The universe, in its infinite and perverse wisdom, operates on a basis of irony. A case in point: over the last few weeks, I, a millennial entity who has seen galaxies born and empires turn to dust, have gained a glorious new title. It was not 'Destroyer of Worlds' or 'Knower of Arcane Secrets'. It was 'The Singer from The Last Drop'. Frankly, the humiliation was almost poetic.
My little performance in that noisy bar had unforeseen consequences. The main one being that Morgana now insisted on dragging me to 'The Last Drop' at least once or twice a week. She claimed that Zaun's 'vibrant energy' was a 'necessary antidote to the suffocating formality of Piltover'. Translation: she enjoyed observing the human zoo in its natural habitat, and I was her official excuse to visit. Not that I minded. The ale Vander refused to give me was still awful, but his purple fruit juice was passable, and the honest smell of burnt oil and survival was still preferable to the rancid perfume of Piltovan hypocrisy.
And then there were the children. That little tribe of misfits that orbited Vander. The first time we went back, they had watched us with a renewed wariness. The second time, the wariness had turned to curiosity. On the third, the dam broke. Now, every time we walked through that door, we were greeted by a chaotic chorus.
"Look! The Singer from The Last Drop is here!" Powder would always shout first, her face lit up behind those enormous goggles, as if I were some kind of legendary celebrity. Her enthusiasm was so pure it was almost painful.
"Singer? I've heard chickens with tuberculosis sing more in tune than she does," Mylo would always retort from some dark corner.
"And I've seen amoebas with a greater capacity for intelligent dialogue than you, Mylo. Yet we continue to coexist," I would reply without even looking in his direction, which seemed to irritate him even more. Claggor would laugh with his mouth full of something, Vi would roll her eyes with the drama of a war veteran, and Vander would serve us our usual drinks with the resigned sigh of a man who has seen it all.
[Warning: Familiarity levels with Zaunite juvenile units have exceeded the recommended safety parameters for the maintenance of emotional detachment. Risk of affection developing: 47% and rising.]
That night, we had barely sat down before Powder was at our side, dragging a chair over and placing a new contraption on the table with the ceremony of one revealing a treasure. It was a glorious abomination: a jumble of spiralled copper wires, randomly sized cogs, and a glass tube that glowed with an unstable blue liquid.
"This one's going to work!" she declared, her voice full of a certainty only ignorance can provide. "I'm going to make it light up a lamp! Do you want to see?"
Morgana smiled encouragingly. I, on the other hand, leaned forward with the expression of a doctor examining a terminal illness. I saw at a glance three fundamental circuit errors, two shoddy solders, and a 93% probability of a small but noisy explosion.
I took an improvised screwdriver from my belt, a habit I'd picked up from living in Piltover, and tapped one of the wires with the tip.
"Ah, I see," I said, in the tone of someone commenting on the weather. "Your induction coil is inverted, and you've connected the positive lead from the battery directly to the discharge capacitor. So, instead of a controlled flow of energy, what you're going to get in approximately three seconds is…"
*BOOM!*
A cloud of harmless blue smoke, smelling of burnt hopes, engulfed our table. Claggor, who was nearby, coughed dramatically. Vander didn't even turn around; just picked up a different cloth to wipe the bar. It was clearly a recurring event.
The smoke cleared to reveal a soot-faced Powder, her hair standing on end and her eyes wide behind her goggles. But it was not frustration I saw in them. It was pure, unadulterated admiration.
"You knew! You knew exactly what was going to happen! You really DO understand this stuff!"
I shrugged, scratching my ear as if it were nothing. "I understand failure. I've blown up about fifty prototypes that looked a lot like that one in my cellar. Want some real advice?" She nodded fervently. "Always keep a bucket of sand nearby. Water doesn't always work on chem-fire."
She let out a nervous laugh. For some reason, the sight of her indomitable hope made me soften my tone. "But the concept is sound. You have talent," I admitted, and the words felt strange coming from my mouth. "Look, if you want, stop by our shop after hours. I've got a workshop in the cellar. We can build something that might only blow up half of Zaun, instead of the whole city."
Powder's face lit up as if I had just handed her a Hex-crystal. Her smile was so radiant I had to look away. It was too much.
