"Nothing important," Marcus replied with an easy smile, waving off Vander's curiosity. He moved to the bar and took a seat on one of the worn stools. "Just reminiscing about my mercenary days. Give me a glass of your best wine."
Seeing that Marcus wasn't going to elaborate, Vander withdrew his interest. In the undercity, excessive curiosity was a liability—asking too many questions was a good way to get yourself killed.
"Best wine? Well then." Vander's expression shifted to something almost proud. "This is from my personal collection. I don't usually bring it out for just anyone. Don't disappoint me."
He reached into a cabinet beneath the bar and withdrew a distinctive black bottle—a large container of aged rum he'd acquired years ago through means he rarely discussed.
Pouring a generous measure for Marcus, Vander leaned against the bar and spoke quietly.
"You said you were a mercenary in the past? You don't look like someone who's spent their life licking blood off knife edges."
"Haha, that was a very long time ago," Marcus replied, lifting the glass. "I haven't worked as a merc in many years."
He drank the rum in one smooth motion. The taste was... not great, at least by his standards. No matter how many years passed or how many different worlds he visited, Marcus had never developed an appreciation for alcohol's flavor.
Thud thud thud—
A man rushed up to the bar, breathing hard from exertion. He leaned close to Vander and spoke urgently.
"A house in Piltover was blown up. Someone saw it was done by a group of kids."
The words made Vander fall silent, his expression tightening with recognition. He understood immediately what this meant. His adopted children had gotten into trouble again—serious trouble, involving Piltover property. He'd have to pay dearly to smooth this over, assuming it could even be smoothed over.
"I understand," Vander said after a long moment of heavy silence.
No matter what the children had done, he would face the consequences. That was his responsibility as their guardian.
"Hmm... those children are yours?" Marcus asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
The timing was perfect—too perfect. Marcus hadn't expected to arrive at such a pivotal moment in this timeline.
"Sounds like they're quite the handful!" Marcus's smile widened with genuine amusement and anticipation. He was looking forward to meeting Vi and the others.
Vander wiped a hand across his face, then straightened his posture and forced his expression back to something more neutral. No matter what consequences waited tomorrow, they'd still get through today. That was how you survived in the undercity.
"Yes, they're extremely troublesome," Vander admitted. "Or maybe it's just that people from the undercity and Piltover are naturally incompatible. Oil and water."
He felt helpless about his children's behavior, but he also understood that he owed a debt to their parents. Taking care of these kids was the least he could do to honor those who'd fallen.
Seeing Vander's resigned expression, Marcus chuckled.
"Do me a favor, and I'll help you settle this matter."
The offer made Vander look up in confusion, his weathered features showing genuine bewilderment.
He could see that Marcus wasn't from Piltover—despite the fine clothes and obvious wealth, there was something fundamentally different about him. And even if Marcus was rich, money from an outsider wouldn't necessarily mean anything to Piltover's elite.
"You?" Vander's skepticism was evident. "You're clearly a foreigner. You probably know even fewer people in Piltover than I do."
"You're absolutely right—I don't know a single person in Piltover," Marcus agreed cheerfully. He pulled out his leather pouch, opened it, and placed it on the bar. The bag of pure gold bars gleamed in the tavern's dim light. "But I have this. I think that much gold should be enough to make them forget about a simple explosion, don't you?"
Staring at the gold on his bar, Vander's eyes widened. It wasn't that he'd never seen gold before—in his years running the undercity, he'd handled plenty of wealth. But a bag full of gold bars this pure, this valuable? That was genuinely shocking.
"What are you trying to accomplish here..." Vander started, suspicious.
"Help me find a temporary place to live," Marcus interrupted smoothly. "I'll handle the Piltover situation for you."
Marcus didn't actually care about the gold. He'd stopped worrying about money years ago, across multiple lifetimes. After dismantling the Kree Empire, he'd inherited their vast treasury—the gold alone was beyond counting, particularly since gold had excellent energy transmission properties for various technologies.
This small bag represented pocket change to him. Though he wasn't about to let anyone treat him like a fool with more money than sense.
Of course, he had no intention of actually using the gold to resolve the situation. With his capabilities, he could solve the problem in countless ways without spending a single coin. The gold was simply a bargaining chip to persuade Vander to accept his help.
"You plan to solve this with money?" Vander considered the proposal, his tactical mind working through implications. "The people in Piltover would probably agree. They're profit-driven above all else. Sufficient compensation might make them overlook property damage."
Then his eyes narrowed with renewed suspicion.
"Tell me—what exactly do you want me to do for you? What service could possibly be worth this much gold?"
Marcus's enormous payment had to be for something significant. Something difficult or dangerous or both.
"Actually, it's very simple," Marcus said with disarming casualness. "Help me find a clean place to stay in the undercity. I plan to live here for a while."
What?
Vander stared at Marcus like he'd grown a second head. Despite all his years of experience, all the strange things he'd witnessed running the Lanes, this request caught him completely off guard.
"You want me to help you find clean accommodations... in the undercity?" Vander repeated slowly, as if saying it aloud might make it make sense.
