The scrapyard stretched before Avell like a graveyard of forgotten hopes, its jagged piles of rusted metal and broken glass glinting faintly beneath Zaun's perpetual smog. The air was thick with the acrid stench of chemical runoff—a reek that clung to clothes and seeped into skin. Every step crunched over debris-littered ground, a reminder of the desolation that mirrored the hollowness in his chest. Avell had come here to escape—from the ceaseless clamor of Zaun's streets, from Silco and his schemes, from the ghosts of the past whispering in every shadow. The scrapyard was a place of solitude, a makeshift refuge where he could confront the shattered fragments of himself without the city's chaos pressing in.
He stopped at the edge of a vast pool of toxic waste, more a swamp than a puddle, shimmering with unnatural hues of green, purple, and blue. The locals spoke of it sharply, calling it a forsaken place—somewhere those with something to lose never ventured. This was where Avell had become what he was now, crawling from the depths of Zaun's underbelly, his body remade by the cruel alchemy of adaptation. He stared into the murky surface, searching for his reflection, but the oily film distorted his image into something monstrous.
A faint clang shattered his thoughts. His head snapped toward the sound, his senses sharpening like a blade. The scrapyard was a desolate place, home only to mutated rats and the echoes of discarded machinery. Yet somewhere nearby, something was moving, digging through the wreckage with purpose. Curiosity—a rare and unwelcome impulse—tugged at him. He moved silently, his mutated claws lightly scraping the ground, his body crouched like a predator. Time and survival had honed his instincts, and he slipped through the shadows as if born to them.
Crouching behind a rusted boiler, Avell spotted the source of the noise: a small figure, no taller than himself, rummaging through a pile of scrap, deftly tossing aside broken gears and shards of glass. The boy was filthy, his clothes torn and patched, his face smeared with soot, but none of it dulled the spark in his eyes. Goggles rested on his forehead, and a makeshift tool belt jangled at his waist, loaded with scavenged tools and trinkets. Avell recognized the type—a scrapper, like so many in Zaun—but there was a vitality in the boy's movements, a defiance that set him apart from the city's broken souls.
Avell watched in silence, instincts warring inside him. Part of him wanted to leave, to return to the questions gnawing at him—about Erik's death, Silco's motives, the monster he was becoming. But another part, the one that had felt a flicker of humanity watching Vi and Powder, held him back. He shifted, about to retreat, but his foot caught on a loose piece of scrap. The pile beneath him shuddered, sending a cascade of metal clattering down, the sound echoing loudly in the silence.
The boy's head whipped around, his gaze locking onto Avell's position. For a moment, they stared at each other—Avell, a dark figure looming over the trash heap, his red eyes gleaming in the dim light, and the boy, frozen like a startled animal, a wrench clutched in his hand. Realizing he wasn't in danger, the boy tilted his head, a curious gesture that usually softened wariness. Avell nodded, almost mechanically, and turned to leave, his movements quick but not hurried.
The boy straightened, ready to let him go, but without thinking, he shattered the silence:
"Hey, wait!"
Avell froze, muscles tensing. The boy's tone was bright, open—a stark contrast to the suspicion that colored most interactions in Zaun. Slowly, Avell turned to face him, met by a wide, toothy grin as the boy scrambled up the pile of debris toward him. Up close, Avell could see the mischief in his eyes—the kind that belonged to those who survived by wit, not brute force.
"I'm Ekko," the boy said, wiping his hands on his pants, leaving streaks of grease. "You're a rare sight around here, huh? I mean, you look like you've been through a shredder, but that mask… fancy for a scrapper."
Avell touched the mask on his face.
"Just passing through," he muttered flatly.
Ekko's grin didn't fade.
"Sure, sure. But since you're here… wanna see something cool?"
Avell hesitated. Every instinct whispered for him to leave, to avoid entanglement, but the chemicals in his blood—which usually only fueled rage—seemed to dull those warnings, and Ekko's earnestness was disarming. It reminded him of Lira, the girl from the orphanage whose kindness had once breached his defenses, and Erik, whose quiet ingenuity had shown him a life beyond mere survival. Against his better judgment, he nodded.
"Fine," he said. "Show me."
Ekko's face lit up, and he motioned for Avell to follow. They weaved through the scrapyard, Ekko chattering about his finds—a broken oil canister that could fetch a good price from alchemists, a gear for a motor, a shard of crystal that hummed faintly when struck. Avell listened in silence, answering Ekko's questions with short replies. Where was he from? Nowhere. What's with the mask? Found it. Why so quiet? Just am. Ekko didn't seem to mind, his enthusiasm filling the gaps, his voice a counterbalance to the scrapyard's eerie silence.
They left the scrapyard behind, descending into the tangled streets of Zaun's mid-levels, where the air thickened with the stench of oil and sweat. Ekko led Avell through alleyways, pointing out hidden spots: a wall covered in glowing graffiti that shifted colors under gas lamps, its patterns telling stories of rebellion and loss; a rusted platform overlooking the smog-choked skyline, where Piltover's distant lights mocked Zaun's decay; and a half-built contraption, more scrap than machine, that was too heavy for Ekko to drag back to his workshop.
"You ever build anything?" Ekko asked, tossing Avell a screwdriver.