While Powder's radioactive cuteness was still contaminating me, Mylo decided it was his time to shine. He sidled up to Morgana, propped his elbow on the table with a poorly rehearsed confidence, and attempted a wink that looked more like a facial spasm.
"So, gorgeous," he said, his voice trying to sound deeper. "Are you married? Because, you know… if you're not, the boyfriend position is officially open."
Morgana, who had seen demons writhe and kingdoms die, raised a single, elegant eyebrow, unmoved. "How old are you, little insect?"
"I'll be thirteen this year," he bragged. "But I have the maturity of a fifteen-year-old."
She crossed her arms, amusement dancing in her ancient eyes. "In that case, you are still at least three hundred and fifty years short of meeting my standards."
The bar around us exploded in laughter. Vi laughed so hard she nearly fell off her chair. Claggor spat out his drink. Powder, mortified by her brother, buried her face in her hands. Mylo turned the colour of a Piltovan tomato.
"It was just a joke!" he stammered, trying to salvage what was left of his dignity.
"Keep it up, and your entire existence will be one," Morgana retorted, without a shred of pity but with a smile that took all the venom from the words.
Still recovering from her laughter, Vi slammed a hand on our table and faced me, her grey eyes glinting with a challenge.
"Alright, Singer from The Last Drop. You talk pretty and you sing nice. But I'll bet five bronze cogs you can't take me in an arm-wrestle."
I sighed, the theatrical drama flowing naturally. "Seriously? Are we really regressing to a primate display of brute strength? Fine." I looked at her hand on the table. "But no crying when you lose, Bubblegum."
Instantly, a circle formed around us. It was Zaun in its purest form: any excuse for a bet and some contained violence was welcome. Vander even stopped what he was doing to watch, the smile of a father who knows he's about to get a good story.
We locked hands. Vi was strong. Surprisingly so for her age. She pushed with full force, the muscles in her arm taut, her teeth gritted in a snarl. I, in contrast, yawned. And then, with a simple twist of my wrist and a shift in my centre of gravity, *THUD!* Her hand slammed onto the wood with a dry sound.
The silence was followed by a collective "Oooooooh" from the crowd.
"HOW?!" Vi yelled, staring at her own hand as if it had betrayed her. "You look like a twig! I'm stronger than you!"
A crooked smile played on my lips. "Being stronger is useless if you don't know how to use your strength. Strength isn't just muscle, it's leverage. It's technique. Want me to show you?"
She glared at me, her wounded pride at war with her curiosity. Curiosity won. "Again," she growled.
She lost again. And again. And on the fourth try, I let her struggle, holding her in the middle.
"Witchcraft! This is witchcraft!" she complained, sweat shining on her forehead.
"It's not witchcraft, it's physics," I said, now with an almost professorial air. "Look, you're using just your bicep. It's a beginner's mistake. You have to use your whole body like a chain. Lock your wrist, use your shoulder's weight to press down, and breathe the force out in the flow, not in a shout. Think like a compression spring, not a hammer."
She absorbed the instructions, her brain clearly working. We tried again. She lost, but this time, I felt her technique shift. She managed to hold me for almost five seconds. A monumental improvement.
"See? Better already," I said, releasing her hand. "With a bit more practice and less blind rage, you might be able to beat me in a few years."
She huffed, massaging her wrist, but behind the frustration, I saw a glint of genuine respect in her eyes. She hadn't won the match, but she had gained a secret. And for someone like Vi, knowledge was a far more valuable prize.
The night went on like that, between laughter, taunts, and plans. Powder was already showing me diagrams for a 'low-intensity sonic detonator' (a fancy name for a firecracker). Mylo was still recovering from his humiliation, and Vi was already challenging me to a rematch next week. Morgana just watched it all, the serene smile never leaving her face.
It was a scene of almost shocking normality. Just an ordinary night in Zaun. But for those children, and, I reluctantly admit, for us, it was one of those rare and precious moments when life, even amidst the smoke and the rust, seemed surprisingly simple and good.
[End of night conclusion: Group dopamine levels increased by an average of 23%. New alliances formed. No objects exploded catastrophically. Result: surprisingly successful. Recommend repeating the experiment.]