Viktor wakes with dread in his stomach. Or rather, he wakes to a dull abdominal ache. The effect is the same. He turns in bed to stare blankly at the ceiling. Moments pass before he finally lifts his blanket, raising up on elbows to look.
That is, in fact, a puddle of his own blood, staining the sheets just under his hips. He hoped, after months of nothing, that he finally lost the ability to bleed. Seems he isn't so lucky.
Thankfully, the stain is only a small blotch, easily dabbed away with a rag and a bowl of cold water. Viktor drapes the sheet across two chairs to dry, going about the rest of his morning with the air of a shambling corpse.
He brushes his teeth and attempts to fix the rats nest on his head. He fails and decides instead to study his face in the mirror. Gaunt contours, an off-putting pallor, a pair of disturbingly dark circles under his eyes. All in all, a far cry from his appearance when he served as the dean’s assistant. Not that he misses that role—but he was certainly healthier then. Nice to look at, even. He wonders why his body bothers with this charade of fertility now, of all times.
Viktor sighs. That’s something to think about another time. He’s going to be late.
He trudges up the long street to the science plaza. Just shy of the laboratory building, Viktor spies Jayce coming from the opposite direction. Jayce sees him as well, promptly lighting up with happiness before breaking into a jog. Viktor pretends his heart doesn’t skip a beat at the sight of the man.
“Viktor! Good morning!”
“Morning, Jayce.” It isn’t exactly a good morning, not for him, though he’d sooner die than say it out loud. Especially to Jayce, who already fusses over him enough. “How are you today?” He thinks he knows the answer—they did, after all, stay in the lab together until almost dawn.
Jayce gently bumps a shoulder against his, grinning at him with that signature boyish charm. “It's better now that I’ve seen you.” There’s no hint of irony in his delivery, no suggestion that he’s aware that it's a cheesy, romantic line. That it’s not something one says to their platonic lab partner.
Viktor can’t stop the scoff that leaves his mouth, though he relents at Jayce’s subsequent pout. “Thank you,” he replies teasingly. Jayce’s pout doesn’t abate, but he does hold the lab doors open for Viktor to walk through. They settle into their usual routines, tossing jokes and banter at each other from across the lab like they have since the early days of their partnership.
The day wears on.
Soon, the streetlights shine through their lab window, and Jayce begins to clean up his workstation.
As Jayce leaves for the latest investors’ gala (whose invitation Viktor already declined), he reminds Viktor to watch his health. Viktor looks away and agrees to leave the lab at a reasonable time.
They both know he’s lying.
The lab is dark and still, all machinery powered down. Pale moonlight streams in through the lab’s floor to ceiling window, and the Hexcore bobs peacefully in its stand. Viktor sits in front of it, staring, frustrated. His waistcoat and cravat lie discarded somewhere nearby. His arms cross tightly over his chest as he taps his fingers in an aggrieved rhythm, hands sore from gripping the workstation controls for hours.
The cursed thing remains uncooperative no matter what combination of runes he inputs.
His notes are bursting with various rune combinations, none of which bear fruit. Stray papers lay all over the workstation, covered in crossed-out scrawls. Viktor pores over the pages, flipping the papers with increased violence the further he gets. Still, he doesn't know what else to do, so with resignation, he slots his hands back into the controls.
Another hour passes, maybe two. Viktor was never one to keep track of time while working.
He twists the controls and jots down rune combinations, never receiving anything other than a particularly enthusiastic oscillation of the Hexcore’s plates. Viktor merely grits his teeth, notes the combination, and continues.
He tries more combinations, notes more faulty permutations, on and on, until finally he hits his limit. He rips his hands out of the controls, shoving his stool back on its wheels and turning away. He can’t. He can’t think anymore, not tonight. It sends shame and more frustration through him—he never admits defeat so early in the night. Usually he works until he literally cannot, eyes closing against his will as his body shuts down from lack of rest.
Viktor stands roughly, ignoring the responding flares of pain. Part of him wants to stay until dawn, when he knows Jayce will come bumbling in with a lecture on all-nighters. The rest of him can’t bear the look at his notes a moment longer. He can hear carriages rattling outside, the occasional laugh of Academy stragglers.
He sighs, closing his eyes.
Done in before even Piltover’s lukewarm nightlife calls it quits. He really is losing his touch.
