AN: Sorry for the long wait :P Also if you're wondering about the cake bit, I read the Ziggs comic and couldn't resist.
Adrian has to admit; despite her sheer demented personality, short attention span, and lack of self-awareness, Jinx does know how to blow some shit up. The rocket launcher at her shoulder must have some sort of automatic loading mechanism, as she pulls the trigger continuously without ever slotting another missile into the barrel. The chaingun at least has a feeding mechanism, attached to a long string of bullets wrapped around her lithe body, apparently with no end. They combine to form an admirably devastating level of destruction, which he appreciates in a professional way.
After all, his business is indeed also in mayhem, menace, and mackerel. Wait, what?
"Look! Mackerel! I love fish!" Jinx sashays over - is sashays appropriate for a girl that is so inherently childish? - to a wheeled cart, a food stand. The owner - with everyone else in the area - has wisely fled. There is an admittedly delicious smelling food cooking on the spit, and though he doubts it is actually mackerel, it is certainly fish of some kind. Jinx swipes two and hands one to him. He takes a bite, and though it's a little burnt, it's good enough to swallow. Leaning against the cart, he examines their handiwork, occasionally spitting out bones. The square was previously the pride of a monument built to and by Jago Medarda, the current master of Medarda Clan. His work was inspiring, forwarding the cause of Piltover as a whole, and as a reward for that work, he'd built a great, arching statue in his likeness.
His chiselled face was now conspicuously absent, masked by pink paint; one arm lodged somewhere unspeakable.
"Well, onto the next one. Good progress so far." He kicks himself off the cart and checks his gun. He hasn't needed it yet; there's been surprisingly little resistance. Not that it matters so much; Jinx appears more than capable of 'dealing' with pesky interruptions. She does appear to share his sentiment for the preservation of life. She blows buildings up, but somehow has a sense of whether people are in them or not; he has seen her skip one, waiting, and then once civilians stream from the doors, continues. He is snapped from his reverie by the sound of hissing.
"Jinx, what are you doing?" The street signs are missing, or swapped around. She is spraying a series of letters onto the side of a wall. 'Jinx wuz here 3.' with a little skull over the I. He snorts, then frowns.
"Why are you putting your name down? They know who you are now." She skips over, carrying another sign.
"Silly Mr. Spy! They know it's me already. Besides, it isn't fun if they aren't trying to catch me! Then I'd just be a weirdo! Duh!" She welds the sign to a lamp with her zapgun, then starts down the street. As she skips, her hair flails in a hypnotic pattern. The smell of the docks is different in Piltover. Not fish, nor sweat and blood. No, it smells of gold. His nose itches at the scent of so much wealth long before they see the Sun Gate, and his mouth salivates at the sight.
"Finally. Our destination approaches. Ready yourself, Jinx." She doesn't appear to hear him.
"Do you remember the plan? We have to close the gate first, then we can destroy the controls." She comes to a stop and huffs, hands on hips, sticking out her bottom lip. He can't settle on a concrete age, but errs on the side of young.
"Whatever! Let's just start shooting!" He grins, throwing his arms aside in a grand gesture. This was his plan all along.
"Of course, dear. Shoot to your heart's content." She disappears, and the explosions start shortly. Whilst she provided the distraction, he would undertake the real work.
The Sun Gate sits before his vision; vast beyond imagining. There are scores of ships in the channel, dozens in the bay, offloading and sampling the fine wares of the Twin Cities. From all walks of life, all across the world. Several from his native Noxus; troop barges, but with arms and armour instead of men, all watched over by the fleets of warships, each owned by different Clans. They chipped together to guard the Sun Gate, to ease the load, and to ensure there was no… Funny business. Of course, they should be far more worried about him than each other. To the chorus of mayhem behind him, he begins.
The great channel that connected the East and West was well guarded, by land, and sea. It would be no easy feat to infiltrate the control room, but that wasn't his intention. After all, if he closed the gates that way, it would be easily reversed, and there was no way he could hold the room for any length of time, if he could even get there. An accomplished veteran he may be, but the number of augmented guards was more than any one man could handle. Well, maybe Jinx could do it, but she'd forget why after the first dozen. So, it came down to more… Subtle methods.
