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Chapter 29
One Small Favor
Slowly, his eyelids open, letting in a blurry light. A few blinks, and his vision readjusts to see a bright, luminescent crystal hanging on the ceiling above. With a calm level of alertness, Ephrial sits upright on a large couch, and takes a look around unfamiliar surroundings. Fine wood and ornate wallpaper decorate the walls in warm colors. A teak desk sits in the corner, cluttered with books and unfinished devices subject to tinkering. The floor is lain with a lavish carpet of crimson, sewn with a decorative insignia of a sigil of magic and a large cog, signifying the union of magic and technology as one.
"You're finally awake," a strong, yet somehow soft voice calls over.
The mercenary-knight turns his head, and sees Riven sitting next to a lit fireplace.
Ephrial smirks, bringing his hand to his forehead to brush off the weariness. "Took a little nap, did I? Apologies…" offering no excuse, hoping to keep off the subject that would perhaps be best unknown to her for the time being.
"You've been asleep for sixteen hours."
"Huh…I see. I suppose it was much more than a 'little' nap. Thank you for bringing me here."
The Exile turns her gaze back to the fire, seemingly ignoring the notion of gratitude.
"…Where is 'here', exactly?"
Riven stands up, hoisting her blade with her. "We're in the Academy of Science and Progress. I have already explained everything to Heimerdinger."
"I see. Then he's bound to have made some progress already."
"I'm not so sure."
"Why is that…? Is it because we're not exactly trustworthy, with Noxus being affiliated with Zaun's activities?" bringing up a growing rivalry.
"He didn't say much. Only that we should see him once you've awakened."
"Well, let's not keep the Revered Inventor waiting."
The two exit the room, stepping into the large halls of the esteemed academy. Large paintings of history's most notable and accomplished inventors and scientists decorate the walls. Yordles hold a strong presence, roaming the ornate carpets with the robes and posture of educated scholars. One might confuse this place with a museum at first glance, considering the numerous cased displays and plaques of inventions set amidst a silent, contemplative ambience.
"They sure went all-out on this place," Ephrial takes in his surroundings.
"Ah, you must be the guests I was told about. Welcome, welcome!" a voice approaches from behind.
The swordsmen turn to see a yordle looking up at them. With his fur neatly groomed, hair parted, and a tiny blue suit embroidered with the establishment's emblem, he stands with a lively dignity. The lenses of his spectacles hover in front of his eyes, being held in place by the Hextech involved with the frames without even touching them.
"Who might you be?" the mercenary-knight asks.
"Oh, forgive me. Just where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself! I am Kip von Minstrelburg, at your service," giving a formal bow. "I am in charge of managing much of Mister Heimerdinger's organized and personal matters."
"Heimerdinger's secretary, huh?"
"I'm an associate," adjusting his glasses with a straight-faced glare.
"Can you take us to him?" Riven asks plainly.
"I have been sent to do exactly that, yes. Though, I must say it is rather…peculiar to get visitors of such…stature," eyes running along the edge of a broken blade bigger than his body. "Even for him. You two must have some urgent business if he has cancelled so many appointments. Right then! Come, follow me!"
Kip takes the lead, walking ahead of them in the hall. Tiny whispers and murmuring can be heard, passing through the lips of onlooking passersby. The walls open to a large section connecting several others in a grand fashion of intricate design. An enormous hologram is mounted on a large inclination, surrounded by the spiraling banisters of a twin staircase leading to the same place. The transparent, blue light displays the globe surrounded by several cogs rotating around it, sigils of the arcane arts etched along the rims. A banner, using the same optic display, revolves in a circle above the planet, reading: "THE DREAMS OF TODAY ARE THE KEYS TO TOMORROW."
"Heimerdinger has made some quite…curious friends, to say the least. While some have aspired to pick his brain for some technological insight, I must say…you two do not strike me as the 'seeker of knowledge' types."
"As a matter of fact, that's exactly why we're here. Tell me, as someone who is closely involved with much of Heimerdinger's affairs, have you come across anything that stands out? Perhaps something in the realm of…mind control?" Ephrial begins conducting his investigation.
"Well, I would be hard-pressed to imagine the Inventor being involved with anything less than anomalous. However, even I find such subjects as neurological manipulation a little out of place from my employer's work. Exactly what sort of visitation is this, pray tell?"