Viktor sags back onto his stool, where he cushions his head on his arms. It’s times like now he truly longs for Jayce’s presence, to use as a sounding board for his ideas. They always worked better together. Surely his partner has his own ideas on how to provoke the Hexcore. Unfortunately, his partner is halfway across the city, drinking tepid champagne and rubbing elbows with the elite.
Viktor shakes his head at the thought. No, he’s being uncharitable. Jayce is just as dedicated to Hextech as he is—after all, it was originally Jayce’s research. Viktor would much rather Jayce weather those social obligations, especially now that he looks as withered as he does.
(And anyway, whatever…emotions…linger between them are nothing. Merely fleeting moments strung between them. They haven't even kissed—they have no obligation to each other. Who cares if Jayce happens to seek out a new companion fit for his new station? Certainly not Viktor.)
A tickle and the smell of iron brings Viktor out of his thoughts. He lifts his head.
There's blood on the work surface.
He dabs at his nose, and his fingers come away red, dripping. Another nosebleed. Unfortunately, this is something else he’s grown used to. He huffs in annoyance, the sound coming out congested.
The action sprays blood outward, droplets landing all over the workbench, and Viktor curses. He contemplates simply mopping it up with a sleeve and moving on, but the likelihood is high that Jayce will somehow notice, giving him something new to fret about. He can picture it now, another frantic lecture about prioritizing his health—as if prioritizing his health at this point will do anything. Viktor sniffs in disdain and winces when he essentially snorts blood.
He turns to find a rag, only to spot movement out of the corner of his eye.
Viktor turns back to watch in complete shock as the blood, his blood, is sucked into the Hexcore. There’s no other way to describe it—the drops of his blood are drawn into the device by some unseen force. He continues watching as most of it is taken, until all that remains is the congealed blood near the edge of the workstation.
His mind races. What if this is why none of their plant experiments worked? What if all along, the Hexcore needed a specific catalyst? And is it only human matter? Will an animal’s sample do the same?
He doesn’t want to risk harming an innocent creature, but at the same time, his health leaves him with few choices and even less time. Besides, there are ethical ways to extract samples from animals. He can be merciful, unlike his former mentor.
Viktor blinks those thoughts away and stumbles to his feet, reaching for his waistcoat. This is a critical discovery. Jayce will want to know. He must bring this to his attention immediately.
Jayce…who is at a gala.
Viktor slows, leaning on the workbench.
Right.
This isn’t like the beginning of their partnership, when they crashed each other’s places at ungodly hours of the night. If Viktor arrives at the gala looking like this—rumpled, underdressed, and, oh gods, bloody—he will be seen as a madman. He can practically hear the gossip already—”Did you hear? Talis’s assistant crashed the party raving about blood.”
No. Hextech doesn't need the negative press. He refuses to tarnish Jayce’s legacy.
Viktor sits back down, limbs suddenly heavy. He wipes his nose on his bare forearm before he remembers his current state. He looks at the blood smeared on his skin.
Gods above, what is he doing?
Suddenly all the aches in his body are magnified, and he feels ten years older. He wants to be buried between the sheets of his bed. He needs to be home, right now.
Viktor makes to rise again, intending to grab his things and begin the slow walk back to his apartment. A tickling sensation stops him, this time coming from his arm. He looks down, expecting an errant bug.
A glowing tendril stretches from the Hexcore to his forearm, the tip just grazing his skin. The thing is no more than an inch or two thick, and as Viktor watches, the blood on his arm lifts off in flakes, which slowly drift back along the tether to the Hexcore.
He flicks his eyes back to where he bled on the workbench.
It’s clean.
There’s no sign he ever bled there.
He slowly looks back to the string of light. It caresses his arm, as if searching for more blood.
Viktor looks at the Hexcore, at the way it now glows slightly purple.
When did the color change? Is it the blood? His brows furrow. Is the color of the thing important to its function?
The tendril moves down his forearm until it curls gently around his wrist and tangles with his fingers. Viktor watches, thinking it not unlike a lover holding his hand. He's not sure how to react. The tether continues to dance around his forearm, twining around his hand and tangling between his fingers in various new configurations.
Is it…sentient? Heimerdinger’s lecture on dangerous arcane forces seemed to imply as much. Though surely no force is purely evil. At most, Viktor assumes the Arcane a neutral force. Either way, he is definitely not telling Heimerdinger anything about this.
Viktor withdraws his hand, intending to reach for his notes, only to find he can't. The ribbon of light around his wrist holds him in place with a force that feels far steadier than the flimsy tether of aether. When he looks, though, he sees nothing. Nothing but his hand and the strange string of light.
