AN: So, after finishing Arcane Season 2 with some mixed feelings, I got the urge to write a bit of fanfiction. Long time reader, first time writer, so don't be surprised if it's a little rough. The gist of this story is that Silco adopts a boy about a year before he takes Powder in. Don't worry, the aim of this isn't to be a self-insert or a power fantasy(although I really love Jinx in Arcane so I might end up projecting myself onto the main character juuust a little bit). I want this to be a serious look at an alternate story where Jinx has has a love interest with her throughout her transformation into the Jinx we know in the show, and especially with that love interest being just as damaged as her. First couple chapters will be pre-canon, but don't worry we'll get into the main timeline soon. Doubt I'll go into the Season 2 storyline, but who knows, I'm not even sure how long I'll keep at this lol. Anyways, thank you so much for reading, hope you find my schizo writing to be enjoyable.

Prologue

Rain pittered down the rooftops in one of the upper sections of the Undercity. A dreary sky loomed above, as if even the heavens were saddened by the pitiful state of the Undercity. Trash lay littered throughout the muddy streets and alleys, and various dwellers of the Undercity marched throughout. The people were clearly of the city, as one could easily tell by equally dirty attire and faces. More notable than the dirt on their faces were their expressions. Angry, annoyed, disgusted, depressed: not one person passing through showed any trace of joy, as if the rain, dirt, pollution, and filth of their environment had sapped any such positive emotion from them. Of all the miserable faces in this miserable place, there was perhaps only more miserable than any other. A boy, filthy as any other, but covered in blood to boot, lay almost deathly still in one of the alleys. His face smushed into the mud, wearing an expression devoid of anything resembling humanity. He was beyond angry, disgusted, or depressed, his face was more like a dark tan mask than human skin. He lay clutching his stomach, covering a deep wound, but failing miserably to staunch the bleeding. It was as though he didn't have the strength, whether of body or of will none could be sure. All the while, his eyes never left the figure lying across from him.

She was, or had been, a beautiful girl, with eyes as kind as any could hope to find in the Undercity. A young girl, only thirteen, just a bit older than the boy himself. Currently, she shared his position in the dirt, though unlike the boy she had received a wound not to the stomach, but directly across the neck. Her blood pooled beneath her, mixing into the mud as if the earth was drinking it. As he gazed upon the girl who had once been his best friend, his sister, the boy's expressionless face finally cracked, and a tear slipped down his eye. It was swiftly followed by another, and soon he wept. The boy spent some time like this, coming to terms with his situation, and his loss. He soon stopped his tears. If there could be any word by which the boy defined himself, it would be resilience. He had endured countless hardships in the short thirteen years he'd spent living in the Fissures as a street rat. Glares from arrogant Topsiders, beatings from Enforcers, as well as the less friendly residents of the Undercity. He had endured it all, and so felt certain that he would endure this as well. And yet, as he gazed upon his friend once more, he recalled the person who had been with him through all that suffering, for as long as he could remember, and once again he was forced to hold back tears. When resisting the sadness became too hard, he chose instead to focus on another emotion, one that came all too easy when he thought of the ones who had left him with a hole in his stomach and slashed her across her throat. Hatred bubbled up inside him, and the boy found the strength to rise.

He steadied himself, and took one last look at his friend. He resolved to bury her, far away from the filth and muck that even now became soaked in her blood. First, however, he searched her, and took the few valuables that she still had. It pained him to rob his friend's corpse, but he knew that if he left her for any amount of time alone, some other rat would come along to pick her clean like some despicable carrion bird. He found little on her, as he knew he would. They'd never had much, and both had little interest in material things or trinkets. He grabbed her switchblade, which she'd never even had a chance to stick into the one who'd killed her. No doubt if she'd seen him coming, she would have cut his throat open first. The boy managed a weak smile at the thought, but it died quickly. He found a few bits and bobs as well, but stopped when he found a tiny music box in her jacket pocket. He recalled when she'd first shown him it after swiping it in Piltover. How proud she'd been to have taken it right off a store shelf under the shopkeeper's nose. She'd set it next to her bed in the hovel they shared, and played with it for hours. She'd wind it over and over, listening to that same simple melody, and always made sure to bring it with her when they were going to be traveling for a while. The boy had been forced to listen to it so many times that the song was burned into his ears. Yet, now, when he tried to wind it, no music came, only a broken clicking sound. Likely, it'd been damaged when the girl fell to the ground, blood gushing down her neck. The boy's face twisted into a complicated visage of grief and rage as he stared at the broken music box. Finished searching her, the boy stood with a hand clutching the wound on his stomach. While it still bled, the boy felt the pain begin to dull as his mind focused solely on his new objective, his reason to keep living.

