not here here in the engine room - though that's true enough as well, but...here. here aboard the grandest ship the world had ever seen with a third class ticket in his pocket that took month's worth of his parents' wages to secure, heavy with expectations and the whisper of things he'd never stopped dreaming of despite the arbitrary limitations placed on his shoulders. here with a suitcase stuffed to the brim with thick leather-bound books worn from sleepless nights and the turn of pages over and over and over, quick scribbles in the margins and the index, extra notes and newspaper clippings - anything he could get his hands on surrounding the ship's maiden voyage and his own personal concoctions. some were years in the making, others momentary ideas lacking the resources to either physically conceptualize or disprove any of his limitless theories around modern science, medicine, and invention.
he doesn't belong in the piltover academy uniform he's currently wearing, either. the cream vest and pristine tie knotted at his throat atop rich maroon fit him snugly, enough that it makes him stand that much straighter even with his limp and the knee brace below the finely woven dark pants. yet another item his parents had bestowed to him before a tearful goodbye, a sparkle in their eyes and the hope that their son would see his great potential finally recognized and reached somewhere outside of zaun's borders. somewhere it would actually be able to help others in more than just conjecture - those who made his own situation look like pure privilege in comparison, for example. some of the greatest minds of their time are aboard this ship somewhere, probably having tea in the reception room, serenaded by the quartet's whimsical notes...or later, in the smoking lounge with cigars and brandy in one hand while the other scrawled proposals on napkins or in expensive pocketbooks, hot-stamped with unmistakable initials as good as a signature and teeming with progress.
the dean of the academy is here. professor cecil b. heimerdinger, esteemed scientist, humanitarian, and inventor of his time. if he can just get even a few moments of his time...it could change everything for him. he's still working on refining which idea, what invention - he'll only have a few moments at best, but the uniform will buy him some time, not to mention access to the upper decks otherwise blocked off to the presumed riffraff any other zaunite might be automatically categorized as. his focus is much too important to be offended by as much - and being underestimated and overlooked based on where he comes from is as natural as the way he's learned to walk with his worsening condition. better not to linger on the things that can't be changed, pouring himself to the brink of exhaustion into everything else that will set him free of these constraints.
but it's early. he can't go pestering anyone too soon and risk being confined to the lower levels for the duration of his stay. which also means he can afford himself a few stolen moments marveling at the engineering of the ship in other places he is technically not supposed to be either. but the men drenched in sweat and splotches of soot are much too focused on the sweltering, glimmering mouths of the furnaces they feed, shoveling a ton of coal every two minutes to keep it sailing so smoothly beneath his feet. they do little more than quirk a brow, mutter that he shouldn't be down here, and let the next man he steps past follow suit.
remarkable, he whispers to himself, stopping for a moment to brush back some of the damp hair clinging to his forehead from the oppressive heat before pushing open the next door in his path.
it all happens so fast - the flurry of crisp white paper obscuring his view for a split second before someone is rambling at him with excuses. the sheets are a stark contrast to what is unmistakably piltover attire now marred with the hazards of their environment.
he's tall, whoever he is. nervous - enough that viktor senses immediately he must not belong down here either. the only difference is that he's not so good at showing it, when really it should be the reverse. there's no recognition for the man's strong features, just a quick once-over with a flash of of gold all the way to the floor before his eyes fix on one of the sketches that's landed face up.]
Both of the engines, 29 boilers and one Parsons' turbine, to be precise.
[his knees groan in protest, but he lowers himself very carefully onto his good one and reaches for some of the papers without any indication he plans to hand them back. after scanning over a few of them - a woman and daughter promenading on e-deck, a quick sketch of the propellers with a question on official speed recordings, and some sloppy notes centered around an outside project altogether, his eyes flick back up to pin the other intruder with discernment. and maybe if he looks closely he'll see the small glint of curiosity that's been piqued, too.
he should be able to tell viktor isn't buying his excuse for a moment by the wry note in his accent.]
You seem to know quite a lot for someone who is just passing through. Lost, as you said.