When he brings up his other hand to feel around his wrist, there's still nothing. His fingers phase through light to meet his own skin. Viktor frowns. He watches as the tether moves to explore the newly offered skin of his other wrist.
Odd, but his notes are well within reach, even with only one arm free.
…Except when he tries to move away, he finds his other wrist now caught.
Anxiety lashes through him for a moment. Whatever is wrapped around his wrists is invisible, intangible, and strong. Stronger than someone like him, anyway. Maybe Jayce, with his muscle-bound frame, can wrench these things off him, but Jayce isn't here now. Nor does Viktor want to be seen in this predicament.
Feeling silly, he does the only other thing he can think to do. He leans in and whispers to the Hexcore, “Could you kindly release me?”
Silence. Not even a ripple of the plates to acknowledge him.
Viktor sighs and drops his head, awkwardly stretching out his arms to accommodate the tether. Well, how is he going to get himself out of this one? With no nearby cutting implements and nothing tangible to cut, will he have to wait until the Hexcore lets him go? Will he have to sleep in this position, slumped over the workbench like so many other nights? Or will Jayce stop by after the gala, witness his odd, humiliating predicament, and find a way to free him?
Viktor slumps further, laying his forehead on the workbench surface. Exhaustion and inflammation saturate his body, not to mention the discomfort of menstruating for the first time in months.
It's getting late, late enough that most people are turning in for the night. Maybe he really will sleep here. He burrows his face into his arms, resigning himself to an uncomfortable night and another horrible morning. Hopefully he won't bleed onto the stool. Maybe the hold on his wrists will release sometime in the night.
Tiredly, he wonders how he'll explain this to Jayce.
Without meaning to, he falls asleep.
Viktor blinks awake at the gala, tucked in a corner between the wall and a potted plant with gaudy flowers. He's sitting in an uncomfortable armchair while Jayce stands before him, in the middle of talking.
“I think if we test it earlier in the day, it should work,” Jayce says. “Of course, then we'd have to wake up early…or just stay up all night.” He laughs a little and looks down at Viktor, clearly expecting a quip.
“I—Jayce?” Viktor’s voice comes out sounding rough and bewildered.
“…Viktor?” Jayce looks at him in confusion.
Viktor looks around. They're hidden in a quiet corner of the ballroom, away from the crowd. Through the leaves of the potted plant, he can see the glittering crowd chattering away.
Nothing seems out of the ordinary. This is what they always do at galas when Viktor is attending. In a few minutes, someone—probably Mel Medarda—will notice that the Man of Progress is missing from the floor and come looking for Jayce. And yet… “Why am I here?” Viktor asks.
Now Jayce looks at him with touch of concern. “You said you'd come this time.”
Viktor makes a face. “I did not. The invitation specifically did not include me.”
Jayce looks at him blankly for a moment before shaking his head a little. “No, it said Men of Progress, and you said you'd stop by.”
Viktor stares in confusion. He is very sure that the invitation said Man of Progress, and with his newly returned bleeding, there's no way he would agree to this.
“Jayce,” he starts, then pauses. Never has Jayce forced him to attend a gala. Jayce always backs down as soon as he realizes Viktor is serious about not attending. In fact, lately he's rejected invitations so often that Jayce never asks him about it more than once.
So why…?
Viktor shakes his head. He doesn't even remember walking over here. (Jayce always insists he takes a carriage, but even with a few sponsors under their belt, they aren't made of money.)
He doesn't remember leaving the lab. The only thing he can recall before the gala is…falling asleep…
He must be dreaming.
But everything feels real.
He looks up in time to see Jayce staring at him with a flat expression. For a moment, Viktor thinks there's something off about his eyes, but then Jayce blinks, and suddenly he's back to normal, looking at Viktor with his usual anxious cheer.
“Do you want to dance?” Jayce asks.
Now that is unusual. Jayce knows how he feels about dancing. Viktor looks at him with a face that says as much.
Jayce stares back at him again with a hint that strange, blank expression before smiling big, putting those straight white teeth on display. “It'll be different this time.” He takes the hand propped on Viktor's cane and pulls—
Suddenly, Viktor's ensconced in Jayce's arms as they sweep around the ballroom floor. From the sidelines, Piltover society watches. They whisper, but he can’t pick out any words. Oddly, the whispers don’t seem to be disparaging for once, and as Viktor takes in the situation, he realizes he can't feel any pain either. He's dancing on his own two feet with an agility he's never possessed.
