Chapter Text
“The City never sleeps, and it will never let you go. Wherever you go, you will always come back.”
It's a common saying amongst the people of this city. As for why people returned at some point or another: everyone had their own theories. Whether it was because this was home, because it was simply familiar, or because it had vices that could hook you so deeply that you became addicted to the city itself.
Luckily, you had no such vice. Not yet at least. You had seen the consequences of The City's most common traps up close. Their victims were usually your clients or patients, so you were more educated in that specific way than most.
Nowadays, med school is more or less optional. With people learning to do it themselves, and just operating semi-legally under the new "Live and Let Live" laws that cover "freelance" work, they can do it without corporate enforcers breathing down their necks.
You still technically needed it in the eyes of the law if you wanted to practice officially under an employer, and if you wanted to be hired by the Trauma Team Corporate hospital, you needed that and much more. But other than that, it was just a blue ribbon on your portfolio. Something that loses to a good reputation where the general public is concerned.
Still, you went through medical school, even though you had no ambitions to become a Trauma Team EMT. Instead you were a "ripperdoc": a nickname for someone who fixes and installs cybernetic hardware alongside the biological parts. Before becoming a doctor, you have seen preventable infections and injuries happen, so you went the extra mile.
If you were honest with yourself it was because that was back in your early 20s; when you had disposable income and an idealistic expectation of your future. A lot more indignation than you deserved. Still, you made it through, and here you were.
As pessimistic as you sounded, you were still doing all right. You haven't tangled with the wrong people, and many preferred you as their primary caretaker and upgrade-distributor. You had the privilege of owning a nicely furnished office above a bar, with a small apartment just upstairs.
Occasionally, you’d wake up and rush downstairs to help with a spat that got nasty or something more serious. In a way, you had become an EMT whether you meant to or not.
You had a reputation for going soft on those not fortunate enough to afford regular primary care, and where that would usually put you under someone's thumb, so far-- you had gotten away with your charity work. Apparently you had at one point saved the life of a rather important member of the Laurels, and released him without a bill. They later declared you as under their protection, but never contacted you. You had to learn through the grapevine, and it gave you quite a scare, nervous that you had somehow been initiated without your knowledge.
Occasionally someone would drop by and request something of you, then say they were a Laurel, and walk out without a backward glance. You didn't mind, appreciating the very cheap price they gave for their protection. It restored some faith within you for the City.
Today, you were enjoying a draft beer downstairs, sketching on a small pad of paper. Currently you were trying to work out the issues with the hub-interfacing of this set of external upgrades that were supposed to talk to each other. Your job was to make the communication seamless so there was no latency, which you thought would be easy since they had the same manufacturing label-- but guess not.
"Are you ever going to crack down on your clients just letting themselves into your office as they please?"
You look up, your chin rising off your fist. The barkeep, Simon, was standing in front of you, glancing between you and your paper with an inquisitive look. He doesn't like to talk more than he has to (ironically) so he must deem this question pressingly important.
"I don't really know how I would. Believe me, I've tried locking it but people get in anyway. Why-- did you see someone go in?"
"Not sure, just saw a shadow pass over your balcony. Don't laugh, my paranoia has saved you before."
You muffle the sound, doing your best to not chortle. "You are right, and thank you. I will check up on it later, unless you are trying to kick me out?" You smile, putting your paper away.
"Absolutely not."
You roll your eyes at his cheeky tone, but continue your conversation. For the next couple minutes you enjoyed Simon's company, as well as another beer. You couldn't have much more since there was a possibility you had a client waiting for you. Eventually you made your leave and walked up the stairs to your office.
It was still dark inside the office, no lights were on. You supposed Simon was being paranoid. The only light in the room came from the small flickering LEDs from your mounting gear, some other appliances, and your mini indoor garden. Speaking of, the light cycle was wrong again. Without actual sunlight to go off of, you kept programming it wrong.
