Deep in the Undercity, on the edge of the fissures, a phenomenon of a phenomenon is being observed. The Gray–a daily reminder of Piltover’s oppression to all that breathe–is simply gone. The thick factory smog, most of it trapped underground decades ago during the peak of heavy mining industry in Zaun, has been thinned out by an unknown filter. To the small crowd of five gangsters that watch, the sight is something of a small miracle, if not bewildering.

  A skinny man slouches next to a rotted wooden beam, peering down the dark, abyssal tunnel that stretches on endlessly into the abandoned mines. Soft, orange lantern light shines on his gaunt face, emphasizing the apprehension in his features, “B-Boss, where would these shafts even lead?”

  The boss in question moves his crooked jaw awkwardly, strutting forward on spindly, mechanical legs that are entirely out of proportion of his body–it’s obvious to all present he wouldn’t be nearly as tall if not for the prosthetics. His brown fur stands on end as he looks down the mines, the haunting spectre of the Gray nowhere to be seen. Its absence does not reassure, instead forming a bloated weight in his stomach that flushes through his body, taking every ounce of courage with it, “W-well, they just head to some empty veins, nothin’ to worry about… everything should be long dead.”

  The skinny man, Heenot, shakily runs a mechanical hand through his greasy hair, adjusting his small top hat as he does, “Wouldn’t o-our targets b-be long dead t-too?”

  His boss, Smeech, chuckles nervously, grinding his sharp teeth together. A long fang hangs out the side of his mouth, lightly scraping across his furry chin. The yordle moves forward, extending his bionic arms out to punch the rotted wood. With a loud crack, the beam splinters. As the sound reverberates down the cave, the rocky walls glow with pallid light. The source is a fungus that covers most of the stone, shining when it receives a loud sound. An odd but welcome quirk that adds to the many reasons Zaun is such a good mining spot.

  Smeech grabs Heenot by the shoulder and shoves the man forward, gesturing to the tunnel which is quickly dimming, “Lead the way,” he chuckles.

  The rest of the group follow quietly behind, the few without metal hands clapping frequently to maintain the guiding light through the tunnels. Though, even with vision, minutes pass without the slightest trace of their targets. When the group reaches a T-section, Smeech turns and addresses his men.

  “Alright, listen up grunts! One of you stays back at the entrance and wait for me. Set up a camp or somethin’, I don’t care, just if we don’t return by dawn go get a search party. Capiche?”

  A series of nods later, and Smeech is left with one less meat shield, “Brain guy,” He points to Heenot, “Make markers; I don’t wanna get lost down here, ‘Specially not with Margot’s horny goons,” Smeech shivers at the thought, taking his tall, green top hat off to wipe the sweat from his brow. He punches the wall, illuminating his surroundings before they all begin to descend the left path.

  Not even five minutes down the tunnel, Smeech ear’s flick up suddenly. He lifts his fist to halt the group, shushing them so he can listen better. From behind him, he swears he can hear a distant, blood-curdling scream. It’s faint, but unmistakable. Normally, the sounds of murder would be a pleasant alarm clock in the Undercity, a fine way to know when people are starting to get out and about. This time, however, the only person who the chembaron knows is behind them is his contingency runner, “Boys, ready for a fight. Murder screams, back where we came.”

  Smeech licks his lips, a flicker of excitement passing through his bionics at the thought of getting to let loose. It’s been a while since he had a real fight, Silco always prevented him for some reason or other. Usually he cited ‘the negatives of infighting’ or would say ‘you’re somehow more useful alive.’ Bleh, what a joke. Silco was just mad he couldn’t fight that well himself. Otherwise, the kingpin would’ve been throwing that knife of his around left and right. Nah, Silco ran the Undercity through sheer ferocity, though the muscle he didn’t do himself. Unlike the late kingpin, Smeech knows he’ll enjoy personally gutting people when he’s finally in charge.

  The group backtracks to the entrance, following Heenot’s simple stake marker by taking a left turn. As Smeech grins and laughs, his arms unfold into four blades each, creating a sharp, rapidly spinning fan of death. Any in its path would be mutilated as shown by the orange sparks being constantly knocked up as the metal slashes across the stone.

  While he cackles, the whirring of his blade arms fabricate a terrifying spectacle. But, as he reaches the exit, his excitement fades. Ahead lies a makeshift camp equipped with all the essentials of the fissures. Most noticeably, a small tent is propped up, tied to pitons that are buried into the cave walls. That tent, though, is covered with fresh rips, chunks of fabric billowing in the wind and flying away. Smeech looks at his lone goon, his jaw grinding, “Are you shittin’ me?”

  The man, stumbling around the ruined campsite like a lost idiot, twists his head toward the mechanically enhanced yordle, “Sorry… boss? I appear to have… tripped. Perchance.”

  Smeech scowls. The fire pit is smothered by a filthy tarp, the lantern his henchman carried around is broken on the ground, small embers still clinging on to life. Other than that and the tent, most objects are knocked over or seem to have been thrown in a struggle. It goes without saying: the damage is in no way localized to a teensie little trip. The man himself is where Smeech’s annoyance starts to shift into something much different. His goon is leaning back at an odd angle, arms limp, staring at him blankly. It feels like the henchman doesn’t know why he’s there; Simply awaiting orders that Smeech had already given back in the tunnels.