Viktor startles, almost throwing off their waltz. Jayce's arms tighten around him, pulling him along just in time.
“You alright?” Jayce asks, gently.
Viktor doesn't respond. Jayce seems to take his silence in stride.
They twirl, coat tails flaring out. Jayce gathers him closer. “Look at these people,” he says in Viktor's ear. “They may be rich and powerful, but they don't have what you have. They don't have your intelligence, your willingness to listen. You've done so well for me, Viktor, you've been such a great help. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you.”
Viktor blinks. There have been moments, of course, when the two of them talk badly of the same elite on which their livelihood depends. But they've never talked about it like this.
Jayce draws back to look meet his gaze. His eyes, instead of hazel, are opal. Delicate pastels shift in Jayce’s irises as he stares, that bright smile once more fixed upon his handsome face. “I should repay you somehow,” he says.
This isn’t Jayce.
The man—entity—before him leans in until their foreheads touch. Viktor’s skin at the point of contact feels like it's on fire.
I can make this real.
You miss him, don’t you? You miss this, when it was just the two of you.
Viktor shakes his head—no, he’s doing everything he can to not be selfish—but he's unable to tear his eyes from that mesmerizing opal. The entity masquerading as Jayce leans closer, as if to kiss him.
I can return him to you. Make him see only you.
What do you want, Viktor? We can help you. We'll help each other.
Their lips meet.
Help us help you.
What do you want?
Viktor gasps awake to the sensation of touch all over his skin. He jerks upright.
Multiple ribbons of light extend from the Hexcore to wrap around his forearms, extending up under his sleeves. His hands are almost entirely engulfed with light, and he can feel more of the strange tethers curling around his biceps, reaching out along his shoulders to drape along his collarbone.
When he looks up, the Hexcore is in chaos. Purple light spikes through the gaps between the plates, the entire surface heaving like a turbulent sea. Viktor stares. He's never seen it react for longer than a few seconds. The sight makes him uneasy.
He lets out a slow breath and, with effort, mentally refocuses on the issue of his arms.
He gives his hands a strong tug. Nothing, but he expected as much. He tries to pull at his restraints with his fingers, but even if his fingers don’t phase through them, his wrists are bound together, leaving his range of motion limited.
The entire time, the weight never dissipates. He can feel the tendrils of light spreading out, some moving up toward his neck and some down toward his chest.
Viktor brings his bound hands up, shaking fingers flying over buttons before he flings open the sides of his shirt. He runs his hands over his now-exposed chest brace. Nothing. His hands can only feel skin and leather, yet he sees ribbons of light all over his torso, draping down his chest to slip under the edge of his brace. He feels both the brace and his flesh yielding to invisible lengths about as thick as a finger.
Viktor wonders if he's actually just going insane.
He’s shocked out of his mental spiraling when something slips under the top of his brace, forcefully pushing past the edge and down toward his breastbone. He watches as light flashes through the miniscule gaps in his brace, at a loss for what to do as it sweeps across the plane of his chest.
What does this entity want?
A tether drapes over his leg, just above the knee. The weight snakes upward, and Viktor makes a sudden connection.
HIs earlier nosebleed. The flakes of blood, floating through the air to disappear into the Hexcore. The odd dream he had, with fake Jayce.
Blood. What if it wants more blood?
What if it wants his blood?
What if this thing wants blood, and with Viktor’s shit luck, he's currently menstruating for the first time in months, which means the closest source of blood is him. Specifically, his…
Viktor stands abruptly. He tries to put distance between him and the workstation, but he’s stopped by the fact that his hands are still tethered. Yanking at them does nothing but make his wrists ache. He only has enough slack to stand up straight, and the other tethers on his skin still remain.
Viktor panics.
He's not proud of it, the way he thrashes like a rabbit caught in a snare. He flails, tearing at his bonds, at the invisible restraints pressing on his skin. His heart pounds as cold, bright adrenaline floods his veins. He’s not sure how long he struggles for, only that his struggles do nothing.
In the end, he surrenders, hands braced on the workbench as he pants from the exertion. All he has to show for his efforts is pain—sore flesh where he pulled against his bonds, scratches against his exposed skin, and sharp stabs of pain along his spine and leg from reckless movements. He can hear himself wheezing a little as he catches his breath.
His vision blurs as he stares down at his hands on the workbench. They remain bound by the glowing tethers, as does his leg, braced by both metal and a rope of light.