Unlocking the door, you cross the dark room and set down your pad and pen, adjusting the settings to match the day and night cycle again. Once the lights are off you turn around again to leave.
In the dark, between you and the door, floated slashes of red light. Flickering menacingly, they watch you while suspended just about where you knew the examination table was. After a moment passes, they move as if attached to a standing figure, and approach you. You back up against the counter, bracing yourself against it.
"Here I was, thinking you would never show." A synthesized voice resonates from the light. They remain steadily trained on you, like eyes watching your every move. You didn't recognize this model or type of optic screen, which made you wary.
You slowly let yourself down from your partial perch on top of the counter and try to collect your bearings, taking off your glasses and wiping them. "What can I do for you?" You huff, trying to calm your heartbeat. The light switch was all the way by the door, so you would need to do your consultation in the dark; until you gathered the courage to step around him to reach it.
"You don't deal with weapons any more, it looks like..." He asks, his voice lilted with a nonchalant tone. You stiffen, not appreciating the reminder.
Despite being idealistic in your youth, you also knew very little about how the world worked, and how tools of violence played into it. Blissful ignorance was what it was, fostered by the blurred line of defense and offense. At one point, you encountered the consequences of your work-- consequences that were reaped by someone else other than you. From then on, you refused to work on any weaponized upgrades or tools, much to most of your clients' disappointment.
You had almost completely changed your clientele, most of them leaving for someone who would make them what they wanted. This guy seemed to have missed the memo. Strange, you didn't recognize that voice, but a change in voice wasn't unheard of with modern synthesizers; so you dismissed it.
"No. I don't. Armor or upgrades only." You say tersely. The irritation gives you the energy to start moving across the room, but you are stopped by a solid hand on your shoulder, unyielding like metal. "I need to turn on the lights. I can't see anything." You say, trying to tug your shoulder out of his grip.
"No infrared optics?" He asks, and you get the feeling he's teasing you.
"No optics at all,” you say. “You're going to have to trust that I know what I'm doing without an overlay."
He releases your shoulder, but the light still hovers around your front, ready to block your path. "No lights. Use the exam light."
“Why?” You question, crossing your arms. He doesn’t answer, just walks over to the consultation table— and sits down. You roll your eyes, but follow him, sitting on your own rolling stool.
“So again: what can I do for you? Are you an affiliate of the Laurels or coming here independently?” You doubted he was a member of the Laurels, they preferred saying nothing if they can’t be polite. Weaponized manners and all that, since they were a scion of the old Piltover enforcement.
“I have it on good authority that you are the best person to work with this.” He brings up his right hand, and indicates the palm casing. You flick the switch on the exam light and bring it down to the pseudo-operation table. Hesitantly taking hold of his hand, you begin to examine it closely as you would a normal client. He watches you, resting his head on his other hand.
With the dim light now close to his body, you can seed a few more details. His face is covered by a glass face plate, or a glass mask, you can’t see any fusion on its edges so it's hard to tell. That was what had the red marks on it before. Right now it displays a dim thrum of red.
His hand was entirely cybernetic, so you weren’t nervous about opening it in case there was tender biological tissue. You still washed your hands thoroughly beforehand though, applying twitch suppressant on your own biological skin where it was, and pulled on the standard ripperdoc-red latex gloves.
Within the palm plate was an administrative chip, meant to unlock a variety of things, mainly to enable firing on artillery and firearms, as well as port to doors. You got to work, cleaning the chip of any residual info from the places he’s been, diagnosing the problem, etc. etc.
All the while you couldn’t shake the niggling feeling of deja-vu while you did it. The tech didn't necessarily look familiar, but you couldn’t shake the feeling. You finish with the hardware issue, then move onto software. If you have indeed worked with this upgrade before, this will let you know.