He let the guard slip to the floor, firmly unconscious, and hogtied him so he wouldn't prove a problem later. Stepping through the now unprotected door, he dragged the poor sod through, then closed it. He was not a Clan Vigilnaut; just an underpaid, underprivileged man trying to make a living with the small pool of skills he possessed. It was for him that Adrian did what he did, though he knew few would appreciate or understand that fact. So, for now, he was condemned to the shadows. Speaking of…
The next door was locked. Using his pistol as an impromptu lockpick - he didn't have the time or inclination for anything else - left it susceptible to his advances, and he quickly moved through. The light blinded him momentarily; glaring and sharp, cast off the sleek hulls of the many ships moored here at the docks. He ignored them all, stepping quickly, coattails swishing in the stiff breeze. Labourers and deckhands swarmed like ants, dragging and towing and buzzing. Such industry made his heart warm; the sound of explosions nearby did nothing to dissuade it. He wondered why the sailors here did not react more to the imminent threat, but dismissed the consideration. He did not come here to daydream. At the base of the Sun Gate towers, there was a Hexdraulic conveyor, the same used for travel down to Zaun. On each floor was a staff room, and the very top hosted the control room. There were three great hinges located at equal heights, powered by technology far beyond his understanding.
Of course, he knew enough about precision science that one fact held true, always; explosions were not recommended.
The outside of the towers was sheer and smooth, but the Piltie that built the shining monstrosities forgot the first rule of security; the fancier something was, the more impressive and aesthetically focused, the less protected. See, artificers had long ago realized that gold was soft, and easy to break. It was a bad building material, but it was just so damn shiny they couldn't resist. Nowadays, they'd figured out how to alloy it, mixing it with steel or - in one intrepid and expensive case - platinum, leading to the most expensive, glittering shipwreck that now graces the bottom of Dusk Bay. But back then, when the Sun Gate was built, there was no such tricks. Thus the tower was mostly steel, with a thick plating of gold on the outside. Going up the inside was out of the question; luckily the outside was much more forgiving.
He starts at the end of the long, tiled street. His feet blaze, whirring loudly, each step a paving stone to glory, mosaics of worthless feats and hollow glory blurring past beneath his boots, and then he hops, skips, and jumps; rocketing into the air dozens of metres, the air rushing past in a literally breathtaking, eye-watering ascent. As he nears the apex of his jump, small metal blades spike from his shoes and dig into the soft gold, both hands drawing wicked knives that mirror the action. He slides a heart-stopping foot, scoring a screeching line into the tower, but he's done it. He allows a moment to laugh, terrified and exhilarating adrenaline-rush filled, then begins the painstaking process of climbing.
It takes an amount of time he cannot rightly guess at, stubbornly progressing bit by bit, to reach the first hinge. At this point, he isn't truly sure of his ability to climb the rest of the way. However, he can do this little; reaching into his coat to withdraw a small square of metal and disconcertingly warm Chem. He presses a button that disappears, slams it against the massive hinge, and cranes his neck to look upwards. Far above, the next hinge lies, proud. He snarls, takes a deep breath, and continues.
He can't hear anything up here. The wind howls past in a deafening, mocking rictus; his clothes roil and slap his flesh, his skin is so cold it's starting to go numb. His eyes sting, and blur with tears. None of this stops his climb, or slows it. He has gone through hardships much greater, fallen to lower depths of pain and fear. Hand over hand, inch by inch, he climbs his way up, leaving dents and rent gashes in the golden shell of the tower. Even through the tears, he can see the bright blooms of explosions from the city below, now so far away. It would bring a smile to his face if his teeth were not grit painfully against the elements.
He is so fixated he goes past the next hinge, and only sees when disaster nearly dashes him against the street far below.
He doesn't see what it is that the wind slashes against him, but it tears into his side, drills through, and bounces off the tower, spinning away in a soon-gone blur. He is so cold he is barely aware of the pain that tries to claw into his mind, but the blood loss he can feel stealing over him like a shadow of death. Either way, the projectile spins him, dislodges one of his hands, and he falls slightly. Thus he sees the hinge, a few metres below. Climbing downwards proves far harder, but he does it, plants the charge, and is glad that his leg - and the foot and boot around it - are fake, or otherwise he would feel the life leaking out of him pooling in his shoe.
He will not reach the third, he can tell. Luck was not on his side today, and he needed a heap of it. But that did beg the question of how on earth he was going to get back down. He hadn't really considered it. But now he was up here - bleeding out, clung to the side like a barnacle - he really wished he had. It was probably in one of the files Jinx had so elegantly destroyed. So now he had to figure it out, and quick. His head was going woozy, though that might be the thin air. At least the pain was minor, more than bearable.
