GET JINXED !!

The words “But she isn’t you” hit Jinx like the sharp snap of a detonator—sudden, jarring, and impossible to ignore. She doesn’t know what to do with them. For a moment, it’s as if the chaotic symphony in her head, the endless taunting of Mylo’s voice and Claggor’s laughter, falls completely silent. The air seems heavier without their noise. Her arms remain wrapped tightly around herself, more shield than comfort, as though holding her broken pieces together by force.

She looks up at him then, slowly, as if the motion itself might hurt. It almost does. Her violet eyes, ringed red from tears and sleepless nights, flick to Ekko’s hands as he picks up a lock of blue hair from the floor. It looks small in his hands, fragile. Fragile, she thinks bitterly. That’s what she was once, wasn’t it? Fragile, sweet, kind, full of hope. She could feel the envy clawing at her ribcage earlier when he spoke of that other Powder. The good one. The one that didn’t ruin everything. But now . . .

Now he’s looking at her. Not Powder. Her. Jinx, in all her reckless, volatile, shattered glory. And it doesn’t make sense. He calls her crazy, but it isn’t laced with the mockery she’s used to, the sneering judgment she’s heard from the world since she stopped being that fragile little girl. No, he says it like it’s a compliment, like it’s some rare and precious thing that only he understands. A genius wrapped in madness. A smile flickers across his face, and she feels like the ground beneath her feet is crumbling.

Her own expression is a battlefield, emotions pulling her in every direction. She wants to smirk back at him, to make some sharp, cutting remark that will remind him how dangerous she is, how far beyond saving. But the truth is, she doesn’t have the strength to keep fighting him. The hurt in her eyes hasn’t faded, but there’s something else there, buried deep—something she hasn’t felt in a long time. A flicker of warmth. Hope.

Without a word, she steps away, turning her back on him as she crouches down and pulls out a few bottles of neon paint from under her desk. Pink, yellow, blue, and purple. She sets them on the desk, one by one. A cup of brushes follows, their bristles frayed and crusted with dried paint. Her fingers reach for the pink bottle first, squeezing a thick streak onto her fingertips. She doesn’t hesitate, swiping two bold streaks beneath her eyes with. The paint is bright and loud, a slash of chaos against her pale skin. Her war paint. Next, she grabs the purple paint, squirting a small puddle onto the cluttered surface of the desk. She stirs the color with the tip of a brush, dipping it once, twice, until the bristles are saturated. Finally, she turns to face him.

Her lips tug upward into the smallest of smiles—not a smirk, not her usual sharp-edged grin, but something softer. A truce, unspoken but undeniable. ❛ If we’re doing this, we may as well do it with style, ❜ she says, her voice quieter than before, though the smirk that follows adds an edge of mischief. She steps toward him, closing the space between them.

Her hand comes up, her fingers light but deliberate as they catch his chin and tilt his head down. Her violet eyes meet his fully now, the storm in them briefly steady. ❛ Besides, ❜ she adds, the words slipping out in a half-mutter, half-tease, ❛ I’ve always liked making an entrance. ❜

Without waiting for a reply, she brings the brush to his face, starting at the bridge of his nose and carefully dragging it downward in smooth, deliberate strokes. She knows this symbol well. The hourglass. His mark. Time itself, painted boldly across his face. Only now, she’s painting it for him. Her hand is steady as she works, even as her thoughts are a mess. Every so often, her eyes flick to his, catching the way he watches her, and she has to fight the urge to look away. She finishes the hourglass with a quick flourish, stepping back just enough to admire her work.

Her silence is concerning at first, or at least it would have been if he didn't see the emotional battlefield. He never takes his eyes off of her, either. Ekko wants her to know she has his full attention. Never again will he look away from her, never will he give up on her like he had before. That means accepting the woman she has become, and helping her become something so much more.

But he is unsure how to read her emotions in their entirety, except for the fact that she seems hurt at first. No doubt how he had started his explaination. He's about to further explain himself, to ease her mind, but then he sees it. Ekko sees a glimmer of hope in her beautiful glowing shimmer-esque eyes. The warm feeling that accompanies it, makes his heart flutter. Because she understands him.