You take the admin chip out and slide across the floor to your computer. You use your own admin chip to unlock it and put it on the reader. It pulls up the ID, manufacturers, blah blah—
Owner: Morvran Haddes
Linked with: Whisper, Pulse-Fire Sniper model J4-GD Custom Prototype
Your hands freeze over your keyboard, stunned. You are confronted with the sight of a very familiar sniper prototype that you had made… and sold to someone else. He was a PROJECT affiliate: freelance mercenary. Ambitious and charming. You both had since fallen out of contact, for what you assumed to be because PROJECT had their own doctors so he was directed to them and them only.
The chip still had some of his imprint. But the hand upgrade was not attached to him.
You hear laughter behind you, soft so you barely caught it. You spin around and pin him with your incredulous stare. He meets your gaze with the same blank display. A few tense moments pass, you try and examine him closer through the darkness to see if there was any indication that this man is— or was Morvran.
No. This wasn’t him. Someone had stolen the upgrades and the sniper you had sold him. If they were sold they would not have those traces, since they would have gone under the full changing procedures. Traces meant the upgrades were ripped out and away without concern or patience.
Cold sweat starts to break out on the back of your neck, your stomach turning. Your hands shake— despite the nerve suppressant you applied. Somehow you find your voice: “This chip isn’t yours.” You murmur.
He tilts his head, and he stops trying to hide the amusement in his voice. “… No, it is. This as well.” He takes that as his queue to take out the aforementioned sniper and set it down on the table underneath the exam lamp.
Disdain shows clearly on your face. If you didn’t like the previous reminder, the physical evidence was much worse.
You recognized the rectangular barrel, streaked with your indulgent neon red flourishes. The light gray and black arranged into an almost stripped case look.
You knew when fired it displayed a four-level sight and barrel extension, both made of hard red light. It was made of two parts, one an extension made to make the “pistol” (the word sounded very underwhelming to 26 year old you) you named “Whisper” into a pulse-fire sniper. Meant to kill with no thought to collateral damage— or subtlety for that matter.
Your eyes flick over the gun then up to its new owner, your mouth pressed into a thin line.
“I won't work on this. Only the chip.” You state, thankful that your voice doesn’t crack or waver.
He regards you for a moment, then waves a hand dismissively. “I can see to that myself. Honestly I wanted to see what its creator was like. I expected someone…” he trails off, his tone turning into a drawl like he was bored.
“PROJECT affiliated?” You guess, scoffing.
“— pugnacious.” He finishes. A long pause passes, and you stare at him.
“I don’t know what that means.”
He laughs again. Your frown gets deeper, and he waves both hands in front of him in a ‘don’t worry’ motion.
“Don't concern yourself with it. Though you clearly detest your past work, I love it. Truly a tragedy that you have discontinued anything of use to me.”
Rolling your eyes, you look back to your screen. The chip was ready a while ago. You pick it up and take his hand again, replacing it with admirable speed. You wanted him out of your office, and hopefully you discouraged him from visiting you again.
As he examines it closely, flexing his hand and waving it over the rifle—you refuse to think of it as Whisper—you watch it hum to life at the proximity.
Satisfied he stands, putting it away. “While it's a shame you’ve chosen pacifism, I’m sure this won’t be the last time we meet. The City has ways of pushing prodigies like you into the spotlight.”
“To be a prodigy I would have to be younger.” You deadpan, your eyes fighting to keep him in sight now that he has stepped away from the exam light.
“Ah, correct. You were a prodigy. Now you’re just wasted potential.”
You sneer, thoroughly fed up with this divas obsession with your youthful bloodlust. You were about to rebuke him, go on a rant of how human life had climbed in value in the past, and now has descended again, but it dies in your throat. It was useless to try and convince this kind, you've tried. Besides, you had a sneaking suspicion that he enjoyed poking at you with this stick he’s found.
You cross the office, grabbing your coat and open the office door. You turn around, ready to see him out but you don’t see any hint of him. You flip the light on to be sure and yup, he’s vanished.
Locking the door, you ascend the stairs to your apartment, do about half of your usual routine, and promptly fall asleep.
(Enjoy the Silence (Cover) by Trevor Something)