[only now does he offer the sheets over with an extension of his hand. but, the trade is clear:]
no subject
not here here in the engine room - though that's true enough as well, but...here. here aboard the grandest ship the world had ever seen with a third class ticket in his pocket that took month's worth of his parents' wages to secure, heavy with expectations and the whisper of things he'd never stopped dreaming of despite the arbitrary limitations placed on his shoulders. here with a suitcase stuffed to the brim with thick leather-bound books worn from sleepless nights and the turn of pages over and over and over, quick scribbles in the margins and the index, extra notes and newspaper clippings - anything he could get his hands on surrounding the ship's maiden voyage and his own personal concoctions. some were years in the making, others momentary ideas lacking the resources to either physically conceptualize or disprove any of his limitless theories around modern science, medicine, and invention.
he doesn't belong in the piltover academy uniform he's currently wearing, either. the cream vest and pristine tie knotted at his throat atop rich maroon fit him snugly, enough that it makes him stand that much straighter even with his limp and the knee brace below the finely woven dark pants. yet another item his parents had bestowed to him before a tearful goodbye, a sparkle in their eyes and the hope that their son would see his great potential finally recognized and reached somewhere outside of zaun's borders. somewhere it would actually be able to help others in more than just conjecture - those who made his own situation look like pure privilege in comparison, for example. some of the greatest minds of their time are aboard this ship somewhere, probably having tea in the reception room, serenaded by the quartet's whimsical notes...or later, in the smoking lounge with cigars and brandy in one hand while the other scrawled proposals on napkins or in expensive pocketbooks, hot-stamped with unmistakable initials as good as a signature and teeming with progress.
the dean of the academy is here. professor cecil b. heimerdinger, esteemed scientist, humanitarian, and inventor of his time. if he can just get even a few moments of his time...it could change everything for him. he's still working on refining which idea, what invention - he'll only have a few moments at best, but the uniform will buy him some time, not to mention access to the upper decks otherwise blocked off to the presumed riffraff any other zaunite might be automatically categorized as. his focus is much too important to be offended by as much - and being underestimated and overlooked based on where he comes from is as natural as the way he's learned to walk with his worsening condition. better not to linger on the things that can't be changed, pouring himself to the brink of exhaustion into everything else that will set him free of these constraints.
but it's early. he can't go pestering anyone too soon and risk being confined to the lower levels for the duration of his stay. which also means he can afford himself a few stolen moments marveling at the engineering of the ship in other places he is technically not supposed to be either. but the men drenched in sweat and splotches of soot are much too focused on the sweltering, glimmering mouths of the furnaces they feed, shoveling a ton of coal every two minutes to keep it sailing so smoothly beneath his feet. they do little more than quirk a brow, mutter that he shouldn't be down here, and let the next man he steps past follow suit.
remarkable, he whispers to himself, stopping for a moment to brush back some of the damp hair clinging to his forehead from the oppressive heat before pushing open the next door in his path.
it all happens so fast - the flurry of crisp white paper obscuring his view for a split second before someone is rambling at him with excuses. the sheets are a stark contrast to what is unmistakably piltover attire now marred with the hazards of their environment.
he's tall, whoever he is. nervous - enough that viktor senses immediately he must not belong down here either. the only difference is that he's not so good at showing it, when really it should be the reverse. there's no recognition for the man's strong features, just a quick once-over with a flash of of gold all the way to the floor before his eyes fix on one of the sketches that's landed face up.]
Both of the engines, 29 boilers and one Parsons' turbine, to be precise.
[his knees groan in protest, but he lowers himself very carefully onto his good one and reaches for some of the papers without any indication he plans to hand them back. after scanning over a few of them - a woman and daughter promenading on e-deck, a quick sketch of the propellers with a question on official speed recordings, and some sloppy notes centered around an outside project altogether, his eyes flick back up to pin the other intruder with discernment. and maybe if he looks closely he'll see the small glint of curiosity that's been piqued, too.
he should be able to tell viktor isn't buying his excuse for a moment by the wry note in his accent.]
You seem to know quite a lot for someone who is just passing through. Lost, as you said.
[only now does he offer the sheets over with an extension of his hand. but, the trade is clear:]
What is it you're really down here avoiding?