Chapter Text
The marketplace buzzed with life, a cacophony of shouting merchants, clinking metal, and the faint hiss of steam from distant pipes. Viktor moved through the noise cautiously, his crutch tapping rhythmically against the cobblestones. The air was thick with the tang of machine oil and shimmer fumes, both nauseating and familiar.
He barely noticed the commotion around him; his thoughts lingered on the project left within his lab.
The terrarium flashed in his memory—the beetle with its trembling, mended leg. Small and unassuming, it had become an unwitting participant in his experiments. Its left hind leg, broken and snapped in half—not by his doing, but from a skirmish with another bug in his collection—now gleamed faintly where the shimmer's effect had taken hold.
At first, the results had seemed promising. The leg healed cleanly, and the beetle resumed movement. But soon, its motions turned jerky, almost erratic, as though its nerves couldn't reasonably coordinate with the rest of its body.
Hours of careful refinement had gone into stabilizing his variant—enough to repair flesh—but the deeper layers of life still resisted his efforts. He had watched the beetle for hours, noting every stagger, every moment it froze mid-crawl as if struggling to remember its instincts.
‘Transient neurological disruption. Instability in neural pathways. Possible erosive remnants. Further refinement necessary.’ Viktor had scrawled in his notes.
Healing was never simple. The shimmer reminded him of that truth with every unstable result.
The mere thought of it tightened like a knot in his chest.
"Late again," a sharp and electric voice called, cutting through the marketplace's din, forcing his attention away.
Viktor turned his gaze on a young girl crouched beside a scrap pile. Sparks danced between her fingers as she tinkered with a small device. "Got what you need," she replied, holding a weathered box with glassware and tools. "Straight from the Chem Barons' warehouses. Fresh, untouched, and not suspicious at all." He arched a brow but didn't question her methods. Zaun's desperation bred resourcefulness, and she was nothing if not resourceful. He pulled a few coins from his pocket and placed them in her hand.
Zeri—one of Zaun's many children, an orphan trying to carve out a place for herself—had started trading with him shortly after his exile. Their first meeting had been less cordial; she'd tried to pick his pocket. He had caught her and handed her the coins she was after. "If you must take," he had said, "let it be for something useful."
Since then, she'd appeared sporadically, offering small bits of scrap or tools in exchange for a few coins and his occasional repair advice. She had a knack for bargaining, her wild gestures and quick tongue masking the hunger in her eyes.
She pocketed the money with a grin, leaning closer as her expression turned serious. "Word from topside," she said in a hushed tone. "Big memorial tomorrow. For the folks caught in that explosion. A whole statue reveal, too." A faint unease flickered across Viktor's face.
"Bet everyone's gonna be watching. Thought you'd wanna know," she added, her grin returning.
He nodded, clutching the box to his side. "Thank you," he murmured.
"You know where to find me," she chirped, shifting her attention to the small, crackling machine she was assembling. "Don't blow yourself up, old man. I need you alive to keep paying me."
Her teasing earned a faint smile, a rare reprieve from the weight that clung to him like a second skin. As Viktor turned to leave, his thoughts strayed back to the beetle's struggles. If it could endure, then perhaps he could, too.
The streets grew quieter as Viktor moved into the more desolate alleyways, where the marketplace chaos gave way to haunting stillness. The occasional sputter of a makeshift fire or the murmur of hushed voices broke the silence, their glow casting flickering shadows on the crumbling walls.See AlsoKnee Ligament Injury Recovery Period - Pristyn CareSaving time with a multi-purpose portable sheep handler | Te Pari…Stair-climbing wheelchair proven to maintain user’s body stability based on AnyBody musculoskeletal model and finite element analysisThe Best Toenail Clippers For Seniors of 2025
The less fortunate huddled in clusters, cloaked in rags and despair. Their eyes latched onto him as he passed—hollow gazes filled with curiosity and desperation. Viktor's chest tightened, a nagging sensation spreading as he felt the weight of their silent pleas.
He quickened his pace, gripping the box of supplies tighter against his side. The ache was familiar; an old wound reopened each time he walked these streets. He wanted to help them all, but the tools he held—his mind, his creations—had brought little to no aid.
A sharp and dry cough echoed from one of the alleys. Viktor froze mid-step, his thoughts briefly interrupted. For a moment, he considered investigating, but then he shook his head. There were too many in need here, with the same cough and condition. But it came again, sharper this time, tugging at his attention.
He turned, his gaze falling on a figure slumped against the wall. A young girl, pale and sunken, met his eyes with a desperate, pleading look.
