It wasn't all too unusual to see young men confined to chairs in the Zaun Hospital, their bodies wrecked by only God knows what chemicals. But what made this particular patient interesting was his patchwork flesh. Countless skin-grafts had left him with the Pied Piper's outfit for a birthday suit. Even his eyes didn't match, having had to surgically replace one of them after being blinded in a chemical "accident."
Heh. Accident. His eyes slid listlessly across the room as he tasted that word on the tip of his tongue. It brought back fond, but painful memories. Back when he could move under his own power. It was only about ten years ago, just a few years before the Ionian campaign. He'd been one of many, he himself was numbered seven hundred and seventy-seven. All of the assistants were referred to by number, instead of name. He'd been told that his number was lucky. He'd also been told he was lucky to still be alive.
He was one of Warwick's many assistants, each of them clamoring for the glorious position as his protégé. He'd also been fast friends with the front runner amongst them, a man he saw as his equal, numbered three hundred and thirteen. He'd mused it was an unlucky number, it had thirteen in it two different ways. Of course, 3-1-3 went on to become Singed. Heh. Luck.
The friendship was something of a respectful rivalry, each of them trying to outdo the other. Eventually they realized what Warwick had intended all of the chemists to realize: the winner of the prize would be the last one left standing. That's when the "accidents" started happening. 777, or Trips as most people called him, had been among the first to experience such an "accident." He mulled over that word again, focusing in on that first time.
One of his empty beakers had been laced with a chemical. When he poured in an unstable concoction, the whole thing exploded in his face. The burns were severe, he needed skin-grafts. He was back at the lab in all of a week. These days, Trips savors those deliciously subtle ironies of the past. Chemists killing each other with chemistry. Heh. He hadn't even realized the humor of it at the time.
He wasn't just a victim either, he arranged for his fair share of "accidents" to happen. 216, 965, 867, 530, all of them victims of his own brand of deadly pranks. The ranks thinned, and Trips survived attack after attack after attack. Soon, there was just himself and 313.
They went back and forth, frequently sending each other to the hospital for medical attention. Exploding beakers, melted shoes, "accidental" chemical spills, mislabeled bottles, noxious fumes. Almost every weapon in a chemist's armory was pulled out and used. Singed found a cure though. A way to strengthen his body, using the very chemicals they assaulted each other with and a mix of magic.
Trips failed to do so. By the time he'd developed his own counter-measure, it was far too late for his body. In the span of a year, just before the outbreak of the war, he'd been reduced to needing a motorized chair for movement. Singed had won the competition. By the time the war ended, he needed to be fed by nurses. The fondness in the memories sharply turned to bitter recollection. In his mind, it was luck, happenstance, that led to Singed's discovery, not genius. That position was rightfully his. And it had been Warwick that had turned the two on each other. Bitterness turned to anger, turned to hate.
A knock on the door frame brought him from his memories to the present. He didn't recognize his visitor. His hair was cut short and dark, he wasn't very tall, but wasn't short either. He didn't even have the good courtesy of having a memorable face.
"No. 777. Such a sad state for a brilliant mind like yours to be in." The tone and the accent reminded him of Noxian's he had once had dealings with. But it was a little off. He didn't bother acknowledging the man's presence.
"But I can change that. What if I told you I could give the chance to ruin Singed? To destroy Warwick? What would you say to that." Trips' listless eyes suddenly focused on the man, filled with a burning hate. "Ah...so you're still alive in there after all."
"Not alive. Nothing but a shell. Nothing but hate," He growled out. Trips' own voice had a gravelly feel to it.
"You'd need surgery. Muscle replacements, various chemical injections. But my backers think you could be useful. They think they can make a champion out of you. Do you think you could survive it?"
Trips smiled. "My body's seen worse."
I typically don't read very much fanfic, but I decided to give this one a go. (It might have been the first couple, very graphic, sentences... my mind is wierd like that ><)
Yeah, I'm very glad I did give it a read... But now I'm dissapointed, because I want more
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