"It's League business," Riven says stiffly, keeping the inquiries in one direction.
"Ah, yes. Yes, of course. Apologies if I have forgotten my place. Perhaps, I too, may find myself privy to the wonders kept within the League's circle one day."
"Forgive us if we appear to be slightly uptight. It has been quite a rough journey just to get this far. Thank you for your hospitality, including the touch-ups," Ephrial examines the miniature bandages that wrap his arm, wondering how many tiny rolls were required.
"You are most welcome, though, I must apologize that we could not do more. We would have taken you to our facility that is far more suited for physical examination, however, your partner was rather adamantly…insistent that you remained within her sight at all times."
"Is that so?" a glance over to his side.
Riven remains silent, as if purposely ignoring the conversation entirely.
"While we very well possess the capacity to treat humans, I'm afraid that not all of our rooms are spacious enough to accommodate more than one. Especially alongside a team of yordle specialists with some very delicate, and very expensive, equipment present."
"I am grateful all the same."
The group ascends one of the winding staircases that curls around the gargantuan hologram of Runeterra. Each step is wide, and divided into strips where two of them are yordle-sized, running alongside those large enough to accommodate humans without tripping them. The knightly mercenary absorbs the environment, viewing the level of detail and articulation with admiration and perspective analysis. It's a sight with a staggering amount of effort put into every stone and crystal. Such precision of measurement and planning could have only taken place with the most advanced of tools and technology, like that of the League itself. However, unlike the Institute, born almost entirely out of magic, the very union of magic and metal can be seen visibly in every square foot of this place. The collective minds of two brands of genius have put the common ground that connects them together into an artwork of unlimited potential and possibilities.
Ephrial's eyes narrow in thought, wondering just what creations have yet to take form. Though currently in a very limited variety, he has had run-ins with some articles of destruction born of Hextech. A few sidearms here and there on his adventures, and the more leading-edge designs of the revolver and gunblade in the League, have stirred thoughts in the mercenary's mind. Just what breakthroughs and advancements lie ahead? What conflict and wars will result from them? As intelligent as all those behind the revolutionary brand of engineering are, it doesn't take a genius to know that there will always be those that would use it for conquest. The Crystal Scour is but one example in a future filled with many to come.
The party summits the top of the stairs and begins moving down a short hallway, toward two large doors without doorknobs or handles. Rather, they are made of negatron-infused metal, with a glossy finish.
"Here we are," their guide announces their destination. "Before we enter, I must caution you to mind any wandering hands. There is much within these walls that remains unstable, or for the sake of straightforwardness, volatile."
The walking ball of well-tailored fur reaches into his coat pocket, and pulls out a slim slab of glowing crystal. He inserts the green keycard into a slot on the terminal, attached to the door at yordle-height. With a small humming and whirring, the doors come to life. Lines of red appear all over the door, running along at sharp angles like that of active circuitry. Accepting the security verification, they turn green, and the doors part open with a swift swishing sound.
Proceeding forward down a dark tunnel, lit only by a mixture of crystals and wires that run along transparent walls, they come across another barrier. Kip approaches a second terminal, craning his head forward. The machine turns active, and a lens reveals itself with the sliding of a panel. A grid of lasers emits from it, scanning the yordle's eye in a brief two seconds. With the same friendly response as the previous set of blast doors, the passage opens.
Riven and Ephrial glance at each other, each thinking the same thing. With such high level of security, there must be something worth guarding under close wraps within. Perhaps the only place more protected than this is the League's Vault. Firm, yet wary steps follow the associate of the Academy inward.
The room is very well lit with a network of hextech fluorescent lights above. Workbenches, tables, and sections of the floor lie littered with nuts and bolts. Odd devices and unfinished machinery create an environment where the wanderers feel as if they are literally walking into the future.
They approach a sound of zapping, and from around the corner of a large chalkboard covered in various equations, they begin seeing sparks skip across the ground. With a few more steps, the Revered Inventor comes into view, armed with a welder's mask and blowtorch. Raw machinery hangs on chains and pulleys in front of him, far too early in its development to be discernable as to what it may be.
"Many pardons, sir, but your esteemed guests have arrived!" Kip announces their presence.
"Yes, yes, very good. Thank you, Kip. Your services are appreciated," the technological genius says in his consistently fast-paced enthusiasm.