For once Ekko is completely silent, observing her actions as she gets out the paint. He knows that he's broken through, at least somewhat, and that makes his smile widen. The firelight can't help but watch with intrigue as she paints the streaks under her eyes. It is loud and makes the message crystal clear. They are about to go into war. Not against Piltover, but something much worse. Noxus, who had played their part in killing Vander... again. For this they deserved what was coming.

Before he would have flinched at her proximity. Not even that, both would have been at each other's throats, weapons out before the other could get close. Now, there isn't even a sign of that. Ekko remains perfectly still as he feels her apply his face paint. His hourglass, but this time without a different meaning, a different resolve attached to it. The mission remains the same, however. Freedom for Zaun, only now they are united. There is love in his eyes, too. Watching her paint on his face brings back memories of when they were young, how they would use their bodies as canvas's.

" Do you remember when we were kids? How we would draw on everything? " Ekko chuckles at memory, his hands reach for the paint just past her. The pink immediately calls out to him, he dips a hand in there, and approaches her and starts applying it smoothly along her cheek. Each stroke was careful and methodical, creating shapes until the image of a monkey head. Her monkey. " I remember Benzo getting so pissed that we 'marked the merchandise.' Didn't care if we showed up with doodles on us, but touch his shit? freaks out. "

Next he reaches for the green paint. He paints a green across her right eye, overlapping with one of the streaks, hints of pink still there. "There, have a look."

Jinx feels the cool, sticky glide of paint as Ekko’s fingers work over her cheek, his touch slow, deliberate, almost reverent. She hates how it makes her feel—how it churns something deep in her chest, fragile and hot, like an ember trying to catch. The way he looks at her, like she’s worth something more than the wreckage she’s made of herself, still sets her on edge. She wants to shake it off, wants to shout at him to stop it—but she doesn’t. Instead, she lets herself listen. To his voice. To the memories he speaks of, soft and wistful, tugging at strings she didn’t realize were still there. For a moment, his words settle over her like smoke, hazy and strange, wrapping her in something almost comforting. Her lips twitch into the faintest of smiles, tinged with sadness but real nonetheless. It’s not much, but it’s there.

❛ The paintball gun fights, ❜ she murmurs, her voice quieter now, less sharp around the edges. ❛ You’d always lose, no matter how much trash you talked. ❜ A sly smirk flickers to life, the ghost of something playful, something young. ❛ Not my fault you couldn’t aim for shit, little man. ❜ For a moment it feels . . . easy, this back-and-forth. Natural. Like slipping into old clothes she thought she’d outgrown. For the briefest moment, it almost feels like nothing ever happened between them. No blood spilled. No ghosts between them. Like they’re still just two kids in the Lanes, armed with paintball guns and reckless dreams.

But that illusion doesn’t last long. Reality creeps in, quick and cold, a shadow that cuts through the fleeting warmth. The weight of all the things she’s done—to him, to his people—slams into her chest like a kick. That ember in her chest flickers dangerously, threatening to go out entirely. Jinx steps back, needing space, needing to breathe. Turning her back on him, she crosses to her shattered mirror, using the excuse of looking at his handiwork to put some distance between them. The monkey head he painted on her cheek is clear, like a signature scrawled over her skin. Her monkey. And then the green streak beneath her eye—it blends into the pink war paint she’d already drawn there, chaotic and imperfect. But she doesn’t focus on the paint for long. Not when she can see him in the mirror’s fractured reflection, still looking at her with that look. That goddamn look. His dark eyes, warm and steady, meeting hers in the shards of glass, like he’s trying to convince her of something.

❛ What do you think happened . . . ❜ she starts. The words hang in the air for a moment before she continues, ❛ . . . or didn’t happen . . . in the other universe? ❜ She doesn’t turn to face him, keeping her eyes locked on his reflection instead, almost like it’s safer that way. Her voice wavers, just slightly, as she asks, ❛ To make you believe I’m worth looking at the way you’ve been looking at me this entire time? ❜

Jinx’s chest tightens as the weight of it all presses down on her. Viktor’s alive—against all odds, he’s alive. She can feel his arms around her, solid and steady, but it doesn’t anchor her the way it should. Her mind refuses to stay in one place, spinning and twisting like the cogs of some broken machine.

