Chapter Two: The Prototype and the Promise

 A Twelve-year-old Orion leaned on the wrought-iron railing of Piltover's northern overlook, letting the late afternoon sun warm his cheeks. From this vantage point, the city's grandeur shimmered below him—glimmering spires that seemed to pierce the azure sky, streets filled with the hum of industrious life, and the occasional hiss of steam from mechanical wonders. Yet, if he craned his neck far enough toward the south, he could just make out the darker lines of the undercity, Zaun, buried beneath Piltover's foundations. A reminder, always, of what lay below.

It had been four years since that fateful morning on the bridge, when an enforcer named Grant pulled him from the aftermath of a bloody conflict. Four years of healing, of late nights tinkering, and of coming to grips with a life irrevocably altered by injuries that left him with only one good arm and one good eye. But those four years had also been a time of belonging—Grant and his wife, Clara, had offered Orion more than a roof over his head. They had given him a place to call home.

Much had changed. Orion was no longer that timid, wounded boy. Now, at the cusp of adolescence, he stood taller (in spirit, if not quite in height). A comfortable closeness had formed between him and his adoptive guardians: Grant had a steady, confident presence, his stern approach to discipline softening with fatherly pride. Meanwhile, Clara's quiet warmth filled their modest home. She had taught him how to navigate everyday tasks with a single hand, from tying knots to folding laundry. Over time, their household developed an easy rhythm, each occupant slotting into place like gears in a well-crafted mechanism.

Sometimes, Marcus—Grant's younger cousin and an ambitious enforcer in his own right—visited. He came bearing stories of the city's political intrigues, all while casting a curious eye at Orion's mechanical experiments. Marcus appeared to have inherited some of Grant's sense of duty but was more prone to forging questionable alliances or following orders without asking too many questions. For all their differences, the men remained family, and Orion benefited from both influences.

The acceptance Orion found within the neighborhood was neither immediate nor effortless. Whispers followed him around at first: a Zaunite child living under an enforcer's roof? In the immediate wake of the revolution, tensions still simmered, and old prejudices took time to dissolve. Yet, as the years crept onward, the local shopkeepers and passersby gradually recognized that Orion was polite, studious, and determined. One of Grant's neighbors, a retired craftsman named Tobin, would sometimes invite Orion over to see his collection of antique clockwork figures, praising the boy's inquisitiveness. Word spread, and suspicious glares slowly transformed into cautious greetings or nods of acknowledgment. Although not everyone was wholeheartedly welcoming, Orion no longer felt like an outcast at every turn.

This journey toward acceptance was mirrored by Orion's own evolution. He learned to adapt to his physical limitations, developing a keen sense of balance that allowed him to make the most of his single functional arm and his remaining eye. He often practiced tasks that many would consider mundane—cutting vegetables, sorting small parts, even just writing neatly—until he achieved surprising fluidity. The focus and discipline required reminded him of the mechanical craft he adored. Each movement was a puzzle to solve, each difficulty a gear that needed adjusting. His injuries had shaped him, but they would not define him.

Now, as the breeze tugged at his unruly, dark-blue hair, Orion reached into his satchel and retrieved a glove of sorts. It was fashioned from sturdy leather and thin metal plates, its interior lined with cushioned fabric. The design had progressed through countless trial-and-error sessions in his cramped workspace behind Grant's home. This was his newest prototype—a mechanical arm replacement that attached to the stump of his left forearm. Although it was far from the intricate prosthetics he dreamt of, it was a tangible step forward.

The contraption clanked softly as he slid it on. Orion had poured countless hours into conceptualizing ways to convert mechanical force into workable motion, originally using simple steam pressure. Yet over the last few months, he had experimented with minuscule capacitors that stored electrical energy. While most Piltover devices still relied on steam, Orion had begun to dabble with the notion of harnessing electricity, an idea that—he believed—could revolutionize the city's technology.

He flexed the mechanical fingers. They responded with a jerky motion, opening and closing in a delayed, halting manner. The main joints worked, but not perfectly, and the device's weight strained the harness that connected it to his upper arm. Yet, it was progress. Just last month, he'd had to wrestle with a prototype that wouldn't even grip a single gear without jamming.

"Almost there," Orion murmured, turning his gaze down the hill to the narrow side-streets of Piltover below. He was due at Tobin's workshop soon. The older craftsman had agreed to let him scavenge parts from a half-disassembled automaton. "And this will do for now," he added, giving the mechanical hand a final experimental squeeze.

Stepping into the bustling thoroughfare, Orion maneuvered through the crowd. The rhythmic clang of metal on metal from blacksmith shops merged with the hiss of steam vents and the swirling hum of chatter. Above, a handful of ornate gondolas slid along overhead cables, ferrying wealthy clients from one quarter of the city to another. Carts of produce, barrels of imported goods, and curious contraptions dotted the sidewalks. A few bystanders gave Orion's mechanical limb a glance, while others recognized him enough to offer a nod.

