League Of Legends/Arcane: Earthbound

Adam sat perched on the edge of a crumbling rooftop, rolling his aching shoulder as he secured the last strip of bandage over his wound. It wasn't deep—just a graze—but the sting was enough to remind him that he wasn't invincible. His body was still running on fumes, muscles sore from the last couple of days, but there was no time to dwell on it. The pain was secondary to the real problem: where the hell was he? 

He sighed, glancing down at the winding mess of metal, pipes, and filth that made up the Undercity. The rooftops were uneven, half of them broken, while towering metal structures loomed in the distance, spewing out thick, black smoke that clogged the sky. The whole city felt *wrong*. 

Adam took a deep breath—then coughed violently. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of oil, rust, and something that burned at the back of his throat. He grimaced. 

*"Jesus, this place tastes like a fucking garbage fire."* 

Every breath felt like inhaling smoke and ash, and the deeper he went, the worse it got. His chest already felt tight, as if the pollution had soaked into his lungs the moment he arrived. 

*"How the hell do people live down here? Do they just—get used to breathing in poison?"* 

There was no wind, no fresh air, just an oppressive, unshakable smog that clung to everything. Adam pulled his hood up over his head, more out of instinct than anything else. Not that it helped. 

He exhaled sharply, refocusing. The fight he had just seen had told him plenty: the Undercity was chaos. That blue-haired psycho had turned the streets into a war zone, and the people around her had fought like their lives depended on it. 

Because, he realized, they probably *did*. 

*"This isn't some random slum. This is a war zone."* 

And he was smack in the middle of it. 

Pushing himself up, Adam rolled his shoulders, ignoring the dull ache spreading through his muscles. The golden glow of Piltover loomed above him in the distance, its pristine towers standing in stark contrast to the filth below. He didn't need to be a genius to figure out how this place worked. Piltover looked like the kind of city where people had everything. Zaun—the Undercity—was where people had *nothing.* 

*"Rich city on top, poor city underneath. Yeah, that tracks."* 

And if there was one universal truth Adam knew, it was that the people on top *always* made sure the people below *stayed* there. 

He wasn't interested in playing the victim, though. He had seen enough of the world to know that even in the worst places, there was *always* a way to climb up. And right now, that meant figuring out what the Undercity had to offer. 

He dropped down from the rooftop, landing with a dull *thud* in a filthy alleyway. The moment his boots hit the ground, the stench hit him full force. 

It was worse down here. 

The walls were damp, covered in grime, and the ground felt sticky beneath his feet. The alley reeked of something foul—rotting trash, sewage, maybe even something *worse*. Pools of greenish liquid gathered in cracks along the ground, bubbling slightly as if the very air was corroding it. 

Adam fought back the urge to gag. 

*"Alright, yeah, this place is officially the worst."* 

Gritting his teeth, he pushed forward, stepping out onto the main street. 

And that's when the eyes found him. 

The Undercity was alive, its streets teeming with movement. People bustled about, shoulders hunched, faces hidden behind makeshift scarves or crude gas masks. Some had mechanical limbs, others bore tattoos that looked more like gang markings than decorations. Nobody walked without purpose—everyone had somewhere to be, something to do. 

And Adam? He stood out like a sore thumb. 

People turned their heads as he walked past. Whispers followed him, murmurs in hushed voices. Some were wary, others curious. A few? Downright hostile. 

His clothes were too clean, too structured. His hooded cloak, reinforced leather, and bracers all screamed *outsider.* But it wasn't just the way he dressed. It was what was strapped to his back. 

The sword alone was enough to draw attention. Tryndamere's blade—massive, broad, with an edge that gleamed even in the filth of Zaun. It was a warrior's weapon, something that had no business being down here. And then there was the bow. Elegant, sleek, decorated with markings he barely understood—a gift from Ashe herself. 

He felt their stares lingering on him, like vultures circling a dying animal. 

*"Great. This is exactly how I wanted to start my day—being treated like fresh meat."* 

A voice broke through the murmurs. 

"Hey, look at this guy." 

Adam's fingers twitched, but he didn't stop walking. 

A man leaned against the wall to his left, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He had a scruffy beard, a mechanical arm that looked barely functional, and a smirk that Adam already didn't like. 

"Bit overdressed for the Lanes, ain't ya?" the man continued, eyeing the sword. 

Adam kept walking. 

"Oi, I'm talkin' to you, outsider." 

Adam exhaled through his nose. *Here we go.* 

He turned slightly, just enough to meet the guy's gaze. "And I'm ignoring you. Take the hint." 

The man's smirk twitched. A few of his buddies—thugs, probably—started shifting closer. Four of them. No, five. 

One of the bigger ones cracked his knuckles. "That sword don't look like it belongs to ya. Bet you ain't even used it." 

Adam arched a brow. "And you'd like to test that theory?" 

The air grew tense. The mechanical-armed thug took a step forward, his cybernetic fingers flexing. "See, people 'round here don't take kindly to outsiders struttin' around with gear like that. Means you're either lost… or you think you're better than us." 

Adam sighed, rolling his shoulders. His wound still stung, but he wasn't about to let a few punks push him around. 

"I'm not lost," he said. "And I don't think I'm better than you." He let the words settle for a second before adding, "*But I am.*" 

That did it. 

The thug lunged. 

Adam sidestepped, bringing up his forearm to deflect the first punch before twisting and driving an elbow into the guy's ribs. The man grunted, stumbling back. Another swung a pipe—Adam ducked, pivoting and slamming a knee into his stomach. 

Two down. 

The biggest one tried to grab him—Adam let him, twisting sharply before flipping the idiot onto his back. The heavy *thud* of his landing made the others hesitate. 

Adam exhaled, adjusting his hood. "Are we done?" 

The remaining thugs took a step back. The mechanical-armed guy clutched his ribs, cursing. "*Tch. Fuckin' outsider.*" 

Adam ignored them and walked away. 

As he continued deeper into the Undercity, he took in his surroundings. The streets were lined with rundown buildings, flickering neon signs, and the ever-present hum of machinery. People moved in small groups, speaking in hushed tones. 

Then, up ahead, he saw it. 

A large, rusted metal sign hung above a doorway, the paint long since peeled away. It read: 

**THE LAST DROP** 

A bar. A gathering place. Somewhere people talked, made deals, exchanged information. 

Adam smirked. 

*"Looks like a good place to start."* 

And with that, he stepped through the doors and into the unknown.