What happened to you? Her thoughts scatter like cockroaches under a beam of light. What happened to her? Where does she even start? Her thoughts are a cacophony, fragments of explosions, screams, and blood swirling together until it feels like she might drown in them.

She pulls back from the embrace abruptly, needing space to breathe, her movements twitchy and erratic. ❛ That’s . . . a loaded question, ❜ she says, her voice dancing on the edge of a manic chuckle as she tries to push the weight of her grief into a joke. The corners of her mouth twitch into a crooked smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ❛ But kinda the same thing that happened to you. Tried kickin’ the ‘ole bucket and then someone snatched the bucket away at the last second. ❜ She mimes a kick at the ground, her boot slicing the air with too much force, her body moving with an energy that feels unnatural, almost frenetic.

Silco. The name slithers into her thoughts like a knife to the chest. Her face tightens, the mask slipping for just a second. She can still see his blood staining her hands, feel the weight of his final words as they burrow into her skull. Perfect. He thought you were perfect. Mylo’s voice, sharper than ever, cuts through her haze. And you killed him.

As she grew older she would help herself to a hug if she was in the right mood but most of the time they kept to themselves. Now it seemed so much had happened...perhaps they both needed this. Yet it felt...strange. As if it didn't feel natural. As if Viktor didn't get anything from this.

Viktor's calm stare followed her around as she walked around, full of energy and mania. He had seen this plenty of times, but it felt so much more electric this time. As if something other than blood was running through her veins. Before, he would have been filled with worry by now - concerned for her wellbeing and for what was happening to her. But...no. He was calm. There were small, fleeting moments to remind him how he should be feeling, but the emotion didn't overflow him like they usually did... As if he was muted.

But he had never thought so clearly before...

The lab feels like it’s vibrating—no, maybe that’s just Jinx. Every muscle in her body is coiled too tight, her mind a chaotic hurricane of splintered thoughts that slam into one another and spin her deeper into the storm. Viktor’s voice hangs in the air, calm and steady like it usually is, but that calm only sets her nerves more on edge. It feels wrong, like the calm before an explosion. She wants to scream. Or laugh. Or both. Probably both. Then Mylo’s voice cuts through the noise in her head, louder than all the others. “You’re not safe, you’re fucked. Piltover’s probably coming for you right now. Did you really think you could just fire a rocket at their council and walk away?”

❛ Shut up, ❜ she snaps out loud, her voice cutting across the room, her hand slashing the air as if she can swat the voice away. ❛ I know that, okay? Just let me fucking think! ❜ Her words echo off the walls, raw and sharp, before falling into heavy silence. Her breath comes fast and uneven, her chest heaving as she drags her hands down her face. The smeared remnants of black makeup streak across her pale skin like war paint. ❛ Uuugh, ❜ she groans, the sound guttural and strained, as if she’s trying to pull herself out of quicksand. Her nails dig into her scalp, scratching at the relentless buzz beneath her skin. ❛ Where do I even begin? ❜

She spins on her heel, pacing back and forth with restless, jerky movements. Every step feels like it might rattle her apart. ❛ Okay, okay, ❜ she mutters to herself, squeezing her eyes shut for half a second before they snap back open. ❛ I’ll give ya the speed-run version, yeah? From the top! ❜ Her voice pitches higher as she speaks, her words rolling out like a train teetering off its tracks. She stops abruptly, spinning back toward Viktor, her hands flying up in exaggerated gestures as she talks. ❛ So! I got into a teeny-tiny tussle with that Firelight twink over a hextech gemstone I was rightfully stealing back. ❜ Her tone is mockingly indignant, but the wild glint in her eyes betrays her. ❛ And that little scuffle? Yeah, that ended with me pulling the pin on Petunia. ❜ Petunia is the name of one of her bombs, she’s pretty sure she named it with Viktor. Her grin twitches wider, manic and sharp, before she adds, ❛ RIP, Petunia. She went out with a bang and nearly took me out with her. ❜