“What do you want?” he whispers.
The Hexcore doesn’t answer.
Viktor shakily sits back on his stool.
There's a moment of stillness, where he waits to see what the Hexcore does next. If it will do what he thinks it will.
After a few minutes—is the damned thing giving him time to adjust?—the tether on his thigh moves, curling around his leg as it snakes upwards. It reaches the top of his trousers and nudges at the buttons, as if politely asking.
Viktor glances at the Hexcore. So the thing wants him to be complicit in this.
With shaking hands, Viktor undoes his trousers and wrenches them down as far as they will go.
Immediately, the tethers around his limbs pull him up and over the workbench, the insubstantial things somehow wrangling him onto the surface until he's bent over.
Viktor lies there, stunned.
He's still in the position he landed in when he feels something snake up the back his thigh.
Viktor jerks, hard, but his bonds hold tight.
The pressure continues up his chilled, exposed skin until a light touch brushes against the border of his cunt. Viktor jerks again, thrashes a little, but the effect is the same as before. He cranes his head up to look at where the Hexcore sits in its stand, bobbing sedately as if to mock him. If not for the various glowing ribbons radiating out from it, nothing would look amiss.
He can already smell blood in the air.
The tether brushes along the seam between his cunt and his leg, as if to soothe him. All it manages to do is make him feel worse, because any moment now—
The tether catches something wet between his legs. Blood. The tendril at his entrance immediately bullies its way in. Viktor seizes around the intrusion. Something falls to the floor, and Viktor looks down. Below him lies the cotton plug he uses to absorb his bleeding. “Shit,” Viktor mumbles.
As much as he hates it, the sensation itself isn't too bad. It feels like a clumsy finger, like a man unfamiliar with his anatomy. He's not aroused enough for the intrusion to be comfortable though. All Viktor has is blood and his natural wetness. The appendage gives another thrust, and Viktor shudders. Given no other choice, he bears down, attempting to ease the way. Hopefully the Hexcore whatever this is will finish…whatever this is…soon and leave him in peace.
He cringes as a second and then third tendril enter him. The slide is smoother now, sliding deep into him. Together, they carve their way into him, pushing apart his walls with a roughness that reminds him of fumbling, juvenile encounters.
Unfortunately, Viktor was deprived of sexual encounters ever since the founding of Hextech, and the meager push and pull of it all is getting to him. He grits his teeth. A glancing press to his G-spot has him involuntarily clenching his thighs. He can't help but pant faintly as more of those cursed tethers enter him, until the combined thickness of them equal the thickness of an average-sized dick. They all thrust at their own pace, some pushing at the end of his canal while some pull at the rim of his entrance. The pacing is chaotic, each of them going at a different rhythm, until one of them happens to brush against his cock.
Viktor moans out loud before clapping a hand over his mouth. His hips buck involuntarily. All movements pause, before everything resumes with a frantic air.
There's a new pressure on his cock, like a lover firmly grinding against him. Viktor buries his face in his forearms, hunched over, whimpering faintly into his skin as yet more tendrils enter him, stretching him beyond what he’s experienced.
He pushes onto his elbows and looks down. The meager flesh of his belly distorts rhythmically, something visibly pumping in and out of him. His arms shudder where they brace against the workbench. This position is rough on him. His muscles tremble with fatigue, yet he cannot move away. Invisible weights hold him in place—legs trapped by his pants and brace, arms held halfway across the surface of the workstation. The unseen appendages continue to fuck into him, prying apart sore walls, filling him to the brim.
The blood dripping out of him has spread down his thighs, soaking into his clothing. He hears quiet whimpering and realizes it's him. Mortification flares through him as it truly hits him: that he is currently being fucked by a device he helped build. A scientific marvel which may currently be possessed by a force he cannot yet understand.
Oh gods, a device he built with Jayce. Who could walk in at any moment.
Jayce might see him like this.
Viktor rushes to clap his hands back over his mouth as he lets out a hoarse cry and gushes more fluids and blood for the Hexcore to consume.
He comes down slowly, legs shaking hard enough that the Hexcore is the only thing holding him up. The tendrils continue moving—if anything, they speed up, assaulting his oversensitive walls and cock with an an onslaught of sensation. Viktor can't help the way he writhes.
Liquid trickles from between his fingers, and Viktor raises his hands to his eyes.
Blood. Another nosebleed.
