#precisionshot

 Prim awoke early in the morning as she had every day of her life while working as a servant. Similar to the mornings of the previous four months the awoke in tears, shrieking and screaming. Every day began with the same self-destructive break down of wailing and waterworks as nothing could repair her broken heart. Primrose had lost the love of her life those few months ago. It only did her more harm that she slept in Caitlyn’s bed every night still.

 Once the crying would subside she would lackadaisically make her way out of bed. The rabbit was alone. In her sorrow she chased every last person out of the mansion over the months and even grew increasingly hostile to the idea of others stepping foot in the building. Her once measured and perfect methods of cleaning had been reduced to a slow and lethargic pace. Every so often she’d stop to take in what had been cleaned. Her torture would continue with some of the praise she once recieved coming to the forefront of her memory.

You’ve done a wonderful job Primrose! How about a tea break?

 Just the thought brought on another break down. Such had been her daily routine. If nothing was done soon it was very possible she’d die from her own loneliness, but in Prim’s mind that didn’t concern her. All she wanted was Caitlyn back. Something impossible.

 While cleaning near the entrance Prim’s hearing caught the sound of someone approaching the door. Her once lethargic demeanor instantly became one of rage.

“Don’t you dare try to enter Lady Caitlyn’s mansion!” Prim hissed at the top of her lungs. “No one will take her home away! No one! I was taught how to use weapons, don’t make me use them!”

 She marched for the door as the steps didn’t cease. Given the depth of them they probably weren’t quite near enough to hear her properly. She flung the door open once the person was close enough, practically ready to maul them to make them leave.

}{💎}{ “Error. Not possible.” The tone Skarner takes somehow sounds a mix of disbelieving and . . . afraid. No amount of emotional blockers could possibly hope to halt the flood of shock that jolted the cyborg scorpion’s system as she looked upon, undoubtedly, the Sheriff of Piltover. Different armor, more intimidating rifle, but the biological scans were, without question the same.