Today, she was speechless. She hadn't expected to ever see it again. Worming her way out of the golem without adrenaline was a slower, more delicate process than the entry. She avoided skin contact with what she could, but she knew she would need new clothing. Her overalls were unfit for duty tomorrow now that the logo was burned through. A new pair cost a day's wage.

She couldn't afford to cry. Showers came in pairs, and time was her scarcest resource. She ran again, back into girders and sweat and the stench of a more biological recycling. Her dinner was the one slice of bread she had fit into a pocket, and she slept with it half-chewed in her mouth, lulled into a dreamless rest by the sound of a guitar, the tune she'd heard that morning, and the voice of a stranger, far below her, in the bottom of the undercity.

"Once I built a railroad,

Made it run,

Made it race against time.

Once I built a railroad.

Now it's done.

Brother, can you spare some time."

The 6:30 regular woke her again. The bread in her mouth had fallen to the ground below, but a whole loaf lay at her feet, a red bow tied around it. She did not consider the implications until she was full. A red ribbon, lacking the symbol- but not symbolism- of the People's State of Piltover. And on it, a small card folded over the message: "To each, according to their needs."