He twisted around, craning his neck painfully to look over his shoulder. There was nothing this high up he could grab onto. Looking down between his legs, there was no ledges or gaps. He could use the holes he'd punched on his way up in the soft gold to climb back down, but that would be a risky business, and would likely take more energy than climbing upwards. He might be able to fall into the water, but at this sheer height, even if he did stick the landing, he would probably shatter every bone, bolt and vertebrae in his body. His head slowly swings upwards, eyes locking onto a small, almost inconsequentially insignificant, hatch. Attached is a series of handholds that lead to the hinge that lies close by. He snarls weakly, takes a shallow gasp, and continues.
His arms are shaking. His legs are numb, apart from the one warm streak where his blood is oozing from his wound.
The knives are starting to blunt. The blades in his feet aren't, made of the finest metal alloys available in Noxus.
He's stopped looking at the hatch. Hand over hand. Step by step. Clink, thunk, heave. Clink, thunk, heave.
One of the blades snaps. It's lodged deep. He keeps going, using the free hand to keep pressure on his wound.
His mouth is hanging open. His breathing is laboured. The air is so thin.
The hatch… It's… Locked… From the inside…
He swings the knife weakly at the crack.
Again. Again.
Again.
It slides in.
He leans, almost overbalances when the blade snaps again.
Fucking… Useless shitty bloody knives…
He didn't want to.
He smashes his hand into the metal.
It dents.
It bends.
It buckles.
He prises it open.
He falls into darkness.
He isn't sure where this is. He hasn't even planted the charge on the hinge. His muscles scream in relief. His prosthetic hand is damaged, the fingers bent and joints unresponsive. There are a few gaps where he can see through the fake skin. Underneath is a horrid combination of wires, metal plates, and bolts. The room is dark, and that is the little he can see. Light is coming from under a door a few feet away. Voices… Indistinct, but deep and serious. Guards. No, worse, Vigilnauts. He pulls his gun out with his left hand a little awkwardly, racks the slide, checks the chamber. Clean. He goes to stand and his legs slide out from under him, knocking the breath from his lungs as he slams to the floor.
Oh yeah. Bleeding out. Shit.
He can't see much, the room is empty but for him. He crawls to the door and uses the wall to prop himself up. He's surprised no one heard his entry, a little disappointed, but otherwise totally fine with it. Slowly clambering to his feet, he sways, head fuzzy, blood rushing, but manages it after too long. The voices haven't stopped. He starts to count, but can't get past three. He can't hold the thoughts, they're slipping away with his blood. He readies the pistol and tries the handle, not bothering to pull it slowly, attempting to throw it open.
He slams against the door, his wound sending searing agony up his spine. It's locked. A bitter laugh escapes him.
Shouts come from the other side, and after too long for trained security agents, shots push through the wall, blindly attempting to gun him down. He practically snorts. Amateurs. And they're being paid for this? Leaning up on one arm, he places shots in the direction of the sound of gunfire, and it slowly trails off. He tries to get up again, but his bad arm splinters, a finger flying off into a dark corner. He picks the lock of the door with bullets, and lets it swing open on its own. A Vigilnaut comes round the corner, gun raised. He flips backwards, two rounds clustered on his heart. Adrian crawls desperately, hoping there isn't another one left.
There are four, all lying in pools of blood. One is still alive, but not for long. They each have their own problems.
There is a medical box, shining and matte, invented by the Medarda; a collection of emergency supplies. He slides over, one hand trailing, one leg weakly kicking, one eye blocked by a sweaty strand of hair, just one inch closer… It's on the wall above him. Hanging. He can't reach it. His thoughts are going cloudy. He considers there are probably better options, but doesn't have time to go through them. He shoots it - near the top, attempting not to damage it - and it falls, landing on his leg. It hurts. That's a good sign. Wasting no time, he cracks it open and pulls out the objects inside.
Five minutes pass - spent bandaging and drinking foul-tasting chemicals, and trying to collect his thoughts - before the conveyor arrives. A guard steps out, holding a tray with tea and something that smells delicious, takes a moment to look around, drops the platter, and lands on the floor dying as the last bullet in the magazine takes him in the throat. He struggles against death for a few seconds before shock and blood loss take him over the edge into the abyss.
That was a close one. If there'd been one more guard, he would be dead. Sloppy.