Near the grand archway to the eastern canal, Orion found Tobin's workshop. Once a reputable craftsman who specialized in mechanical toy soldiers, Tobin had lost some of his dexterity with age. Now, he primarily repaired minor gearworks and tinkered with novelty pieces. The old man greeted Orion with a broad smile.

"Back again, lad?" Tobin teased, setting down a magnifying glass. "I'd swear you live here if Grant and Clara weren't around to feed you."

Orion grinned, stepping gingerly across the cluttered space. "You keep offering me your scraps. I'm just being polite and making good use of them."

"Help yourself." Tobin gestured to a side table piled with an assortment of cogs, rods, and half-assembled mechanisms. "Though I hope you'll show me what that new contraption of yours can do."

Eager to comply, Orion unclasped the harness of his mechanical arm and placed it on a workbench. Under Tobin's watchful gaze, he demonstrated how twisting a small lever engaged the gears that controlled the thumb and fingers. At the base of the device, a tiny generator—cobbled together from an electric fan prototype Orion had salvaged—fed minuscule bursts of power into the joints.

"It's not stable enough," Orion explained, wincing when a stray spark flared from one connection. "The components overheat if I run it for more than a few minutes."

"That's no small feat, boy," Tobin said, nodding with genuine admiration. "You're tinkering with ideas well beyond most craftsfolk. Me included."

A flush of pride warmed Orion's cheeks. While he had always been resourceful, an advantage he carried from his former life, the acceptance of a skilled craftsman felt immensely validating. "One day," he murmured, more to himself than to Tobin, "I'll make something truly seamless. Not just for me, but for others who need it."

The slow walk back to Grant's house took Orion through the labyrinth of Piltover's residential district. Ornate buildings with iron-laced balconies loomed overhead. Idle passersby chatted outside cafes, sipping fragrant teas. Streetlamps, designed for gas but occasionally retrofitted for electric light, illuminated corners and alleyways. Orion's mind buzzed with possibilities, each lamp reminding him that harnessing electricity on a larger scale could change how the city functioned.

In addition to perfecting his prosthetic, Orion had another, more ambitious project: Energon. In his past life, he recalled its significance as a versatile fuel for powerful machines in a fictional universe. But now, he was attempting to repurpose the concept into something that could offer real-world benefits—perhaps a stable power source that could be adapted for mechanical limbs, or a catalyst to speed healing if harnessed with the right properties, or even an advanced form of electricity that extended beyond Piltover's current limitations.

So far, his research had progressed slowly. He had identified certain chemical compounds that might replicate the raw energy density of the fictional Energon, but the results were inconclusive. A few stable samples managed to emit a faint glow or generate a harmless spark. Others fizzled away into inert residue, leaving Orion with messy stains and a headache.

It wasn't a total loss. Each failed experiment taught him more about the interplay between chemistry, heat, and mechanical engineering. He began to grasp that fully realizing Energon's potential would demand knowledge that was scarce even in Piltover's esteemed academies. Undeterred, he kept meticulous notes, hidden away in a coded ledger that only Grant and Clara knew existed. He trusted them to keep his secret, though they understood little of the science themselves.

Clara, for her part, gave him space to explore his curiosities. Whenever Orion looked discouraged—eyeing a shattered test tube or a burnt-out coil—she would offer a gentle word or a comforting meal. "Progress isn't always linear," she'd say, patting his head. "Sometimes the greatest discoveries arise from failures."

Even Grant, typically stoic, made small gestures of support. On more than one occasion, he'd discreetly place a box of salvaged parts by Orion's bedroom door after returning from his patrols in the undercity. Piltover's enforcers frequently confiscated contraband machines, and while Grant couldn't openly condone reusing illicit tech, he'd found ways to hand Orion some of the less dangerous components.

Inside their home's modest back room—his makeshift workshop—Orion unpacked the gears he'd retrieved from Tobin. The space smelled faintly of oil, soot, and metal shavings. A single window let in the fading daylight. Across the wooden table lay the incomplete mechanical arm, as well as rows of labeled jars containing chemicals in varying states: powders, liquids, crystals. Each was a potential stepping stone toward an Energon-like compound.

Drawing a deep breath, Orion prepared for the evening's work. First, he tested the newly acquired gears, assessing if any fit the internal cogs of his prosthetic. To his delight, he found two that meshed almost perfectly. With steady hands, he removed the device's main panel and replaced the old, worn gear with the new one.

A small hiss of escaping steam confirmed that the internal pressure was stable. He locked the new gear in place and reconnected the harness. Time to see if it helped the device articulate more smoothly. Slipping his arm into the contraption, Orion flexed the mechanical fingers. This time, the movement was noticeably more fluid, though a faint scraping sound indicated further alignment was needed.

"One step at a time," he muttered, his single good eye narrowing in concentration. "Can't fix it all at once."

Turning his attention to a small corner desk, Orion took out a battered leather journal. The pages held a patchwork of formulas, diagrams, and half-formed ideas for Energon. He had originally penned these in code, blending references from his old life and new discoveries. Tonight, he planned to refine a formula that he believed could enhance the stability of his experimental solution.

