It was foolish of her to think that things could just go back to normal. Back to the way they were before the incident, actually, was more of an accurate way to word it, considering things with her had never been normal, and by the looks of how her life had been progressing (or regressing, rather), would never be normal. The word incident was almost comical in its usage, implying it had only become a minor conflict in her past, implying that it wasn't still raging in her memory months and months in the future. If she had the mind for excitement anymore, she would laugh at the word in itself.

Layer upon thick layer of dust had accumulated on top of everything Jinx had ever claimed as her own in her abandoned watch tower, coating the desk she usually lied her head upon and the couch that sat ignored upon one wall.

When sleep decided to finally grace Jinx after days of absence, sometimes even going a week or more without showing, it found her in the strangest of places. The scarred terrorist found slumber on the cold, stone floor of the room she occupied, leaning against a wall, sitting up in the chair by the desk, or even standing right up in place. Often times, while standing, she collapsed, knocking herself right out of her own sleep, and in those times, she would usually break into an unexplained fit of tears, feeling weaker and weaker with each drop that fell. It was uncharacteristic of her, she knew—the undefeated terror that struck the City of Progress, the one threat that plunged an entire city-state into darkness, the ruthless criminal that took risk after risk… broken.

Her weapons, her beloved guns and a few leftover Flame Chomper grenades, sat untouched against a wall in her tower, gathering what seemed like more dust than the rest of the place. Pow-Pow's vibrant exterior was dulled with the coat of grey powder that covered it, Zapper's clear barrel fogged up completely. The Chompers were rendered almost unrecognizable, piled up together in a heap.

Fishbones, however, was undoubtedly the most worn of them all. His eyes and maw had ceased to glow their bright gold and red. The belt wrapped around his body had snapped and was collected on the floor next to him. A spun web connected each end of his tail, a pleased spider sitting peacefully on its surface. His exterior, typically a greyish-blue, was now almost entirely grey, thanks to the dust.

Save for the blood that coated most of him. Although most of it had been dulled out from the dust that coated him, it was still there, still noticeable, a deep, rotted brown, crusting and chipping away like old paint. Had Jinx ever bothered to touch the cannon, she would find cleaning the gore off of him to be most difficult, and had she ever planned to use him again, she would find opening and closing his mouth to be nearly impossible now, the usual squeak accompanied by an awful grinding.

At long last, she confronted her heap of weapons, dropping the wadded-up ball of cloth between her hands onto the dusty surface of the desk, stirring up a cloud of dirt. She had been wringing it in her hands for hours, refusing to let it go. It had become a security blanket of sorts, offering her the smallest amount of assurance in her trying times.

After shuffling over, she cast a guilt-ridden expression down upon the guns. Without saying anything, she gave a lost shrug. Shooting was still and always would be hardwired into her, but she would never be able to handle them the same way again. It took her a good half hour to muster up the strength to even put her Zapper pistol in a holster at her thigh, and another ten minutes to strap Pow-Pow to her side, and a few minutes more to collect a few Flame Chompers at her belt. After those, she stared down at the cannon, hands limp at her sides. They moved to hover over the weapon, but she was unable to even think about lying her hands upon him, let alone shooting him.

She muttered a low, "Sorry, Fishbones," and turned before she could worry too much about leaving her beloved cannon behind. The thrills that he had offered her before just wouldn't feel the same, she thought.

Having already forced herself out of her tower, she saw no point in turning back, despite the numerous nagging agitations that clawed at the back of her mind, telling her that the outing was a horrible idea. It would be the first Piltover saw of the criminal in months, and they would be even less pleased to see her than before. Amazingly, yes, that sort of thing was possible. When you gravely injure the Sheriff, decommission the defender, and brutally murder the enforcer, people tended to hold you with a lot worse than simple hatred or disgust. Those petty little emotions warped and twisted and devolved into a howling bloodthirst, and Jinx knew that no citizen would hesitate to kill her themselves, should they have the audacity to do so. More than likely, though, they would cower as always. Piltover Proud, but still afraid of the one that caused a direct threat to their lives. With reason, she told herself.

The normally-thin terrorist was even worse off than she was before. Her cheeks had begun to sink in, having completely lost the roundness of her face. Bags sat below her eyes, permanently as far as she was concerned, stained a deeper, more dreary color then the rest of her already-pale complexion. Her ribs, already apparent before, were much more defined, each casting a bit of its own shadow from the rises and falls in her skin. Her shoulders and elbows jut out, akin to a corpse. Any part of her that was desirable to some before had been lost, and she knew that well. It was a fact that never ceased to torture her along with the many other facts that haunted her mind.

An old breakfast shop was her target for the morning. Before, she had only ever forced herself out of hiding once for this particular shop. The holdup went nicely at the time, and she had scampered away with a dozen free donuts, scathe-free. This time, however, wouldn't be the same.