They literally played rock-paper-scissors to decide who had to venture to the Council headquarters to speak to their sponsor.
Both men preferred working in the lab; neither liked the rigmarole of the progress reports, explaining their latest developments, and asking Medarda to loosen her pursestrings. Just because she'd started sponsoring hextech didn't mean she was a bottomless well of resources. There were conflicting priorities, and they still had to make their case to her. She was sharp as a blade, too, which left Jayce unexpectedly lost at sea, always feeling like he was teetering on the edge of a great chasm and if he stepped wrong, he might plummet through.
But in the end, Jayce chooses rock one too many times, and so he's the one to make the trek higher and higher to the Council building with its sprawling view of Piltover, sunlight spilling through clean glass windows. He's tucked another notebook under an elbow, his long strides carrying him to Councilor Medarda's private wing and the waiting room of her offices. That had been another reason he was glad to win the game: the long walk was hell on Viktor's leg.
It's early days yet. Elora recognises him on sight, but doesn't just buzz him in automatically — the councilor has other business to attend to, meetings to wrap up, letters to send. So Jayce settles down in one of the chairs to wait. There are magazines to read, newspapers mentioning the latest breakdown of treaties with Demacia. He pages listlessly through them before setting them aside.
The situation isn't as bad as it used to be. As a scrappy student on the Kirammans' dime, Jayce never had the right licenses, couldn't get anyone's ear besides theirs, and always had to go through intermediaries on intermediaries on intermediaries. At least he has the ear of a councilor now, and he's guaranteed to have some kind of audience with her, even if it's not prioritised to the front of the queue.
He should be grateful. He knows that.
Chin in palm, he's practically dozed off until Elora clears her throat, and he almost falls out of the chair. "The councilor will see you now," the assistant says primly, and Jayce rockets back to his feet, nervously readjusting his tie.
"Thanks," he says, and he heads for the door. Knocks twice, still, and then pokes his head in. "Hello?"
→ civilization. what's my name, what's my station? oh, just tell me what i should do.
Both men preferred working in the lab; neither liked the rigmarole of the progress reports, explaining their latest developments, and asking Medarda to loosen her pursestrings. Just because she'd started sponsoring hextech didn't mean she was a bottomless well of resources. There were conflicting priorities, and they still had to make their case to her. She was sharp as a blade, too, which left Jayce unexpectedly lost at sea, always feeling like he was teetering on the edge of a great chasm and if he stepped wrong, he might plummet through.
But in the end, Jayce chooses rock one too many times, and so he's the one to make the trek higher and higher to the Council building with its sprawling view of Piltover, sunlight spilling through clean glass windows. He's tucked another notebook under an elbow, his long strides carrying him to Councilor Medarda's private wing and the waiting room of her offices. That had been another reason he was glad to win the game: the long walk was hell on Viktor's leg.
It's early days yet. Elora recognises him on sight, but doesn't just buzz him in automatically — the councilor has other business to attend to, meetings to wrap up, letters to send. So Jayce settles down in one of the chairs to wait. There are magazines to read, newspapers mentioning the latest breakdown of treaties with Demacia. He pages listlessly through them before setting them aside.
The situation isn't as bad as it used to be. As a scrappy student on the Kirammans' dime, Jayce never had the right licenses, couldn't get anyone's ear besides theirs, and always had to go through intermediaries on intermediaries on intermediaries. At least he has the ear of a councilor now, and he's guaranteed to have some kind of audience with her, even if it's not prioritised to the front of the queue.
He should be grateful. He knows that.
Chin in palm, he's practically dozed off until Elora clears her throat, and he almost falls out of the chair. "The councilor will see you now," the assistant says primly, and Jayce rockets back to his feet, nervously readjusting his tie.
"Thanks," he says, and he heads for the door. Knocks twice, still, and then pokes his head in. "Hello?"