"Please," she rasped, her voice barely audible. "Help me... or make it stop." For a moment, Viktor froze. Her hollow cheeks and trembling hands mirrored his own.
"Your pain," he said quietly, his voice steady but strained, "is familiar to me."
She coughed again, her frail body wracked by the effort. "It burns," she whispered. "Like fire in my lungs."
Viktor crouched beside her, his thoughts racing as he set the box aside. He reached to the side of his crutch, undoing a mechanism that opened a hidden compartment. His fingers brushed against the vial of shimmer variant he had brought with him. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, unstable but refined—a version meant for testing, not urgent use. Now, however, caution felt like a luxury he couldn't afford.
The vial glowed faintly in his hand, its shimmer almost mocking him. What choice did he have? The beetle's broken body came to mind when he looked upon the pale vial. It had caused an unnatural surge of energy, flooding its tiny frame. Its movements became erratic and unpredictable, its fragile body overcharged, as if the very essence of life was too much for it to bear.
It survived. And now this woman, her life hanging by a fragile thread.
"I can help," he said, the words tasting hollow.
Her eyes, wide with fear and hope, locked onto his. "Please," she whispered, her voice breaking. His fingers hovered over the vial, the tremor in his hand betraying his uncertainty.
The hum of Zaun faded into the background as Viktor focused on the woman before him. With a deep breath, he uncorked the vial and tipped it toward her lips, his heart pounding with the faint hope that this time—this time—things would be different.
For a moment, hope flared. Her breathing slowed with the ragged wheeze easing. Viktor's shoulders sagged in quiet relief, his hands pressing gently against her chest.
Then, her body jerked violently.
"No—no!" Viktor's shout ripped through the air, his voice raw with panic. Her back arched violently, frail limbs jerking in uncontrollable spasms. The empty vial slipped from his trembling fingers, shattering on the ground. He lunged forward, pressing both hands against her to hold her still, terrified she might damage her already broken body even further.
"Stay with me!" His voice cracked, desperation tightening like a vice around his throat.
Her gasps gave way to a raw, guttural choke. Her eyes rolled back, and her body convulsed violently before falling still.See AlsoUnlocker’s Remorse: The Risks and Rewards of Choice as a Puzzlehunt Mechanism
Silence descended, heavy and suffocating, pressing against him like an unbearable weight.
Viktor froze, his hands trembling above her still form. His chest hitched with shallow, frantic breaths as his eyes locked on the fragile body before him, unmoving. The faint shimmer coursed through her veins—a dim, taunting glow, cruel in its imitation of healing. At his feet, the shattered vial bled the last few drops into the dirt, the dark stain spreading like spilled hope. The thought hit him like a blow, sharp and unforgiving.
His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms as guilt sank its claws deeper into his chest. His mind spiraled, haunted by another face—another life lost. Sky. Her uncomprehending eyes were wide with disbelief. The light faded as the horror of recognition dawned in her final moments. His creation had been the very thing to end her life, too.
"No..." The word slipped from Viktor's lips, barely audible, as his legs buckled beneath him. He crumpled against the wall, breath ragged, hands clawing at his hair. "Not again... please, not again..." His cursed creations—had stolen lives. You failed. Again.
"What's the point..." His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, swallowed by the suffocating dark. "If I can't even save one life?"
Viktor's head snapped up. Through blurred vision, he caught a flicker of movement in the shadows. Figures emerged, their forms indistinct but advancing, their steps deliberate. "Who's there?" His voice trembled, raw with exhaustion and fear.
The figures didn't answer.
Jinx's gaze flickered to the chair, her lips curling into a crooked, bittersweet smile.
"You're awfully quiet today," she murmured, her voice soft, almost sing-song. "What's the matter, cat got your tongue? Or are you mad at me?" She rolled the grenade across her palm, tilting her head like she was listening for an answer. The silence was thick and suffocating, but she filled it with her voice.
"You used to yell about focus and... and 'discipline.'" She sneered the word, her tone mocking. "But look at me now! Focused as ever. Just like you wanted." Her thumb toyed with the grenade pin, twisting it gently. A flicker of mischief lit her eyes but vanished as quickly as it came.
"I could do it," she whispered, the words trembling. "One pop, one bang, and boom—I'm with you again. No more messy stuff. No more... them." Her swinging legs slowed as her voice faltered. She glanced at the chair, her expression hardening. "But you'd hate that, wouldn't you?" Her grip tightened on the grenade. "Guess I can't even do that right."
Jinx threw her head back in a short, bitter laugh. It echoed in the emptiness, sharp and hollow. She slid off the desk, pacing restlessly, the grenade spinning in her hand like a toy.