  Heenot speaks up first, remaining behind Smeech, “Cal, hey, Boss said you were screaming?” The boss in question only tenses up, keeping his blades out.

  “Yes. Tripping startled me, as it does. You should return… doing your thing,” Smeech swears on his life, he only blinked. In that time, his goon’s arched back and strangely twisted head is fixed, his posture ominously normal.

  The yordle grabs him by the throat, the man’s skin pierced easily by his claws, “Listen up: I don’t like secrets. You tell me exactly what’s going on, or you’re not gonna like what comes next. Got it?”

  The barest hint of a smile crosses the goon’s face. The claws tighten in return, drawing blood which leaks with an oddly lethargic pace down his neck, “I understand.”

  Smeech drops him next to a knocked over barrel, flicking his forehead. Despite the harmlessness of the gesture, his claw nicks the skin, leaving a white mark on the face.

  “Okay, so I was… carrying a tarp to put under the tent, but I tripped and hit the fire, accidentally grabbed the tent, and… hopped around cus’ my foot hurt from the burns—“

  Smeech stops him with a simple order, “Take your shoes off.”

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  “S-sir?”

  “Take. Your. Shoes. Off,” Smeech’s vicious tone makes it clear he won’t ask again. His claws are still out, shining gently in the faint glow of the green chemicals that fill his mechanical limbs.

  His henchman slowly removes his work, leather-made shoes. Filthy and stained, he drops them to the side. Smeech’s bloodshot eyes focus in on the calloused skin, a few warts and sheets of dead skin catching his eye, but otherwise: nothing. Smeech looks back at Heenot with a wide-toothed grin, relishing in the horror on the accountant’s face.

  When Smeech turns back to the bare-footed man, raising his claws in preparation to end him, he pauses, confusion clouding his bloodthirsty gaze. Scorch marks now cover the feet and shoes, marking the damaged skin with blisters. When Smeech pokes at it, the man winces, and the charred spots are still warm. Even the leather shoes have evidence of fire now, “What the fuck..?”

  Smeech’s clouds that fill in his eyes turn to a red mist. He growls and swings, slicing the grunt’s neck with cruel lethality. His body drops to the ground, the goon spasming and clawing at his throat as blood pools inside it.

  Not only were the scorch marks much too severe to be from the idiot just stepping on a fire—who even does that?—but he swears on the most honest yordle they weren’t there moments ago. He won’t be tricked by anyone, let alone a little henchman.

  “B-boss? Why?” Heenot backs away in terror. Smeech’s other men are scared, but hide it well, knowing any movements might draw his wrath. He can smell their fear, and, if he weren’t so confused as to how the marks appeared, he’d be delighted.

  “None of you can trick me, you hear?” Smeech lifts up the corpse, the body feeling strangely strange in his hands. Something is off—the texture, the weight, all of it—but he can’t pinpoint how.

  He throws the body aside, tossing it onto the covered fire pit for the crows to feast: It’ll make it easier to collect the mechanical parts. He grinds his teeth and points to one of the four remaining goons, “You, stay here and keep lookout; If you mess up, I’ll have your head on watch instead.”

  Smeech shoves the new man on watch toward the ruined camp without the barest hint of tact, watching him stumble with a twisted satisfaction. He ignores Heenot’s shaking form and grabs him by the shoulder, pulling him along with the rest of the goons.

  He takes the same route as before, wandering down the spontaneously illuminated tunnels until he finds Margot’s people. The goons sent down here were supposedly quite important, some of her most valued henchmen. Stuck inside these caves, he decided it would be a great opportunity for ambush. If his men weren’t so incompetent, he’d be in charge of all of the Undercity by now.

  In the past few minutes, he’s gotten used to the rhythmic clapping that brightens the cave, the loud sound creating an explosion of light that makes his eyelids shudder a bit each time. But, that rhythm changes: instead of a clap, he hears a loud bang, a type of sound he’d imagine would only be heard in the confines of an industrial district. The horrid noise of heavy metal scraping against stone forces him to look back, ready to impale whatever caused it. But, when he looks back, only the dim visage of Heenot’s and one other goon is visible.

  “There were three of you,” Smeech says slowly, his voice dry and scratchy, “Where’d the other one go?”

  Heenot and the other have no terror on their faces, only blank faces, “You put him outside.”

  Smeech backs away, their calm expressions uncanny, “Don’t play with me… I brought five grunts with me, as always. Dealt with that trickster and then replaced him… So, there should be three of you!”

  Heenot simply points to himself, then to the grunt, and then to Smeech, “Yeah, there’s three.”

  “No… I…?” Smeech looks around, scanning for anything to validate his claims. Despite the obscenely loud, impossible to ignore noise he heard, those accompanying him look entirely oblivious. He isn’t going crazy… no, he can’t be. He knows how many people he brought with him, he knows what happened. It wasn’t long ago, he remembers clearly. Why are so many strange things happening?

