"I don't know what my name is. I never really had one, I guess. At least, that I can remember." The speaker, a blue-haired girl with braids past her waist, attempted conversation with a man deep into his cups. As he glared at her blearily, she slowly tapered off and slipped him a card under the table.

A grin cracked his grimy face in half as his bloodshot eyes greedily ate away at her. His scraggly beard twitched slightly as his gaze turned predatory. He laid down a twenty to pay his tab and staggered to an upright position, then grabbed her arm and dragged her outside toward the alley behind the bar. The smell of cheap perfume and the rotting, unmarked bundles strewn everywhere engulfed them both as he threw her against a wall.

Watching him chortle as he fiddled with his belt, the girl plastered a wide grin onto her face and allowed herself to drift away.

"Just call me Jinx."

...

The first time that Caitlyn had killed something, it seemed inconsequential to her. Her parents had never had much time for her, but on her sixth birthday they bought her a pet: the fluffiest bunny rabbit you've ever seen. She had played with the ball of fur for hours, making up games and contests for him to excel in. If he didn't excel, she simply made him do it again until he was the most agile, reactive bunny around. Until one day, he simply could not follow her orders.

She had been trying to teach him to respond to verbal cues and even communicate with her. It had taken her hours to create an elaborate language of noises, gestures, and patterns of movement, but the helpless creature couldn't seem to understand her at all.

After a few days of failed attempts, I simply... flew into a rage.

My cheeks, red with frustration, drained of color and it seemed like the air grew colder. I actually was colder. I could feel the energy of the room boring into me, compressing me like one of those machines that smashes old cars into unrecognizable little boxes of metal. Everything seemed to slow down as I focused in on my pathetic, quivering target.

I slowly picked my pet up and looked into its eyes. And then I tightened my tiny hands around his neck and shook him like a ragdoll. A slight smile played at my lips as his squealing ceased and he went limp.

Curiously, I peered into his face and saw nothing; the only thing left of his failure was a beaten up shell. My hands shook with the thrill of power and my heart pounded with the first true excitement I had ever felt.

...

After the confrontation with her gang, Vi had decided to go underground. Literally into the sewers. She wanted to make a statement.

She plopped down into the murky, brownish water with the grace of a dancing bear. It was only up to her knees, but the splash from her descent drenched her. Wrinkling her nose, she grit her teeth and just kept moving until she found a newer-looking pipe with copper inlays turning north on a slightly raised platform.

She knew that the richer denizens of Piltover lived in the northern part of town, but hadn't realized that it would be so damn easy to find her way.

"They seriously need a fancy pipe to carry their shit down to the old town?" she muttered to herself, smirking.

She swung herself up and started trudging through the markedly lower water level. Her smirk only continued to widen as she walked toward the most classy part of town.

...

Even though I'm grinning like an idiot, I hate this. I absolutely hate this. I hate this with every part of myself, even the parts that aren't all mine. On some fundamental level, I know that I'm completely fucking crazy to even be able to cope with this level of inhumanity, but for some reason I don't care. I just put a smile on. Customer service, with a smile!

I just lay here while this disgusting waste of flesh and bone grunts and struggles to finish himself off. God, he can barely even keep it up long enough to get it in. How do these men survive in a place like Zaun? How do they have money to spare for this kind of thing? What kind of person even wants to do this sort of thing?

As the pace of his panting picks up, at least I know it'll be over soon. For now. Then I'll go find some new loser and start all over again. It's such a vicious cycle, but I don't see how I can ever be free of it. The first thing they did when I got shipped to this hellhole was thrust a tracker into my arm. It's in there, embedded in my muscle and sinew. I can feel it inside of me, ticking, ticking, ticking, holding me down. I can feel it clawing my sides and breathing heavily on the back of my neck.

This nightmare will never be over. I have no hope of escape, at least not if I plan on staying alive. To be honest, at this point it's hard to choose between life and death. The only thing really keeping me around is the spectre that haunts me, whispering encouraging words and betraying me in the same breath. In fact, she's talking to me right now. I suddenly decide to take her advice.

As the drunkard gasps and clenches for a final time, I wait a second before getting off the grungy pavement. I pull out the tiny zapping pistol that I carry, just in case, and flick the power up to lethal. It's easy as can be to aim between his shoulderblades and fire a single shot.

He's dead before he knows what hit him.

I scramble to grab his dirty wad of money and run. Killing brings me no joy, but maybe this will be a step toward something. I made a decision about my life on my own behalf - that's a step forward from here, for sure.

Maybe I can end the cycle on my own.

A/N: Hello friends. I've never really written an author's note before, so here goes. I'm sorry that I'm taking literal ages to get these chapters out, but this is actually the first story I've ever written so I'm trying to make it really good. I would really appreciate it if you would take the time to leave a review so that I can improve as I go. The lack of feedback thus far is slightly discouraging, but I do plan on writing this story to its completion. Just, some love/criticism would be great! Thanks, readers. 3