The Hexcore wastes no time, twining blinding ribbons around and between his fingers, covering his blood-soaked skin. More tendrils reach towards his face. Viktor flinches away. The tendril around his neck hauls him forward, forcing him to allow the Hexcore to explore his face. It absorbs the blood from his lips and chin, tickling the inside of his mouth where his lips part, though he shakes his head frantically when it attempts to invade his nostrils. The Hexcore pauses before it seems to accept this boundary.
Viktor becomes aware of a new sensation. One of the intrusions inside him is pushing once again at the end of his canal, this time with more force. It plays with his cervix, like a tongue lapping at the very end of his hole. He shivers at the deep, stinging ache, instinctively shuffling forward in a futile attempt to move away, only for to be tugged back into position by the bonds around his leg. There's a sharp pain, followed by a wave of nausea, so intense that for a moment Viktor forgets where he is.
A shocked noise tears out of him. That’s his cervix. There's no way something will go inside—nothing should. It was made to remain closed. Surely it wouldn't—
But the Hexcore is seeking out blood. Short of invading his veins, what other way can it obtain more?
It truly hits Viktor that at this moment, he is at the complete mercy of an entity he doesn't understand. What if it doesn't plan to stop at this?
What is mere human anatomy to an entity like the Hexcore?
He flails in his bonds, pushing himself up, kicking his one free leg. “Let me go!” Bolstered by a new rush of panic, he struggles.
The bonds around him tighten, pulling him flat to the workbench. The tendril rubbing against him works faster, making Viktor groan between his teeth. That deep, nauseating prodding is back, along with the sharp pain, and Viktor breathes hard through his nose, trying to maintain his sanity as the pain and nausea climbs. The pressure inside him mounts, until finally something gives, and he feels the invading tendril pops inside that final, untouched part of him.
Viktor sobs. The dam breaks, tears pour down his face as the Hexcore invades his womb. The pressure against his cock is back, barely anything against the onslaught of sensation as multiple lengths move inside of him, caressing parts of him that nothing should ever touch. Other tendrils massage the outside of his cervix, some grinding against that spot inside him in a bid to force pleasure from him. Everything is wet and bloody, the smell of iron strong in the air. His hole is so open, he hysterically wonders if it will ever close again. There are tendrils in his mouth, fucking into his throat, warping the uncontrollable noises pouring from his mouth. The sensory onslaught overwhelms him, and if Viktor comes again, it's only because of pure mechanical inevitability.
He seizes around the lengths inside him, legs spasming in their bonds. Nothing slows or stops, forcibly dragging out his orgasm until his eyes roll back in his head and his thrashes like a fish out of water.
A voice surfaces from within his mind. Maybe we don’t need to make him see you, it says, its tone disgustingly adoring. Maybe you just need somebody to see you. Would you like that, Viktor?
Let us in.
Viktor shakes his head wildly.
Viktor…
The pleasure-pain crescendos, and before he knows it, Viktor comes again, limbs seizing painfully tight, before he goes completely limp, and everything goes black.
Viktor wakes with a start, face pressed to the floor. Somehow it’s not yet dawn. The lab is still dark, the room only illuminated by the rich blue of Hextech.
He groans and pushes himself up. His body protests the move, loudly. He feels like a cleaning rag used for scrubbing then brutally wrung dry.
Something in the back of his mind whispers his name. He ignores it.
The air is heavy with the metallic tang of iron. He startles and raises his hand to look. It's covered in red. Both his hands are, red flakes which slowly fall off his skin. He brushes fingers along his upper lip—more dried blood. It's even on his chin and throat.
He looks down at himself to see bared skin, crumpled clothing, tracks of red crust across his lower stomach and down his thighs. He's covered in it. More blood flakes off as he sits up in horror. There's even blood smeared underneath him.
A cramp crests over him, and he grits his teeth, pushing down on his abdomen to curb the ache.
He spots his crutch leaning neatly against the workstation where he left it and makes his way over as best as he can. The transition to standing is rough, and Viktor makes full use of the nearest wall as he contemplates the Hexcore. It spins slowly in its stand, docile, as if to mock him. Viktor huffs and goes about the task of cleaning his blood off everything.
Jayce won’t believe him. Jayce has every faith that they will conquer magic, that they can bend its will to aid mankind. Even so, Viktor has no desire to taint Jayce’s dream with…this. It seems perfectly fine with cooperating, as long as it has access to Viktor. For Jayce, that’s a price he's willing to pay.
With one last look at the Hexcore, he locks up the lab and begins the slow trudge home.