  In a fit of frustration, Smeech slams one of his chemtech legs into the stone floor. Sparks fly up and the loud screeching causes the fungus to light up as usual. A flash of steel out of the corner of his makes him question his sanity, because when he turns to look, it’s gone without a trace. There are no marks on the ground, no disturbances at all aside from what he and his gang left. He’s going to go insane down here…

  “Fellas, we’re headin’ back. This ain’t worth it,” Smeech whips around, ready to pull his men out, but there’s only a flicker of transient blue light. Faster than he can blink, the ray of color is gone, just like his goons. It’s as if he imagined it, a figment of a panicking mind.

  “H-Hey? Grunts! You better get out here quick! I-if one of you’s messing with me…”

  No response.

  As the light dims, Smeech weakly strikes the wood. But, his nervous, jittery hand fails to elicit some much needed illumination from the white mushrooms. He looks to the wooden beam and desperately punches it again and again, splintering the rotted planks. He finally hits it hard enough to trigger the light, drowning the caves in bright white radiance.

  Smeech sprints up the light incline, his metal feet clanking against the stone. He slows down at the first intersection, glancing around to check for the small stake Heenot left to signify the exit tunnel. Spotting it, he sprints past, taking a right turn, bolting down the indicated passage. The lantern light signifying the exit shines like a beacon ahead of the fleeing yordle. But, after minutes of running, he feels no closer. Smeech grasps the side of the wall and pants, crouching over exhausted. He really should’ve been out by now…

  “Are you lost?”

  Smeech growls, brandishing his blades toward the sweet, young voice. The accent sounds vaguely top-side, though with an odd flair he’s only heard a few times.

  Two, yellow ‘X’ shaped pupils shine in the tunnel, watching him curiously. His strained eyes manage to make out the faint silhouette of a Piltie girl. Fairly young, with long hair and a dress, she couldn’t be any more out of place if she tried. Smeech sweats, backing away at the uncanny girl. He realizes she’s coming from the way he came.

  “S-stay back, whatever you are… you one of the doctor’s fucked up things? I didn’t do nothing with Margot’s people! Leave me out of this!”

  “Doctor?” The voice shifts from its former timbre, taking on an inhuman, heavy monotone. Each word is slow and deliberate, carrying a mechanical weight that he feels could crush him at any moment.

  Something shoots out from the girls back, long like a branch, but with clear joints like an arm. Too many ligaments, with clearly visible tendons, bones, gears, and beams across the whole thing. At the end, a large claw like a crab slams into the wall. Gravel falls from the ceiling and the wooden supports creak, barely holding onto the immense weight of the stone above.

  As the mushrooms flare up, Smeech finally sees it. An enormous biomechanical centipede, spiraling across the walls and as far as he can see down the tunnel. Countless creepy, fleshy, metal-plated legs and bony spikes sprout from the revolting body. Dozens of cameras lurk next to the girl, who, illuminated clearly now, has rotted, poorly stitched skin and mechanical components all under her flesh. The lurid, yellow eyes watch him, a hint of amusement in their uniform gazes.

  The cameras all blink, and, in a flash of familiar blue light, his surroundings become unrecognizable. Every step he takes fleeing causes a sickening squelch. The cave floor and walls become flesh. Steaming and hot, it pulses like a living creature’s insides. Bony claws covered with wires break out from the flesh walls like parasites, grasping for him desperately like streetside beggars.

  Countless appendages erupt from the small girl, some ending in human hands, others in sharp points, and others in elongated, rusty claws. All of them scrape against the walls in a discordant tune, ripping through and tearing a path straight to Smeech.

  “What. Doctor?” The voice resounds again. The mushrooms are still in the flesh cave, though sandwiched between folds of bloody red meat, shining a sickly gold hue. Smeech starts to realize why the Gray disappeared when he takes in the respirating motions of the walls.

  “S-some guy who used to work for Silco… made shimmer…” Smeech falls to his butt, praying to anyone or anything that might listen. He doesn’t know what this thing is or what it wants, but maybe there’s a deal to be made. If he knows something this monster wants, maybe this doesn’t have to be the end… it won't kill him immediately, then.

  “Oh. That. Purple. Junk. I. wonder…”

  “Uh, y-yeah?” Smeech responds, his eyes and mind fruitlessly searching for any way out of this mess, ignoring the sheer disgust in the creature’s voice at the mention of Silco’s trump card, “I think it’s time for me to go… I got a meeting soon…” Smeech lies, slowly getting up, trying his luck with leaving.

  “Mmm. No~” Smeech watches in horror as the girl licks her lips, an arm reaching out to push him back down, “You’ll. Miss. Snack. Time. Silly.”

  He barely has time to register her movements before his mechanical limbs are ripped from his body, the flesh and steel that compose him are torn asunder in an instant. He manages to make out the macabre image of the girl lifting up his arm and high-fiving herself. But, the true final sights he sees are the mess of blood and chemtech, red and green, coating his matted fur, and the suspended, lifeless heads of his men held up like abandoned puppets. Then, he finally slips away, dying before the same is done to him.