She starts pacing again, her boots tapping against the floor in a frantic rhythm. ❛ Next thing I know, I’m strapped down to a table, and Caitlyn—ugh, Caitlyn was there—torturing me. Or, uh, maybe she wasn’t? Actually, no, it was Singed. Definitely Singed. Definitely pumping me full of Shimmer to keep me alive. ❜ Her voice is bouncing between sarcasm and genuine distress, her pacing speeding up as she talks. ❛ 0/10, would not recommend. But the perks? ❜ She stops suddenly, spinning to face Viktor with a grin that’s a little too wide, her glowing eyes burning too brightly. ❛ The perks are killer. ❜

Before he can respond, she’s already moving, grabbing a metal tray off one of the cluttered tables. ❛ Check this out, ❜ she says as she pulls her pistol from its holster in one smooth motion. Without warning, she fires, the crack of the gunshot ringing through the lab like a thunderclap. And in the blink of an eye, she’s gone, the tray clutched in her hand as she reappears across the room in a blur of violet light. The bullet punches through the tray with a sharp ping, and she holds it up triumphantly, her grin splitting her face like a jagged wound. ❛ Pretty cool, right? ❜ she says, blowing the smoke from her pistol’s barrel with a dramatic flourish.

The tray clatters to the floor, and her hand trembles as she holsters her gun. Her pacing resumes, slower now, her steps uneven. She knows she can’t keep stalling. The real words claw at the back of her throat, begging to be let out, but they feel too big, too sharp, too heavy to say. ❛ But, uh—that’s not everything, though . . . ❜ Her grin falters, cracking at the edges as she glances at Viktor from the corner of her eye. She doesn’t want to tell him. Doesn’t want to see his face when he hears.

Viktor’s lab is darker than she remembers. The lightbulbs overhead sputter and twitch, casting jagged shadows across the walls like broken glass. It’s too quiet—except it isn’t. The stillness is suffocating, but her head is anything but still. The voices keep tearing through the silence, dragging claws down the raw edges of her mind. Mylo, Claggor, Vander, Vi. Louder, sharper, circling like vultures over a fresh corpse.

“Alone again, huh? What’d you think was gonna happen?”

“Vi’s gone. Silco’s gone. Viktor’s gone too, more than likely.”

“Dead weight. A jinx. Always have been.”

❛ SHUT UP! ❜ she screams, her voice breaking as it ricochets off the walls, a ragged, desperate sound that rattles through the lab like a gunshot. Her hands grip her head, nails digging into her scalp, and for a moment, she almost can’t tell where her skin ends and her veins begin. The shimmer has turned her into something else—something alive with its own seething glow. It streaks beneath her pale skin like lightning, the veins around her eyes a deep, bruised purple that spiders outward.

She can’t take this anymore. Her legs buckle, but she catches herself before she hits the floor, her chest heaving as she gasps for air. The voices roar louder, drowning out her thoughts, drowning out everything. Her glowing eyes dart around the lab until she spots the rafters above. High, quiet, dark. Away. She scrambles up the pipes like a feral thing, the metal groaning beneath her hands, until she’s perched near the ceiling, limbs curled tight to her chest. Up here, the chaos feels a little more distant, but not far enough. Never far enough. She squeezes her eyes shut, burying her face in her hands as her whole body trembles. The static in her head hums louder now, sharp and electric, until it blurs into nothingness.

She disassociates . . . . .

And then, through the static, comes another voice.

Soft. Fragile. Familiar.

Her eyes snap open, their violet glow piercing through the shadows, and for a moment, she forgets how to breathe. It sounded like him. It had to be him. But she’s afraid to look. Afraid it’s just another trick of her own fractured mind. Another ghost to mock her, to taunt her, to remind her that she’s alone. Her hands clutch the pipe beneath her, the metal creaking as her weight shifts. Slowly, she leans forward, peering down into the lab. And there he is.

His silhouette is strange, his skin gleaming like molten steel cooled too quickly. But it is him. She’s sure of it. It has to be him. Right? ❛ Vik? ❜ she croaks, her voice hoarse and raw, the syllable scraped across sandpaper. Her throat feels like it’s on fire, but she doesn’t care. She just needs him to answer. Needs to know if he’s real. If anything is real. ❛ Is that . . . really you? ❜

He doesn’t disappear. She blinks. He’s still there.

