Zaun, Year 992 – Four years after Lukas disappeared.
---
Zaun never stopped moving. Time passed, and so did what little peace It had left. After Vander's death, the Undercity collapsed into chaos.
Crime is in control now.
Silco rules the Lanes.
He didn't rebuild them. He infected them.
The streets are unrecognizable. Gangs mark every wall, and addicts stagger through alleys like ghosts. Shimmer runs through the veins of this city as much as blood does.
That wretched drug—purple, glowing, rotten—has become part of daily life. Some say it helps them escape. Others say it helps them survive. Either way, it owns them now. And this city, this rotting husk, was never meant to be a home.
We're suffocated from above by Piltover. And below? We breathe the poison that Silco feeds us.
We used to pray to Janna. Every night.
We begged for her to save us from This.
But nothing happened.
the time for prayers is over.
Now... it's time for action.
"It's not too late to turn back, Ekko."
Her voice crackles through my Radio. One of my New inventions, this one lets us communicate over long distances without wires. I built It inspired by the wireless Telegraph we invented.
"Sera, I need to do this."
"I know...Just be careful. Please."
Seraphine's worried. She always is. And she's probably right to be. But I can't stop now.
We have known each other for Two years Now, she is one of the reasons I haven't gone insane yet.
I adjust my binoculars and focus on the building ahead—Fontaine Futuristics. It used to be our refuge. A symbol of hope. A dream for the undercity.
Now it's a factory of despair.
After Lukas died, Silco moved fast. Took the factory, modernized it, expanded it. Now it mass-produces telegraphs, fueling his empire. The bastard is using our creation—our dream—to fund his drug Empire.
He stole everything from me.
Lukas. Powder. Vi. Vander. Benzo. Milo. Claggor.
He didn't just take names. He took my family. My home. My future.
Silco's takeover wasn't quiet. People fought back—at first. Protesters filled the streets, demanding a stop to the Shimmer trade. Asking for their neighborhoods back. Hoping for justice.
What they got was silence.
No bodies. Just disappearances. Families erased.
But our fire didn't die. It burned quieter. Hotter.
We realized nobody was coming to save us. That meant we had to become our own saviors.
We became the Sons of Rapture.
The legacy of the one who believed in us—believed in me—even if I only knew him briefly.
We are the orphans. The miners. The leftover workers from Fontaine. The abandoned and the pissed-off.
We are what happens when you push people too far.
"Everything's set, Ekko."
Scar, my second-in-command, nods at me from the rooftop. He's nervous, but solid. We've been through too much to turn back now.
"Let's roll," I say, pulling down my mask.
We leap off the building, hoverboards humming as we ride the dark wind toward the factory.
The moon is low, the city damp and trembling with tension. We land silently on the roof.
The factory's quiet—but not empty. I count at least seven guards patrolling outside.
"Look for an entrance," I tell Scar.
He nods and slips away. I stay behind and scan the perimeter. Then I see it.
Steel. Cold. Twisted.
His statue.
Lukas.
Even now, after everything, it's still there. Towering in front of the factory, arms open as if to welcome workers into a slaughterhouse. A monument to lies.
I still remember the unveiling.
The crowd. The silence. The fear.
---Flashback---
"For the boy who dared to dream of a better future! For Zaun!"
Silco's voice echoed through the square.
The statue was tall, glinting silver under the factory lights—eerily similar to the one they put up for Vander.
I stood in the crowd that day. I shouldn't have gone, but I had to see it. I had to know.
We all knew he had blood on his hands. Lukas and Vander didn't die by accident.
But no one spoke. The Barons watched from their perches, armed and smug. One of them, a pale-faced baroness with a ratty smile, clapped like it was the greatest show on earth.
"To keep Lukas' dream alive," Silco continued,
"Fontaine Futuristics will now operate under me."
Of course it would.
"His dream of a better Zaun must continue. It is our duty to ensure that future."
My hands trembled. I clenched them so tight my nails cut into my palms.
I bled, but I didn't scream.
This isn't over, I thought.
---
"Found a way in, Ekko," Scar calls. I blink and snap back to reality.
He's pointing to a ventilation shaft.
"How many Fuckers?" he asks.
"Seven outside. No clue how many more inside."
We climb through the vents—tight, grimy, rusted. The air is thick with machine oil and old memories.
After a few tense minutes, we drop into a room on the second floor.
Lukas' old office.
The desk is still here. Same one. Same dents. Same stains. A few scattered tools sit on top, along with the Blue Print for a strange Handgun and a strange grenade—painted, sharp.
I look deeply at It.
'I wish I could've saved you Pow...'
"You sure you're okay?" Scar asks, noticing how long I stare.
"He wouldn't want to see what this place became," I mutter.
"Yeah…" he agrees.
We move silently into the corridors, shadows swallowing us as we descend toward the factory floor.
The mission's just begun.
We move through Fontaine Futuristics, clinging to the shadows like ghosts. The factory is still—for now. But you can feel the rot under the surface. Decay lives here. Thrives here.
It used to be filled with voices, sparks, and laughter. Now it stinks of Shimmer, metal, and cheap survival.