Pocketing the broken music box with one hand, and clutching the switchblade with the other, the boy marched out of the alley in the direction he'd seen their assailants go. As he went, he recalled one of them that he'd recognized, a blonde boy named Deckard. A typical street rat with no major connections, just a foot soldier in a small time group barely even fit to be called a gang. The boy recalled that Deckard had been the one to stab him in the stomach while their leader, an older, dark skinned boy who's name he felt might have been Bilger, had stabbed his companion. The boy's thoughts focused solely on Bilger, or more accurately on how Bilger would die before the day was over. The boy trudged through the rain until he reached the dockyards, largely empty as the work day was nearing its end. The emptiness made it easier to find his targets, as he heard a group of boys loudly talking and laughing in one of the alleyways. Still clutching his stomach, the boy crouched behind a nearby box and peered into the alley. There he saw the blonde boy Deckard along with a few others. They stood around Deckard as he spoke, likely recounting his recent "victory". Noticeably absent was Bilger. The large boy, nearly a man really, was impossible to miss. The boy grimaced in frustration as he saw his target was absent, but he quickly saw an opportunity in this misfortune.

"So Bilger just walked up to the chick and -Slash!- dead just like that!"

Deckard regaled his friends with the story of their latest success, and was met with the appropriate congratulations and cheering. The encounter had been a quick and bloody one, as all the best fights were. Most importantly, they'd walked away with exactly what they'd been looking for. The two thieves had become known for knocking over Topside stores, and so Bilger had been correct in assuming that catching them on their return from Topside would yield some worthwhile treasure. One of the other boys spoke up, interrupting Deckard's thoughts.

"What about the other one, uh, what was his name? Zen or something?"

Deckard smirked at the question.

"I took care of that Zell punk, gave him a present right in the gut." Deckard laughed while flashing his knife, still dirty with some dried blood from its last use. The boys looked at the knife, and Deckard, with amazement, and Deckard soaked in their praise. He relished in the thought of being powerful, of being feared by others.

"Yeah, I don't think we'll be hearing from him aga- guh!"

With a loud thunk Deckard was interrupted in his bragging and brought face first into the ground. Next to him, a small metal ball, likely a ballast ball from one of the many cranes in the dock, fell covered in a small amount of blood. The two boys with him looked up at where the ball had come from, and locked eyes with a haunting figure. A somewhat tall boy with dark tan skin, wearing a simple attire of grey pants, a dirty dark blue jacket, and a white shirt stained red on the front. By all accounts he would have been an unremarkable figure aside from the blood, but even that wasn't so uncommon in the undercity. What made the boy stand out to the two in front of him was his face. Remarkably pale in contrast with the rest of his skin, the face in front of them seemed deathly inhuman. Those small, brown eyes showed sharp like daggers. The mouth, twisted into a hateful grimace, teeth bared like a rabid stray dog's. Despite their superior numbers and the apparent injury of the one in front of them, the two boys from Deckard's gang did not seem to even consider the possibility of fighting the thing in front of them. They backed further into the dead end alley, and as the walking corpse stepped over Deckard's still body, the two boys felt despair overtake them, unable to look away from his visage. Not a single person who saw it could have mistaken the expression on that face for anything else. Only one word described it.

Death.