Without thinking, she moves, dropping from the rafters in a blur of motion. She hits the ground hard, her boots cracking against the concrete, but the impact doesn’t faze her. Her back is to him as she lands, crouched low like an animal poised to spring. Slowly, she rises, straightening with a deliberate slowness as her shoulders pull back, her head tilting to the side. She glances over her shoulder, her glowing eyes locking onto him, unblinking.

Black streaks trail down her cheeks, dried makeup mingling with the faint shimmer of drying tears. Her lips part slightly, but no words come out. She takes him in, piece by piece, her mind struggling to reconcile what she’s seeing. He looks different. Like he’s been remade into something new, something she can’t quite understand. But she can empathize with the notion. The faint metallic sheen of his skin—he looks like he’s been touched by the Hexcore itself. Like he’s become part of it. Or it’s become part of him. And despite herself—despite everything—she feels a flicker of awe.

Viktor felt something soft falling over him - a blanket he wrapped around himself when he was working - and when the heater wasn't. He must have held onto that rather than the solid table itself. How could he not tell the difference? He wrapped the blanket around himself as he got to his knees and tried to pull himself up that way.

His knees...they were straight. Both facing the right way... As his vision finally settled, he looked down at his hands, his arms.. His entire body. A sharp inhale- By Janna, when did breathing become so easy? His entire body was encased in metal - some of which he recognised. Viktor had created his own alloy material to withstand the power from the Hexcore and here it was wrapped around his skin- or rather...it was his skin. No wonder he couldn't detect what was table and what was fabric - it seemed he lost the ability to touch textures by having his fingers encased in this metallic substance. Viktor took some deep breaths - the most full his lungs had been in years. He didn't need his Shimmer mask anymore, and it wasn't such a strain...

His body was heavy, but once he got to his feet he steadied easily once his hand was on the table. He looked over at...whatever it was that had saved him. He noticed even his crutch had been sucked in and altered... Curious, Viktor leaned down and reached within the sponge-looking material. He couldn't feel anything necessarily, but it looked almost gooey. He pulled out the crutch which had changed as much as he had... It was elongated, more a staff than a crutch.

Almost as if it was a comfort, he placed it on the floor as he took a proper look around his destroyed lab - then he heard it. The creak of metal and an almost scared voice.

"Jinx?" He looked around, the voice seemed to echo around him in the lab. "Y-Yes... I think so..." By the time he looked upward, she had already landed. His eyes widened slightly. She looked...animalistic. What had happened while he was away.

He reached out a hand as if to reach for her shoulder but his fingers curled back slightly, as if worried she wouldn't want him touching her. Just as his lips parted to speak, she ran to him. Stunned, he didn't react straight away, but soon he caved in and an arm wrapped around her - soon followed by his staff falling to the side and his other arm reaching around - both high up on her back.

Jinx’s chest tightens as the weight of it all presses down on her. Viktor’s alive—against all odds, he’s alive. She can feel his arms around her, solid and steady, but it doesn’t anchor her the way it should. Her mind refuses to stay in one place, spinning and twisting like the cogs of some broken machine.

What happened to you? Her thoughts scatter like cockroaches under a beam of light. What happened to her? Where does she even start? Her thoughts are a cacophony, fragments of explosions, screams, and blood swirling together until it feels like she might drown in them.

She pulls back from the embrace abruptly, needing space to breathe, her movements twitchy and erratic. ❛ That’s . . . a loaded question, ❜ she says, her voice dancing on the edge of a manic chuckle as she tries to push the weight of her grief into a joke. The corners of her mouth twitch into a crooked smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ❛ But kinda the same thing that happened to you. Tried kickin’ the ‘ole bucket and then someone snatched the bucket away at the last second. ❜ She mimes a kick at the ground, her boot slicing the air with too much force, her body moving with an energy that feels unnatural, almost frenetic.

Silco. The name slithers into her thoughts like a knife to the chest. Her face tightens, the mask slipping for just a second. She can still see his blood staining her hands, feel the weight of his final words as they burrow into her skull. Perfect. He thought you were perfect. Mylo’s voice, sharper than ever, cuts through her haze. And you killed him.