He reloads, stands, and takes a deep, deep breath. His lungs stretch and ache in a good way. An alive way. He walks over to the console, hits a short series of buttons, flips a lever, and then unloads the compact death machine held by the new Vigilnaut. It starts beeping and smoking. He reaches into his coat, takes out the last Chemtech explosive that was destined for the third hinge, and attaches it inside the machine through a maintenance panel. He picks up another gun and fills the clip with bullets from the others. The rate of fire is something unknown; he's never seen a gun that fires that fast, but he's heard of so-called 'automatic' weapons that can fire continuously. He rolls his neck, steps over the corpse of a Vigilnaut, and begins his descent.
It takes a long time, but no one thinks to reinforce the Sun Tower. In fact, it is likely that it is less secure, some of the men taking it upon themselves to protect the city. He is thankful for their idiocy. Bravery and heroics will not achieve anything. He steps from the base of the Tower, blood staining his coat, one hand almost entirely missing, and strolls down the street. There are askew glances, disapproving looks, but they don't get in his way and they don't call the Wardens, so he doesn't give a shit. Then, before he can reach the designated rendezvous point, someone steps up beside him.
A girl with blue hair, depthless, crazy eyes, and a penchant for belts, explosives, and general destruction steps up beside him.
"Heyya Mr. Spy Man!" She salutes, her legs kicking in a goose step. He suppresses the insane urge to giggle. Explosions continue in the distance. He pats the detonator in his pocket. It's slightly sodden. The onlookers around them - already thin and thinning, due to the close by mayhem - start to slink away. He might be a relatively innocuous sight, but the Loose Cannon is quite an obvious one. Adrian starts to walk faster, and Jinx matches him effortlessly, starts skipping.
"Jinx. Why aren't you at the rendezvous point?" Her eyes widen in - potentially mock - innocence.
"Well, you aren't either! I was just on a stroll and I saw youuuu!" She shouts this, points as if he didn't know who he was.
"Yes, but my task is complete. Yours isn't." She rolls her eyes and blows a raspberry and otherwise shows her disdain.
"There's all the time in the world for explosions, but only a little bit of time for cake!" She passes him quickly, darting, and stops beside a glass storefront. Behind the thin barrier is an aesthetically offensive varied and bright series of cakes. Jinx presses her face right up against the glass, eyes darting, and Adrian sighs. He turns to make sure that no one is watching them - which they aren't, indeed most stores are closed - and spins at the sound of heavy metallic objects clattering to the floor.
Jinx pushes through the door, but something about her has changed. He looks at the floor, where her top - a series of belts, strapped bullets, and a strange harness that holds her guns - is lying there. He can see the pale curve of her back through the glass and forest of baked goods, jumping up and down next to the counter. There are no other customers. The clerk is trying and failing to stop his eyes following her movements, and gesturing angrily to the door. Adrian isn't sure what emotion is appropriate. He goes for irritation. Dragging the guns, he follows her in.
"Please, madam, I can only serve you if you find some clothes! Y-You, ahem, are entirely inappropriately dressed!" She does a combination pout-glare that is terrifying and adorable at once, and the shopkeeper shrinks. Adrian sighs.
"Jinx. Leave the man alone." She spins, pigtails swinging in a flurry of hair, to face him, the same pout in place. She is, in fact, topless. Her breasts are as undeveloped as previously thought, but no less... Evident. He ignores them, or tries to.
"But he won't serve me cake!" She waves some money in his face, and he pointedly looks at the man, eyebrow raised. The shopkeep splutters and gestures to her, conveying his bewilderment. Adrian can understand that little.
"But, messir, look at her! It is scandalous... I cannot be seen to serve such a person!" His voice is pleading. Adrian does not have time for weaklings with no spine, though he is not ignorant to his plight.
"Well, luckily there are no customers here. Everyone is scared of the one running around blowing shit up." His voice is rough and deep and intimidating without trying, and the man gulps, nodding slowly.
"A-As true as that is, I would know that my store had stooped so low! I will not serve her by choice!" He has more of a backbone than expected. Adrian takes a moment to consider the conundrum. He isn't sure that he wants Jinx to put her top back on, but he definitely wants them to leave this random man alone and get somewhere safe and hidden. Jinx is looking at him with a pleading, puppy-eyes expression. His heart melts a little. He really needs to figure out her age.
An idea sparks, and he reaches into his coat, pulling out his chunky pistol. It isn't loaded, but no one needs to know that.
The shopkeep pales and jumps back, hands in the air. Jinx giggles and claps and jumps and dances and… Moving on.
"Well then, you will serve her with no choice. Hurry up and give her some cake, and then we can get out of here."