"I did it for you!" she shouted, her voice cracking as she stopped in front of the chair. Her knuckles turned white around the grenade. "You were supposed to be here. Sitting there. Planning like you always do." Her words broke as she rubbed furiously at her face. The grenade clattered to the desk as her legs gave out. She sank to the floor, pressing her forehead against the chair's armrest like a child seeking comfort.
"I don't know how to be me without you." Her gaze landed on the unopened whiskey bottle lying near the chair—his favorite.
Jinx twisted the cap off with a sharp flick of her wrist. She hesitated momentarily before tipping the bottle and pouring its amber contents onto the floor. Her crooked smirk returned, faint and empty. "Bet you'd scold me for wasting your whiskey, making a mess, like always." The smirk wavered, and she slammed the bottle onto the ground. It didn't break like she wanted, bouncing weakly to the side.
Her hand found the grenade again, fingers brushing the pin in a familiar, absent rhythm. "Maybe that's the trick, huh? Maybe it's not about fixing anything. Maybe I'm just supposed to keep breaking. Over and over. Until there's nothing left." She stared at the ceiling, her voice barely audible. "I need to stop whining. To toughen up. To finish what we started."
She turned her head to the chair, her whisper almost lost in the oppressive silence. "What the hell am I supposed to do?" The silence answered her, heavy and impenetrable. The grenade rolled from her fingers and across the floor, but she didn't move to pick it up.
Rising unsteadily, she kicked the overturned whiskey bottle, watching it spill the last of its contents as it rolled. He wasn't here to drink it, anyway.
Pausing in the doorway, her hand lingered on the frame, her eyes sweeping over the dimly lit room. Scattered papers. An empty cigar tray. That damned chair, looming like a ghost in the shadows.
"Don't wait up for me," she muttered, her voice raw and unsteady. Her fingers tightened briefly on the doorframe before letting go. She stepped into the cold corridors of the Undercity. The air outside was thick with smoke and the hum of distant machinery, but it felt lighter than the weight she'd left behind.
Her steps quickened, the empty grenade spot on her belt clinking faintly. Her smirk faltered as she disappeared into the streets, swallowed by the chaos she'd helped create. Behind her, the room remained still, heavy with unspoken words and the lingering scent of whiskey and gunpowder
Jinx wandered aimlessly, hands buried deep in her pockets, her head bowed. The stale air of Silco's office clung to her like an unwelcome shadow.
Turning into a quieter alley, she spotted movement ahead. A scrawny kid crouched by a scrap pile focused on something in his hands. She almost didn't look twice—kids scavenging in Zaun were as familiar as the grime on its walls. But something shiny caught her eye, glinting faintly in the dim neon lights.
Her steps slowed as she edged closer. The kid was fiddling with a collection of metal parts far too polished to belong to Zaun's rusted metals. Among the pieces, her sharp gaze landed on a worn but distinct wooden handle—Piltie garbage.
Her stomach twisted with recognition.
It wasn't just random junk. It was a crutch.
Not just any crutch. Fortune Cookie's crutch—the awkward guy she'd saved from a mugging not too long ago. She remembered how his bumbling gratitude had annoyed her, how he'd clung to that crutch like his life depended on it. And now here it was, half-dismantled by some sticky-fingered kid.
Jinx tilted her head, watching as the kid's nimble fingers worked obsessively to tear it apart. Something about his focus struck her. It reminded her of herself. The crunch of gravel under her boots made the boy freeze. His head snapped up, and his wide eyes locked on hers. Recognition dawned, and fear followed—fast.
Jinx saw it. She wasn't just trouble to him; she was death—her own wanted poster plastered on the alley wall, glaring down at them like a silent reminder of who she was.
The kid bolted before she could say a word.
"Hey, relax," she muttered, her voice trailing uselessly after him. She sighed, crouching to pick up the crutch frame left behind. It looked pathetic, stripped down to its bare bones. She turned it over, examining its makeshift repairs and modifications. The guy had put a lot of effort into keeping it together.
For a long moment, Jinx just stared at it. Then, with a shrug, she slung it over her shoulder and tucked it into a patched bag she'd picked up earlier. Her feet carried her toward the Fissures, though she told herself she didn't know why.
Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was her twisted sense of fun. Or perhaps it was the nagging feeling that Fortune Cookie deserved at least one piece of his life not falling apart.
When she found him, though, she had a few things to say about leaving his stuff where scavengers couldn't get to it.
And maybe—just maybe—she wouldn't even charge him for the favor.