"Thank you, Master Heimerdinger. It is an honor—"
"That will be all. You are dismissed now, Kip," removing the mask and putting down the torch.
"…Y-yes, of course."
Cerulean eyes watch as the associate withdraws inward, and silently strides out of the grease-ridden workshop.
"Have you made any progress?" an eager Riven asks.
"Progress is a relative term, to define moving forward in a given circumstance. No, I would think it would be more appropriate to say we have only moved sideways."
"Sideways?" Ephrial's curiosity piques.
The inventor moves toward a yordle-high workbench, covered in diagrams and pieces of machinery-to-be. A space has been cleared, where a large set of magnifying lenses hang poised above the recovered chip brought to him by his Noxian visitors.
"I am afraid so. Indeed, I would say your hypothesis regarding this to be of Zaun origin to be somewhat reasonable. I have made calls to many of my fellow colleagues, and none of them have claimed to be involved with any neurological experiments that would enable cognitive apprehension of the conscious mind. Whomever is behind this device is years ahead of us in 'hexpertise'. It is quite befuddling! Befuddling indeed!"
"I see…" the mercenary-knight crosses his arms in thought.
"Has any news of the Institute reached Piltover?" Riven asks.
"Other than what you have explained to me, there have only been reports of malfunction and maintenance that has caused the League to cease operations for an undisclosed amount of time."
"Would I be correct in assuming you did not believe these reports?" Ephrial speaks again.
"Would oxygen and potassium be 'OK' together? Of course I knew it was false! The Institute performs regular maintenance, normally on Tuesdays, with a roughly consistent schedule. A malfunction of this magnitude is absolutely out of the question. Your presence here merely confirms my suspicions."
"Is there any way you can help us?"
"Hmm…" Heimerdinger contemplates a string of thought. "To aid you in a direct way would be impossible for me at the moment. As time will no doubt produce changes in circumstance as the situation develops, it would be best if I remain here to prepare for the worst-case scenario. However, there is a way you can help me provide you with some degree of assistance."
"What can we do?" Riven inquires, with a small degree of wariness.
"I have discovered something curious in the device you have brought to me. Upon closely scrutinizing the output diode, I have discovered that it is locked in place with a diminutive form of magnetic helix screws," inviting the two over to peer through the stack of magnifying glasses. "It is fortunate that they did not rupture, otherwise the contents inside would be lost beyond recognition."
Ephrial turns back to the inventor. "What exactly are you trying to say?"
"The only reason anyone would bother using such a brand of binding is if they did not want the insides to be discovered. Such devices must be removed by a specific tool to pull and hold the pin embedded inside the screw to keep it from detonating into shrapnel."
"I see. So inside might lie a clue as to who manufactured such a piece of hextech?"
"Precisely. Regrettably, I lack the proper equipment to disarm such a sensitive security measure."
"You want us to go get you one of these screwdrivers?" the Exile puts together.
"Correct. The task should be simple enough. I have placed an order for tool replacements two weeks ago, and they have not come in yet. With all the current events happening in Piltover, it would be a reasonable hypothesis that the delivery center has suffered some distress. If I may ask you the favor of retrieving my order personally, I would be able to produce some results for you in turn."
"Sounds fair enough. Where do we find this parcel service?" the mercenary-knight accepts the proposal.
"Hold on. Why can't you get this package yourself?" a distrusting Riven questions, having reservations of being sent out to do blind deeds.
"Much of the city has been locked down due to an uprising of rather explosive events these past days. The authorities have been investigating the source of the occurrences, believing them to be attacks. However, not even the slightest trace of evidence exists. The extremely careful precision of such events has Piltover's security taking acute measures in containing this stream of assaults. Therefore, I believe those with experience in running rogue, such as yourselves, would be more fitting for the task."
"I see. We're just expendable pawns in this turn of 'scratching backs'."
"I don't believe it is that simple, Riven."
The Exile turns to her partner, curious as at the lack of concern in his voice.
"A workshop can't run correctly without the proper tools. No self-respecting craftsman of Piltover, much less one with title of 'Revered Inventor', would tolerate such a long delay of an important shipment. Someone who has experienced, and at times, dominated the chaos of the Rift, would hardly see any of this terrorism in Piltover as an obstacle. Nothing can stand in the way of progress, after all," the perceiving gaze of oceanic blue stares through the heavy tint of Heimerdinger's goggles. "Then again, there's only so much one can do when they are being watched…isn't that right?"
