The guard sent a small salute to the centurion as it exited the prison complex, 51-21-25 returning the ping as it strode past the twin shocktroopers standing in front of the massive iron door beneath Zaun. The crimson display followed the machine before returning to a passive glare at the wall on the corridor. Sensor readings were normal. Its cohort relayed the continuing guard order, the first shocktrooper replying with slight annoyance as its cohort recalibrated its plasma cannon for the twentieth time that day. The first machine quietly shut off its own weapon, its systems panicking as an energy flare signal popped up on its scanners, its cohort obliterated by a crimson beam, smoke and ash obscuring the shocktrooper's optics for a few seconds. Its plasma cannon swiveled towards the glowing breach, the blade wielding form of a man clad in ancient armor, blazing red eyes piercing the smoke, filled its targeting system. Plasma blast after verdant plasma blast punched holes through the ashen air, the explosions doing little other than mildly amuse the war god, a contemptuous strike from his living blade ending the machine in a runic blast.

A cutaway view of Zaun flashed in front of Viktor's gaze, the Creator screaming in rage as parts of the lower sections of the massive tower blinked red. He quickly scanned through the machines inside the tower, his mind's eye resting on the machine he thought of almost as his son. Needless to say the centurion ultra was beyond enraged that its home turf had been violated, a mechanized bellow resounding within Viktor's coms followed by the wet crunch of 8-1-12 venting its rage on the closest acolyte. Soon red lights began blinking around doors, the murderous ultra presumably not caring for the social norm of opening such a portal and thus simply shattering the blast proofed metal as it ploughed towards the hanger. The creator sighed. At least it was better than when he had attempted to build a prime ultra within the spire-city. Titanic machines of that nature could be left to any other madman who wished to try, the sheer amount of primes at his disposal had proved time and again the demise of far larger creations such as Shuriman titans, the earthen beast taking three primes with it before it fell. If anything had him worried it was what metal behemoth may be slumbering in Ionia, the only details his spies were able to transmit after the Battle of Tusuinboruto in which the loyalist army was soundly beaten by a so called 'god of lightning' that left the land scarred and unusable for anything other than runestone mining, worried Viktor. The runic weapons deployed in the rune wars and in the recent Noxus Demacia conflict had the same effects, witnesses describing the blast as if the land had been smote by a vengeful god, runic energy arcing off the main dome to evaporate bystanders. In his reminiscing Viktor had entirely forgotten the situation at hand, the Creator cursing himself before deploying all reserves to deal with the minor nuisance.

More machines erupted into small blasts of runic energy as Aatrox's sword materialized in his hand once more. It felt good to fight, really fight, not just play at soldiers, but truly slaughter again. So long he had been cooped up. First by the cease fire between Noxus and Demacia. Then by the league's frivolous rules. Soon after his own stasis kept him from the front lines. Now though, crimson lightning sparked freely as he carved through endless ranks of mindless shocktroopers, his brain so utterly desensitized to slaughter that the war god soon found himself craving a real opponent. As soon as the main gate opened, the titanic form of a prime bellowing from within the red lit tower he felt a glimmer of hope. That hope soon faded to a jaded boredom, the prime incinerated by a single blast to its runic core, the red beam cleaving a molten trench through the ranks of machines. He didn't expect the aerial assault though. The drone fired off a burst of anti-armor rounds a single shot piercing his black pualdron, Aatrox's chest glowing with ancient power before the darkin raised his right palm to the machine, a beam of arcane crimson energy vaporizing the iron predator mid-flight.

The first fighter went down in a blaze of flames, the wing pack's built in Void shielding taking most of the heat from the war god's unleashed might. Most armies would be running for their lives at this point but machines had a reputation for being particularly stubborn defenders. 8-1-12 signaled for the second Valkyrie to head back to base, the fighter swooping off as the ground troops continued their useless fire.

He barely saw the missiles, Aatrox charging his blade before sweeping it across his view, ripples of dark energy making short work of a barrage that even the most skilled pilots would have surely fallen to. It never really was the small victories that got him excited. No it was the foes he faced. The darkin braced himself, twin iron blades impacting with living metal as the massive bulk of the centurion ultra slammed into the smaller war god, 8-1-12's back adorned with a thruster array which Aatrox assumed was the origin of the missiles. Kicking off his larger adversary the darkin shot into the blackening sky, his chest a vibrant red for the first time since Jarvan the Second had ascended to the throne almost two centuries ago.