The request was absurdly simple—so simple it couldn't possibly be real. People didn't offer fortunes in gold for basic lodging assistance.
"Yes, exactly that simple," Marcus confirmed. "Since I'm planning to stay here for a while, I naturally don't want to be constantly disturbed by the usual undercity hazards."
He delivered the explanation with the air of an eccentric rich person, someone so accustomed to wealth that they threw money at minor inconveniences without thinking twice.
"This is... alright then. I'll consider this a loan," Vander decided after another pause. "When you're ready to leave, I'll repay you."
Framing it as a loan made Vander feel better about accepting such an enormous sum. At least this way, he could tell himself he was borrowing rather than being bought.
The tavern remained lively around them—people shouting, drinking, arguing. At one point, someone tried to threaten a broker over a deal gone bad, but Vander stopped the confrontation with a single sharp look.
Shortly after, the subjects of their earlier conversation returned. A pink-haired teenage girl led three younger children through the crowd, heading toward the basement beneath the tavern.
"Those are your children, correct?" Marcus asked, though his tone made it clear he already knew.
"Yes. The one leading is Vi—she's basically the queen of the street kids in the Lanes. The small girl at the back is my youngest, Powder."
Vander answered while continuing to wipe down glasses, his movements mechanical from long practice. Seeing that none of the children appeared injured brought visible relief to his weathered features.
"They're all exceptional children," Marcus observed. "Young, though. They need proper guidance."
"Yes, they do," Vander agreed readily. "If they receive the right training, they could become... well, hopefully something better than what the undercity usually produces."
"With proper education," Marcus said thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on the small figure at the rear of the group, "they could become expert weapon designers."
"Weapon designers?" Vander looked startled, then confused. "How could you possibly know they have that potential?"
Even in the relatively protected Lanes, quality education was nearly impossible to obtain. The undercity's children were lucky if they learned basic literacy and numeracy. Becoming an actual expert in weapons design required extensive technical knowledge, resources, facilities—none of which existed in Zaun's depths.
The suggestion seemed almost cruel in its impossibility.
"Because I am one," Marcus replied simply.
Seeing Vander's skeptical expression, Marcus's smile widened.
He'd mastered the most advanced technologies from multiple universes. Even Heimerdinger, Piltover's brilliant yordle inventor, couldn't match the breadth and depth of knowledge Marcus possessed.
If he wanted, he could teach young Powder to become a weapons designer capable of creating devastatingly effective tools. He knew her potential intimately—this seemingly fragile little girl would eventually shock the world.
"Why don't I talk to them?" Marcus suggested. "Get to know them a bit?"
"Alright, I'll introduce you," Vander agreed, setting down his glass. "After all, you'll need to meet them if you're going to solve the Piltover situation."
He led Marcus to the back of the tavern and down into the basement—a cramped space that served as the children's living area. The four kids who'd just returned from their disastrous adventure were in the middle of an argument about how they'd obtained something important but lost it because of "Powder's stupid bomb."
"Powder is my youngest daughter," Vander said quietly as they approached the door.
The two men pushed through the entrance, interrupting the children's heated discussion.
The moment Vander opened the door, his expression transformed—relaxed amusement replaced by stern parental authority.
"Did you forget to tell me something?" he asked, his voice carrying clear disappointment.
"Vander, it's my fault," Vi immediately stepped forward, bowing her head in contrition. "If I hadn't taken them to Piltover, none of this would have happened. Punish me, not them."
She was trying to shoulder all the blame, to protect the younger children from consequences.
"Now you know you were wrong?" Vander questioned, his voice heavy with controlled anger. "But what were you thinking at the time? If something had happened to you—if any of you had been hurt or killed—how would I explain that to your parents?"
Looking at Vi with her head bowed in shame, Vander struggled to balance discipline with the affection he felt for these orphans he'd taken in.
"Alright, we didn't come down here for a lecture," Marcus interrupted, placing a calming hand on Vander's shoulder. He turned his attention to Vi, studying her with assessing eyes. "Young lady, you look like you'd be excellent in a fight. Good instincts, solid build, natural aggression. With proper training, you could be formidable."
This wasn't empty flattery. In the future Marcus remembered, Vi would transform herself into one of Piltover's enforcers. Her Hextech gauntlets would make her a terror to criminals across both cities.
"Really?" Vi's head snapped up, excitement replacing shame in her expression. She'd always wanted to inherit Vander's legacy, to wear his gauntlets and protect the Lanes like he once had. "You think I could be a real fighter?"
"Absolutely," Marcus confirmed with an encouraging nod. "Though you'll need comprehensive training—not just brawling technique, but strategy, discipline, controlled aggression. The whole package."
His attention shifted to the other children. The chubby boy looked dependable, someone you could count on in a crisis. The thin, wiry kid radiated street-smart intelligence—quick thinking and quicker hands.
And finally, little Powder. Future Jinx. Right now, she was clearly in a period of confused self-doubt, blaming herself for whatever had gone wrong on their adventure.
"You've all got good foundations," Marcus told Vander. "You've raised them well, considering the circumstances."