Lights flicker on the factory floor, but most are off—Silco being a cheap bastard finally plays in our favor.
A Chem-Enforcer leans on a wall, too high to care. He's got a glassy look in his eye and a half-finished pipe glowing in his hand. We slip past him.
One less body to deal with later.
I pop open my pack and pull out the first explosive. Compact. Ugly. Deadly.
Stolen from the mines after weeks of digging through scrap and junk. Took us months to build them.
They're gonna sing tonight.
Scar nods to me and breaks off, heading toward the storage wing. I take the assembly floor. That's where the main conveyor belts are.
I place the first charge beneath a control panel. Timer: 4 minutes.
Second one near a support beam. Timer: 3 minutes.
Third one goes beneath the assembly line's core belt. I hit the switch. Timer: 5 minutes. Enough time to get out—barely.
Just as I'm finishing the last placement, I hear it.
"What the fuck are you doing here?!"
Scar.
I don't think. I just move.
I tear through the catwalks, hoverboard in hand, heart hammering. But before I even reach the sound, a body slams against a wall with a metal crunch.
Scar's alive—and still swinging.
"That's our cue," I hiss.
The alarms blare, and red lights flood the factory. Everything explodes into motion.
I jump on my hoverboard and launch downward, pipe in hand. We dive into chaos like wolves in a lightning storm.
A guard rushes me. I slam the pipe into his gut, then his face. He goes down, twitching.
Scar whips by, kicking another Enforcer into a pile of crates. For a moment, we're in sync—dodging, flying, smashing through the bastards trying to cage us in.
But we're running out of time.
I spot the door, and we break for it—hoverboards slicing through the air, engines whining. More Enforcers charge in through the main corridor.
Too slow.
We crash through them like wrecking balls and push outside.
Then—
Pain.
A crack. A flash of heat.
My leg explodes with fire.
"FUCK!"
I lose control. The board bucks under me, and I spiral off course. My body slams into something soft and collapsible—boxes, trash, doesn't matter.
I'm down. Hard.
And I'm bleeding.
Vision's blurry. Can't hear much over the ringing in my skull. I grab at my thigh—it's bad. Soaked through. Blood's gushing out in thick spurts.
Radio crackles weakly.
"Ekko… (static)… v—(static)—Go…"
Can't make it out. I must've broken the damn thing when I fell.
Then, voices.
"He landed somewhere around here!"
Shit.
They're close.
Too close.
I drag myself up. Can't stand fully. Can't run. But I can fight.
I clutch my pipe with shaking hands. Eyes scanning the dark alley for cover. There's none.
This is it.
"Fuck it."
I push myself upright, biting through the pain.
"If I'm going to hell… Im bringing the party down with me."
Fifteen Chem Enforcers round the corner. Faces lit red by the factory glow.
"You're fucking dead, Asshole."
"We're gonna gut you, street rat."
"Im going to fucking rape you bitch"
I raise my weapon.
"Come on!"
They charge.
And stop.
Mid-sprint.
Their rage drains in an instant.
Not because of me.
They're looking at something behind me.
What is this
My breath catches.
"There's something horrifying behind me… isn't there?"
They nod—just once. Pale. Frozen.
I turn.
The air ripples.
A hole in space hangs midair. A tear in the world, jagged and glowing like a fresh wound in the sky.
It hums. Pulses.
And then—
Something steps out.
A figure. Tall. Armored.
Helmeted. In some sort of driving suit.
A giant syringe fused to her arm.
"Is that a fucking syringe?!"
She glances at me. Just once.
Then turns to them.
Her visor flashes red.
She screams.
And launches forward.
---
The scream tears through the alley like a bomb.
It's not human.
It's metal scraping against glass. It's a soul cracking in two.
And it comes from her.
The woman—no, thing—in the diving-suit armor. Red visor blazing. Tubes hissing. And that giant syringe? It gleams like a weapon from hell itself.
She charges past me with the force of a missile, shoving the air aside as she launches herself into the crowd of Chem Enforcers.
The first one freezes, tries to run. Doesn't get the chance.
She lands on him—full weight—and drives the syringe straight through his skull. He doesn't even scream. His body twitches, then goes limp. Blood sprays across the alley wall in an arc.
The others snap out of their shock and open fire. scrap bullets, and chemical rounds fill the air.
She doesn't care.
She welcomes it.
She lifts her hand—palm open—and the closest three men are ripped off the ground and slammed into the wall. I hear bones shatter on impact. One of them twitches. The other two don't.
Wait what?
The rest break and run, tripping over each other in blind panic.
Big mistake.
She raises her arm.
Flames pour from her gauntlet like a demon's breath. The alley glows orange, heat licking at my face. Screams rise—panicked, animalistic.
They burn.
She doesn't stop until the last one drops.
Then... silence.
The alley crackles with the smell of ozone and scorched flesh. Smoke rises off the corpses. The only sound left is the soft hiss of her armor.
Why...
WHY does This feel so familiar??
WHAT IS THIS?!
"Hey there, little man."
No way.
It can't be
I look behind me again
...
...
...
"Kept you waiting, huh?"
"LUKAS?!"