Targeting systems locked onto the ascending god instantly, the machine kicking its new thrusters to maximum output before rocketing into the sky after Aatrox, blades carving at the smoke filled air. No one, not even the god of war messed with 8-1-12's home turf. A secondary reason eat at the ultra as the two swordsmen continued to ascend into the heavens. Aatrox finally stopped, the darkin taking a second to marvel at the beauty around him. Below Runterra curved into the void of space, its atmosphere glowing a pale blue as the sun burned in the distance. Four other orbs could be seen from his view point, Runeterra's moon shining a cold silver along with three other worlds as to which he knew nothing of. Even the darkin had their limits. Perhaps, somewhere in that abyss lay his kin, the ancient race still alive somewhere in the pin pricked darkness. He highly doubted it. What was very likely was that he would soon be cleaved in two if the bladesman didn't parry his adversary's next two strikes. The war god executed the adjustment flawlessly, his banner like wings pulsating with ancient energy as he shot to the side, the machine's ion thrusters allowing it the same mobility as the two began their dual in earnest. The first blow, despite being little more than a glance went to the machine, Aatrox finding himself almost unable to go on the offensive. His memories kicked in at the worst of times, the machine's twin blades replaced in his mind with the twin obsidian scimitars of his wife, Vessaria, the two sparring as their daughter watched wide eyed. Like most things, his happiness didn't last long. Pallus had made sure of that. The archer king was soon paid back in full as Aatrox destroyed not only Pallus but the entire darkin race. His anger knew no bounds as he slaughtered his way across a then very different Runeterra. The machine shared some striking similarities in fighting style to Vessaria but that was where the similarities ended. This was his student. And Aatrox would put the machine in its place. He lunged forward the machine effortlessly parrying before slicing at the darkin's chest and head, Aatrox feeling blood drip from open wounds for the first time in his memory. Ignoring the lost fluids the war god brought down his blade on 8-1-12's thruster array, the machine suddenly grappling its adversary before plunging into a dive towards Zaun. Aatrox just laughed.

"Until next time, Hal." The darkin pushed free, a strong kick sending the thoroughly vexed machine plummeting towards the ground as Aatrox adjusted his angle of re-entry for minimal burning.

The machine knelt in front of the massive throne Viktor was reclining in, the Creator sighing heavily before addressing his creation. He flicked lazily through different reports as he spoke, the machine's eyes pulsating as it took in the mission. The machine rose to its full height, Viktor signaling for an acolyte to bring forth an eight foot long bundle of cloth about a foot across. "And before you leave, I have something of a gift for you." The machine watched as Viktor unwrapped then hefted a dark iron longsword, without a guard and what appeared to be liquid flames running along the center of the blade. The pommel was a small orb, just large enough to be fitted onto the foot long hilt which Viktor had wrapped in a synthetic cloth that was, as the ultra's scans indicated heat proof. "This blade utilizes the runic magic within the pommel to increase your own power as well as unlock any latent magical potential, although if you want a more impressive use…" He gripped the blade with both hands, flames erupting along its length. "It burns at around 5,780 degrees kelvin. Of course the heat is isolated by the blade but it can be projected at will." 8-1-12 extended its arm, the blade seeming to call out to it as Viktor released the sword into his grasp. As Viktor turned 8-1-12 opened its faceplate the metal sliding apart with a slight clank.

"The darkin knew my name." Viktor turned. To the battlecast a name was on a whole new level of trust from a designation. Names were exchanged as a way of displaying authenticity as well as for use by the rare centurions that lived long enough to begin developing more human characteristics within their cognators. A designation was simply that. A series of numbers designed to immediately give any receiving unit all relevant information on the sender. Viktor sat down, left hand massaging his forehead.

"Then we have a traitor in our midst after all."

Irelia placed the pen against the paper as she prepared herself for another response for a diplomatic paper practically begging Ionia to declare war on Zaun. She never did notice Zed unless he wanted her too. And apparently he really wanted her to. His footsteps practically shook the ground, any pretense of stealth banished by the heavy burden of his power armor when not activated. She knew he trained like this, the hundred ninety pound armor adding crushing weight to almost any movement and yet she had seen him run laps around the guard base in it. He powered it on just as she looked up at him. "Put your guard on high alert along the coast line. Oh and if Karma asks, tell her I'm going for a little joy ride." She blinked, Zed vanishing into his shadow as the earth shook. The hiss of steam as the medium warmachine lifted its leg again shocked her back to reality. She just sighed. If she had understood Zed correctly the heavy warmachines would arrive soon and that meant that the market place leading through the center of the Palcidium would have to be cleared out. Karma would yell at him for this. She would probably yell at her for not stopping him. Not as though she really could have. Zed without his power armor was dangerous. Zed with a death wish, his power armor, and some ridiculous notion of vengeance was essentially invincible. Not to mention the semi-sentient super heavy warmachine that she assumed would soon be loaded into the newly built Ionian flagship IAS Infinite. She sighed, pen scratching out the newly revised response to Bandle City's ninth request for aid. Karma was going to be livid when she heard this.

Headcannon: Zed's mask is symbolic of his mentality that hes already dead and living on borrowed time. In other words he simply doesn't care if he dies. Thus his insistence that the mask be worked into his power armor which is only red as that's the color of Karma's regime and not his normal black and grey, colors generally associated with death/darkness.