He approached Powder, crouching down to her eye level.
"Little one, what's troubling you?"
Hearing the gentle question, Powder looked up from her self-recrimination. This was the first time she'd seen anyone in the undercity dressed so cleanly, so differently. Marcus looked like he didn't belong in their world at all.
"Did you make all these?" Marcus gestured to the various gadgets scattered around Powder's workspace—contraptions assembled from scrap and salvage, held together with hope and wire.
"Yes," Powder said quietly, picking up a crude mechanical toy. "This one's a monkey. It's supposed to move on its own, but the gears keep jamming..."
"Hmm... gifted, I'd say." Marcus set the monkey down carefully, then fixed Powder with a serious, measuring gaze. "Would you like to learn proper mechanics from me? Real engineering, not just scrapyard improvisation?"
As he spoke, Marcus produced a cube about the size of a Rubik's Cube. With a simple press, the cube began transforming—unfolding and reconfiguring itself into a miniature mechanical hound that moved with fluid, lifelike motion.
It was a small model Marcus had built while studying proper mechanical hound design, kept as a reference piece.
"Wow!!!" Powder's eyes went wide as saucers, her entire attention captured by the transforming creation.
She reached out tentatively toward the mechanical hound, completely entranced. It was like she'd discovered an entirely new world of possibility.
The two boys on either side craned their necks, equally fascinated despite trying to play it cool.
"This is... no wonder you said you were a weapons designer!" Vander breathed, watching the mechanical hound play with Powder. Understanding dawned on his weathered features. "If you can teach her to do things like this... Powder really could become an expert."
More than that—if Powder learned real engineering, she might escape the undercity's grinding poverty. She wouldn't have to struggle like an insect in Zaun's depths, constantly on the edge of starvation or violence.
"Not just weapons design," Marcus added. "I can teach them to fight properly, to shoot accurately, to think tactically."
A pistol materialized in Marcus's hand—one of his Mesa Rex variants, compact and deadly.
Though he'd never seen a gun quite like it, Vander could still recognize the basic form. His experience with firearms let him appreciate the weapon's unusual design.
"Your gun is... exquisite," Vander said, studying the weapon with professional interest. "Most guns I've seen are crude, functional but ugly. This looks like artwork."
"Don't underestimate it based on appearance," Marcus warned. "Very few weapons in either city could match this in actual combat effectiveness."
Boom boom boom—
"ENFORCERS! ENFORCERS AT THE DOOR!"
The tavern's noise died instantly with that shouted warning. Everyone in the basement could hear the sudden silence above, the tension that meant trouble had arrived.
"Your soundproofing really isn't very good..." Marcus muttered with a wry chuckle, heading for the stairs.
Since he'd chosen to help Vander with this situation, he needed to be present when the enforcers made their demands.
"You kids stay here," Vander commanded, his voice brooking no argument. "If the alarm sounds, you hide in the back tunnels. Understand?"
He followed Marcus up to the main tavern floor. This was his territory, his responsibility. He had to face whatever came.
Two enforcers stood near the entrance—Sheriff Grayson, a veteran with a weathered face and knowing eyes, and a younger officer Marcus didn't recognize.
"Vander," Grayson said formally, though her tone carried familiarity from previous encounters. "We need to bring in some people for questioning."
"Do whatever you need to do, Grayson," Vander replied with a casual shrug, his posture deliberately relaxed. "As long as you can actually catch whoever you're looking for."
"Old man, you know exactly who we're talking about!" the younger enforcer interrupted before Grayson could respond. His voice dripped with contempt and barely controlled rage. "You rats in the gutter—all of you deserve to die! Sooner or later, you'll all be thrown into Stillwater Prison where you belong!"
The young enforcer glared at Vander with open hatred, his hand resting on his weapon.
"An enforcer who hates evil with such passion," Marcus observed, his voice cutting through the tension. "How refreshing. Makes me nostalgic for simpler times."
He walked slowly toward the young enforcer, his smile pleasant and his tone conversational.
"Tell me something—why does a dog from Piltover come down to the rats' nest to bark? Aren't you afraid one of these rats might bite back?"
Before anyone could react, the young enforcer suddenly lifted off the ground. He hung suspended in mid-air, struggling frantically against invisible force, his feet kicking uselessly at nothing.
Marcus turned his attention to Grayson, his smile never wavering. Then his eyes began to glow—building red light that became unbearably bright.
Twin beams of heat vision lanced out, passing within inches of the floating enforcer's head and striking the wall behind him. A perfect circular hole appeared in the solid stone, its edges glowing red-hot and melting.
"Sheriff Grayson," Marcus said pleasantly, as if he hadn't just demonstrated physics-defying power. "If I did this to someone in Piltover—say, to a council member or wealthy merchant—who do you think they'd blame first? The strange outsider? Or the undercity rats who've always been such convenient scapegoats?"
The tavern had gone absolutely silent. Every patron stared at Marcus in shock, trying to process what they'd just witnessed.
This man had just shot lasers from his eyes. And he was holding an enforcer suspended in mid-air through apparently nothing but will.
What the hell was he?