"Yeah, silly man! Gimme some of that chocolate one and that red one and that one and just a little bit-"
"Jinx. One slice. Don't be greedy." Jinx pouts, but he won't meet her gaze, instead staring at the shopkeep. She sighs.
"Fiiiiine. I want the pink and blue one!" She points. The cake is white, but splattered chaotically with pink and blue paint of some kind. It looks pretty good, actually. The man cuts a slice, hands shaking so much it's a wonder he can do it at all.
"Ok. Good. Now, Jinx, put your clothes on and let's get the fuck out of here before the Wardens find us." Jinx rolls her eyes and shakes her head. He still refuses to look at her. He isn't sure whether it's okay to do so or not. It feels a little predatory to do so. Then again he just held a man at gunpoint and forced him to give them cake… He holsters the gun.
"And just why not?" She takes a big bite, most of the icing and paint dripping down her torso. He pinches his nose.
"Alright, alright, for Progress, just eat the bloody thing quickly." He sits down and starts muttering, and that's when he hears the sirens. For a moment he just wants to sit there and let them catch him. Jinx was a lot more of a liability than he had expected.
"Come on, we have to go. Hear the Wardens coming?" Jinx doesn't reply but walks out the door, pushing it open with her butt. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and grabs her top and guns and slowly strides out, giving the shopkeep one last look. He hasn't moved an inch, still holding the cake slicer. Adrian closes the door and steps out, starts walking. Jinx follows, making happy noises between bites of cake. She trips and stumbles, effectively blind, but somehow manages to avoid falling over. More cake is splattered on her chest and stomach than he thought she was given in the first place. He starts walking quicker. The sirens are coming closer. Closer. Jinx matches pace. He breaks into a jog. She starts skipping and humming and keeps eating cake. How is that cake still there?! Closer. He wants to go faster but knows that he'll need his energy for later. He hears shouting now, as well as sirens. He sees a Vigilnaut through a window and turns into an alley, comes out, wishes Jinx would be quieter, and ducks as some unknown sense tells him that a bullet is coming for his head. He sprints, breaking through the mouth of another alley. Jinx somehow skips faster and faster, effortlessly matching him. He swings her guns around and grabs Pow-Pow. It doesn't extend. He growls.
"Jinx!" She looks over at him, sucking icing off her fingers. The cake appears to be gone. Her chest is still smeared, which he is grateful for. He hands the minigun out to her.
"Shoot the Wardens behind us!" She gives him a look that calls his mental faculties into question.
She begins scraping the cake from her stomach, revealing pale lines as she goes. He slows down, having broken line of sight. He takes a half-dozen steps, then a bullet takes Jinx in the arm. She spins in a strange dance, then keeps skipping as if nothing happened. He stares, aghast, slots it under 'what the fuck', but doesn't stop running. She pops a finger in her mouth; it's covered in cake and blood. He shivers, then ducks round another corner, and can hear the shouting behind them get further away. The Wardens fade, then the Vigilnauts. He looks at Jinx. She's licking the final little bits of cake from between her fingers. Her chest is streaked in pink and blue, lines criss-crossing into absurd patterns. Then she makes a satisfied, happy little sound, and beams at him. Her teeth are stained, and her tongue. He stops.
"Done!" The sound chirps from her; she says it so fast, it sounds almost like a little bird tweeting. He stares at her. She does nothing but smile, topless, unashamed, unstoppable, insane. He hands her the top. She slips it on, guns clanking. He nods, spins, and walks away. He can hear her following; she's still humming a little tune. Anger flares, but what did he expect from a girl who may well be a teenager? And who is, no doubts, absolutely crazy. His anger fizzles and dies, and he lets out a long breath.
Jinx just hums, and hums, oblivious.
He reaches into his jacket - a little awkwardly, since he doesn't have his right hand - and pulls out a silver, square object. Green lights flutter across the surface. Jinx appears next to him. Her eyes, normally a void of insanity and neon pink, are filled to the brim with barely contained violence. He swallows. She reaches out a pale hand and gently takes the thing, eyes flicking up to his, as if to ask permission. He is frozen as she sighs, stirringly, and bites her lip, and presses the button. She spins, to look out across the bay, to the Sun Gate. There is no sound; it's too far away for that, but the sight... Her eyes move back and forth, widening in awe like a little girl watching fireworks on Progress Day.
He stands and watches as she oo's and ah's, and for the first time considers just how deep he is... And how much deeper he'll have to get to know the truth.