Janna had heard and believed stories about ancient Valoran. The young world was a poor mother, and its children compelled each other with violence. Slaves hobbled in orderly rows of crops. Soldiers marched in orderly rows of force. Dissidents felt orderly strokes upon their backs. The story ended long in the past, when slavery was abolished. So when Janna finished her meal and surfaced to a new day in Zaun, she sought an orderly job in an orderly society. She still believed the story, but the ribbon from Piltover was now tied into her hair and her thoughts.

The sentiment was not well received at the Architech staging yard. But she still had friends among coworkers. The workers' morale had covered not the hole where their lives should be, but a flaming pit of rage against what they knew, but could not prove, was a fixed game. A sea of tall men shifted to disguise her presence while one whispered, "they're looking for you here."

Janna caught a glimpse of a Bloodthirster passing through the crowd. This was a pursuit soldier, his form covered by arcane leather that repelled dust and rain. He held Janna's picture high, captioned by her value.

The last words from the men who had raised her were as kind as they could be: "Good luck, Janna. You can't come back here."

The Midcity was a big place. She still had hope. Thoughts like that drew her to storefronts with floors that needed sweeping. She stopped at the first she'd found, mesmerized by the dress behind the glass. Her reflection wore it well. She could imagine the scene around her filling with jewels and boys and money. She didn't imagine the owner approaching her with a greedy smile and her warrant. She ran.

Standing by a manhole that night, looking down, she heard the song of her last option wafting up with the smell. The herald of a mana-storm was sparking in the air around her, and she had moments to choose where she would take shelter. So down she climbed, past concrete and steel and brass. She tracked the music through chicken wire and sewer water. She tracked the latter into a place she'd never been. Like all products of great magnitude and complexity, errors accumulated in overlooked places. In the metropolis of Zaun, there were places that could not be explained Perhaps by the extensive use of magic in such a small area, or the clever design of a prankster architect, this place simply was where it should not fit. Janna squeezed her body between two pipes, into the mess of their networking, and found a vagrant's chapel the size of a house. Inside: Saint Soraka's Effigy, a candle for each of the Demacian gods, the Hammer and Sickle of Piltover, and a standard issue helmet from Noxus filled with ashes. Each had their own altar and signs of use.

Janna did not ponder the source of light filtering through the stained glass depiction of her city. She approached it, and observed as the vagrant silenced his guitar below. They sat in the dim flicker of candlelight, Janna feeling in his posture that he knew the purpose of their meeting. The candlelight was more apparent in her ribbon than its source. Fear and misguided anger showed through the filth on her.

She could see through the shadows that the vagrant had pride. This was a vacation for him, a brief trip into poverty with the promise that he would return home to riches. Their exchange was brief.

"The road to Piltover is one way," he whispered.

Janna nodded. Piltover's messenger, rightfully an ambassador, pushed a small box towards her. The packaging was unassuming and plain. The return address read "The City on a Hill."

The delivery address was her concern. And for the next few weeks her pay was food and shelter and hope. Packages from her benefactor needed to be everywhere low and out of sight in the city. She never saw who retrieved them next, but they were the sort who knew to collect in dangerous places, between the shifts of guards and the shifting of machinery.

She had this job, and her ticket to Piltover, on the condition that she never work a job for Zaun or for money. That was fine. The work was always fresh, and kept her better fed than she'd ever been. She had spare time to explore the Midcity and see the dockyards she'd heard so much about. Sights and sounds and colors saturated her senses. Never had her nose known such noble aromas as fresh water and fizzling drinks.

But more than that, sailors and Soldiers in black uniforms had invaded the culture in preparation for their war. She trailed behind two female officers from Noxus for gossip and fun. Women. Officers. Whole novels of novelty. She thought of the friends at work who would never believe her story. But here were two women with Lieutenant's lapels walking back to base from the pubs.

One moaned, "We can't keep drinking like this, Riv'."

The other, on her shoulder, struggled to walk and talk.

"Fine. Ditch me."

They stopped, shared a drunk and intimate stare while Janna pilfered their pockets.

"I won't do that, Riv. I've got your back. We're a team, and we always will be."

Janna saw her window closing, and picked then to escape. She cast another glance, and gathered as she left,

"Thanks, Kat."

But that was the end of Janna's curiosity.

In the later weeks, guilt burdened her pockets more than stolen gold. She wanted that dress, and knew that Piltover's ambassador would despise her for even using currency, much less stealing it. She didn't know if he was right to. She wanted to wear that dress.

She walked the Midcity cursing herself and wishing for a chance to repay her thieving. She wondered which altar to pray at in the vagrant's chapel. And what would her prayer be?

Please, upturned helmet full of ash, have some money.

Please, Statue of a foreign mage, pity me.

Please, candle of gods famous for not forgiving… Punish me?

She wanted the gods to drop a fatcat's wallet in her lap and give her a dress. And though she thought she ought to, she didn't feel bad about that. And neither did the people who would guilt her for it. That vagrant surely loved his guitar. Around her on the street were accomplished fetishes on display. On every woman, an outfit. On every man, a woman- or a watch, or a car. The perfect example stepped out of a parked vehicle. But as she was about to judge the stereotype, she realized he was the template.

Dr. Arregor Priggs stepped from a limousine while a Bloodthirster covered his back. Priggs wore a suit that accommodated some girth. His mercenary was a woman with flowing black hair and firearms covering armor covering looks that could kill. She shot one in Janna's direction, for staring. So Janna averted her eyes to the person behind Priggs. A robed figure, also female, stepped from the car after him. Her color was beige, and on either shoulder she wore the sigil of a bleeding cut, healing.

Janna had stared at Priggs. At a Summoner, she gaped. But again, she diverted her eyes. Summoners could tell when someone was watching them. Janna knew this from rumors. She envied these people. She wanted to have them be at the party when she debuted her dress and wealth.

If.

But for now, she kept her eyes low and kept her feet walking- only stopping again when she was just across the street from them. The screech of accelerating tires drew her ears. A shabby car piloted by someone angrier than her swerved onto the sidewalk with clear intent. Priggs and his merry band were about to be meat in the gears.

Priggs' mercenary was looking right way for the wrong threat. She wouldn't see the car in time to act. The summoner was clammed up with shock and pointing. And Janna was as helpful as she could be. She thrust her arms at the scene and screamed, "FRAK!"

The unnatural gust of wind was a well-timed coincidence. It saved lives and scattered dust and made Janna look very cool, she imagined. Priggs and his mercenary and friend were tossed from the car's path. And though Janna knew she should run and not feel special, she stood in the street and stared at her hands, indulging the fantasy that she controlled the wind.

Mages could tell when they were being watched, the rumor went. Janna followed the itch on her skin, and saw Priggs' summoner. The woman had not yet stood, but her eyes had found Janna and would not move. Then, Janna ran.