Avell caught it, turning it over in his hand. The weight was unfamiliar yet somehow known.
"Not like this," he admitted. His creations were born of necessity—sharpened claws, rat traps, a body reshaped by Zaun's toxic crucible. Ekko's work was different, driven by curiosity, not survival—a reminder of a world where creation could be more than just a means to an end.
"Stick around, I'll teach you," Ekko said, grinning as he adjusted a gear on a device that looked like a cross between a clock and a bomb. "You've got the hands for it. Steady, like you've held a blade before."
Avell didn't answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched—the closest thing to a smile he'd managed in weeks. For a moment, he let himself imagine another life—one where he could've just stayed in his old world, or died quietly without enduring all this, free from the weight of his past, the blood on his hands, the monstrous hunger pulsing in his veins. But the moment passed, and the cold reality of Zaun returned, its shadows whispering of vengeance and survival.
They were crossing a crowded thoroughfare, the air buzzing with merchants' shouts and the hiss of steam pipes, when a figure stepped into their path. Avell exhaled sharply, his body tensing, claws reflexively unsheathing. The man was tall, his face hidden behind a mask identical to Avell's, its surface faintly gleaming in the dim light. Avell recognized him instantly—one of Silco's enforcers, the same one whose mask he'd taken last time. The man stood rigid, hand resting on a knife, but there was caution in his stance now, a grudging respect that hadn't been there before.
"Boss wants you," the man said, his voice muffled but sharp, cutting through the street noise. "Now."
Avell narrowed his eyes, tightening his grip on the screwdriver, the metal warm in his palm. Ekko glanced between them, his grin fading into unease.
"Who's this guy?" he whispered.
"No one," Avell replied evenly. He stepped forward, locking eyes with the enforcer. "I can find my own way."
The man scowled, his hand twitching toward his knife, shoulders squaring as if to assert dominance.
"That's not how this works, kid," he hissed, irritation seeping into his tone. "I take you. Boss's orders."
Avell's lips curled beneath his mask into a dangerous half-smile, his red eyes glowing faintly.
"I said I'll go myself," he repeated, his voice low and icy, each word a shard of frost. He took another step closer, his presence thickening the air like a threat.
The crowd around them instinctively parted, sensing the tension. Ekko fidgeted, his hand drifting toward his tools, ready to bolt or fight. The enforcer faltered under Avell's unblinking stare, as if remembering exactly who he was dealing with. For a moment, he seemed to weigh his options—orders against the reality before him.
"You gonna make this difficult?" the man growled, leaning in, still trying to sound threatening. "Or else—"
"Or else what?" Avell cut in, his voice a cold challenge. He stepped forward, claws flexing. "Go on. Say it."
The enforcer froze, his bravado crumbling. His shoulders slumped slightly, and he swallowed hard, the sound audible even through the mask. He raised his hands in a placating gesture.
"Nothing. Sorry. Boss is waiting. Just… don't keep him waiting, yeah?"
Avell held his gaze a moment longer, then turned to Ekko, who was watching with wide eyes, a mix of worry and awe on his face.
"You okay?" Ekko whispered.
"Fine," Avell said dismissively. He handed the screwdriver back to Ekko, the motion deliberate, as if signaling that the moment was over. "I've got to go."
Ekko opened his mouth, brow furrowing.
"Wait, you sure? That guy seemed like bad news. You don't have to—"
"It's fine," Avell interrupted, firm but not harsh. "I'll find you later. Here's the address of where I'm staying..."
Ekko hesitated, his eyes searching Avell's face. Then he nodded, his grin returning, though tinged with concern.
"Alright, man. See you around, yeah? Just… don't die."
Avell didn't answer, but he gave a slight nod—a gesture that felt foreign, almost human. Then he turned and melted into the crowd, his silhouette blending with the shadows, leaving Ekko standing alone on the bustling street.
Was it even worth it?
What awaited him? Another test, like the mission that had cost Erik his life? The memory of Erik's lifeless body burned in his chest, a wound that refused to heal. He'd warned Silco about betrayal, had stared into those cold eyes and promised retribution, but Silco's motives were as murky as Zaun's smog. Every step felt wrong, as if he were walking into a trap already set, yet Avell kept moving, driven by something he couldn't name—vengeance, survival, or something deeper, a need to understand the path he'd chosen.
The final stretch of his journey took him through narrow alleys, walls slick with grime and graffiti that spoke of rebellion and despair. He moved like a ghost, footsteps silent, unnoticed by the few souls lingering in the shadows—drunks, scavengers, the desperate, all too consumed by their own struggles to see him. The air grew denser as he descended, the reek of chemicals and decay a reminder of Zaun's toxic heart.
Finally, he reached the familiar door to Silco's office—a wooden slab set into a rusted metal wall of the factory. The door felt like one more obstacle, making him question again: Was any of this worth it?
He raised his hand to knock but paused, catching his reflection in a nearby puddle. The boy staring back was a stranger—twisted, mutated, white hair matted with filth, red eyes glowing unnaturally. His skin bore the marks of adaptation. He was no longer the child who'd sworn vengeance for his mother, nor the person from another world. He was something else now, forged by Zaun's cruelty, a creature of blood and chemicals.
With a slow exhale, Avell knocked, the sound sharp and final. The door creaked open, revealing the darkness within.