"Your conjectures are startlingly accurate. Yes, indeed I believe myself to be under surveillance of some nature. My workshop is the only place I can guarantee confidentiality."
"How long has this been going on?"
"My first suspicions were invoked approximately two months ago."
"Around the same time you hired Kip?"
"Correct yet again. I hired young Kip von Minstrelburg in order to conduct affairs that would otherwise require my personal presence. He has been an invaluable asset."
"Yet, you do not trust him. You would rather trust two Noxians that dropped on your doorstep."
"If you were in my shoes, who would you trust? Those that prize knowledge and technological advancement, or those that would sooner destroy both to protect very lives affected by it?"
With that, the swordsmen exchange quick glances and depart with a nod to their fellow League champion. Following their steps back, the partners walk to the exit, surrounded by mechanic marvels of odd shapes and various sizes. Ephrial takes one final look around, wondering what a genius would spend his time building during his own lockdown. They pass through the automatic blast doors, and begin heading down the spiraling staircase.
"…H-how…how do you do that?" Riven asks while keeping her eyes on the steps before them.
"How do I do what?" Ephrial responds, keeping his eyes peeled for spying eyes.
"How can you decipher so much of someone, including their intentions, in such a short time? …You already knew that was the question, didn't you?"
"Well, it's more important to hear people speak rather than always blatantly tell them what they're thinking. As for how I do it, it just comes with experience, I suppose. When you don't really have a voice in the world, it becomes a lot easier to hear others'. Even moreso, it becomes easier to hear their silence."
Though a direct response given in a cryptic fashion, Riven understands. She cannot comprehend the trials he has endured as a Noxian-Ionian living in the city-state that rejected him, as her feats were never suppressed like his. A tense confliction forms in her stomach, like a mixture of admiration and guilt. She is further unsettled by the thought what he has discerned of her, and what he has not revealed of it.
"If you don't mind, I have a question of my own to ask you," Ephrial interrupts the brief quietness.
"What is it?" she asks, hiding any trace of concern behind her stoic visage.
The mercenary-knight turns his head toward her, flashing the slightest of grins. "How much of a fight did you have to put up to keep me from becoming their guinea pig for new medical inventions?"
Riven immediately turns her head away, averting the soul-piercing gaze. "It didn't take much." A thick gauntlet squeezes the grip of her sword just a bit. Continuing to stare off to the side, "Maybe I'm asking this too late, but…are you okay?"
"I am, thanks to you. Things could have been drastically different if I were left unconscious for sixteen hours somewhere outside of the city. So…thank you."
The Exile stirs inside, having asked the very question that it had first started with. To be thanked yet again, especially so shortly after her run-in with Cecilia, further brews the mixture of emotions that have been kept inside her for so long. It's been years since she felt someone depend on her…that she is even the type of person someone can depend on. Not since her days in Noxus' army has Riven traveled with anyone but her own shadow.
Before she can muster an unexperienced attempt at a "you're welcome," a grumbling sound interrupts.
"Heh…I suppose it wouldn't hurt our investigation if we took a short stop to resupply ourselves," Ephrial raises a hand to his stomach, brushing off the slight embarrassment.
The ex-soldier quickly takes a peek in the pouch on her person, finding only disappointment that her own rations have run dry. She takes a guilty glance at the man next to her, seeing no trace of displeasure, nor a hint of vexation at her cold disposition since he woke up. She is reminded of her own promise to be easier to work with. Chagrin lets out in the form of a small sigh, finding it difficult to let down an isolating barrier set like steel within herself. Yet, she can only surmise that the very keen perception she witnessed is the same reason he pays her abrasiveness no mind.
Meanwhile, heavy thoughts run through Ephrial's head as well. With an arrangement made in hopes of some answers, he marches forward, contemplating what lies ahead. News of seemingly random destruction in Piltover, and Heimerdinger's paranoia, have only raised more questions. The City of Progress has always been one large, well-oiled machine. Business and politics are in constant motion; the citizens each serving as a piece in a collective function toward the future. Having a unique relationship with destiny, the Blazing Swordsman resolves himself against what twists and turns that await him.
The cogs of Piltover and Fate align, and time is the only thing that can tell which direction they will turn.