He measured out trace amounts of a bright-blue crystal he'd procured through Grant's confiscations. The crystal glowed faintly under dim light—enough to spark Orion's curiosity. He suspected that if he could dissolve it in an electrically charged medium, it might yield some interesting results. The user-friendly approach would be to create a mild electrical current using a hand-crank generator, then feed that current into a reaction chamber containing the crushed crystal and a base fluid.

The contraption for this experiment looked like something between a kettle and an alembic. Wires snaked around a cylindrical chamber, connected to a small crank. Orion started turning it, feeling the generator hum to life beneath his grip. The coil inside sparked, sending a faint electric charge into the reaction.

Tiny arcs of light flickered through the glass, dancing around the swirling powdered crystal. For a moment, Orion held his breath, anticipating either a meltdown or some sign of the stable energy he craved. The swirling glow persisted, forming a gentle luminescence in the fluid. He noted that this was more than he'd achieved with previous attempts.

"Clara!" he called, voice trembling with excitement. Though she knew little about the specifics of his experiments, she often showed interest in the results. "Look at this!"

She appeared at the doorway, apron stained from cooking. "What have you got, dear?"

Orion gestured to the softly glowing mixture in triumph. "It's stable… at least for now."

Clara approached cautiously, her eyes reflecting the pale light. "Well, that's certainly pretty," she remarked with a mixture of awe and hesitation. "Is it safe?"

He laughed, shutting off the crank. "Probably. I mean, it's not the final formula, but it's a step forward. Maybe one day this glow could power lights… or help run mechanical prosthetics, or—"

His voice caught with anticipation. He wasn't entirely sure what to do next. This was purely a conceptual test, after all. Even if it held promise, he still needed to figure out how to transform the fluid into something more stable, more potent, and more universally applicable.

"You'll figure it out," Clara said, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "And even if it's not quite ready, you've made real progress."

He felt a surge of gratitude. In these moments, the closeness that had developed between him and his adoptive parents was unmistakable. Their unwavering support—and the acceptance he'd gradually earned from the community—bolstered his determination. He would not squander these gifts. He would repay them by forging a better future.

Later that evening, over a modest dinner of vegetable stew, Orion listened intently as Grant recounted the city's latest developments. The Piltover Council was apparently in the midst of drafting new policies to regulate intercity trade with Zaun. While it was phrased as an effort to stabilize tensions, Grant knew well that it might alienate the undercity further.

"Marcus has been grumbling about how these new directives could give enforcers more authority to seize questionable goods," Grant said, setting his spoon down. "He's worried it might spark another wave of resentment."

Orion's mind drifted momentarily to the contraband materials that had been so vital to his own engineering pursuits. If enforcement grew stricter, how would that affect him? Then again, he was still a child in the eyes of most. Perhaps no one would suspect him of dabbling in advanced technology.

Clara, ever the peacemaker, softly changed the subject. "How goes your prosthetic, Orion?" she asked, giving him a gentle smile. "You seemed excited when you came home."

He returned the smile, carefully setting aside the worry about Piltover's politics. "Better," he admitted. "I managed to replace a few gears, so it moves with less friction. It's still heavy, though. I'd like it to feel more natural, like a real arm."

"You'll get there," Grant rumbled, a quiet pride lighting his eyes. "Seeing how far you've come in just a few years… I have no doubt."

Warmth seeped into Orion's chest. It was hard to believe that once he'd been all but abandoned on a battlefield. Now, these two people had become the closest thing to real parents he had ever known. Their confidence in him was worth every challenge.

After dinner, Orion returned to the workshop. The moon cast a silver glow through the small window, illuminating his half-finished notes on Energon. The mild success of his earlier test still pulsed in his thoughts. Someday, if he perfected it, he could provide Piltover—and maybe even Zaun—with a clean, powerful source of energy. It could fuel mechanical limbs, reduce the city's reliance on polluting steam power, and perhaps even accelerate healing processes if he discovered the right chemical synergy.

Those ideas felt grand, almost impossibly so, but Orion had learned the value of incremental progress. If it took him years to finalize his own prosthetic, so be it. Step by step, gear by gear, spark by spark. He brushed a hand against the journal, then glanced at his mechanical arm, propped on the table, wires still trailing from its harness.

"At least it's all possible," he whispered to himself. "Thanks to them."

He felt a surge of gratitude—toward Grant and Clara, who never treated him like a burden; toward the neighbors who had grown to accept him; and even toward the city itself, with all its flaws and tensions, because it provided the resources and environment for him to grow. Without these things, he might have remained that lost, wounded child on the bridge, overshadowed by tragedy.

Instead, tomorrow he would wake up, put on his mechanical arm (or attempt to improve it further), and keep refining the formula for his Energon. He would keep learning, keep building, and keep preparing for whatever future the City of Progress might hold.

And with the combined strength of his new family, Orion was certain he could face any challenge that lay ahead.