#jinx builder

[deathrocket]

✘ ᴊɪɴx ᴍᴏᴏᴅʙᴏᴀʀᴅ ✘

[deathrocket]

[ headcanon: jinx spends all her quarters on the knick knacks in the quarter machines. she has a small army of squishy animal and dinosaur pencil toppers. ]

[deathrocket]

Aʟʟᴇɢʀᴏ

[ Note: I got pretty much all of my inspiration from Cohen & Fitzpatrick from the first Bioshock, only because askpiltoverjayce did this beautiful connection! I was way into it. I listened to Cohen’s Masterpiece all day yesterday and today.

After talking to theboywho-shatteredtime about Jinx’s time in the lab, it got me thinking about what sort of tests she would be put through, specifically. Music made sense--it would train her memorization and the capacity of her memory, refine her time  management and organizational skills, train her coordination, teach discipline, and sharpen her concentration. (Lol.)

If you’re unfamiliar with my Jinx’s background, you can read this page. It’s a little lengthy, so the TL;DR is that she was raised in a Zaunite lab/testing facility. She was subjected to various forms of testing every single day of her life.

I totally realize that this drabble doesn’t go very far into explanation. It doesn’t venture very far beyond the super basics of Cohen. Rest assured, I will get to that. I’ll expand and explain in due time and create a clearer separation of characters. I mostly just wanted this idea out of my system. ]

"Faster," he would demand. His voice was cold. His tone was plain and even. His demands seemed simple enough--just play faster--but no matter how often she practiced, how many times she played the piece over, her poor fingers would not move any quicker.

"Faster," he would demand once more. "No..."

Her hands strained, fingers curved over keys and she played as fast as she could.

"No, no..." he mused, tone shifting into one more frustrated. "No, allegro!"

Her small hands could only reach so far, could only hit so many keys at once. He wanted octaves. He wanted more. He wanted a range of keys her fingers simply could not hit at the speed he wanted them to be hit.

"I said, allegro!" He whapped his cane onto the top of the piano. She gave a small jump, but her fingers played on. She couldn't afford another lull in tune, not another mistake. Not again. Never again. "No! Accelerando!" His demands were punctuated with another whap of his cane. "I said, accelerando!"

She sent every bit of will into her hands to hit the keys he wanted her to hit, to play them quicker. Just this once, she urged. Just this once and he will never ask again. She missed notes here and there, every mistake sticking out from the piece. She pushed her frail figure into the instrument as her hands trailed over the keys, shoulders nearly hunched. Her foot practically stomped on pedals. But her fingers would not play any quicker. She had reached maximum tempo and her fingertips were burning.

She neared the end of the piece, continuing as fast as she could go, knowing that it still wasn't enough for him. It would never be enough. Never.

There were a few moments of silence after she finished the piece. The room was not disturbed by the sound of music, nor of voices. Not even her worried breath pierced the quiet atmosphere. It was in those few moments that she feared his towering presence the most. His slow footsteps disrupted the silence, and he circled around her back. Her gaze never raised from the piano. His tapping footsteps halted and his body cast a long shadow over her.

"Look at you," he cooed, his tone pitiful and condescending in the same. "So still. So worn. So quick to admit defeat." He clicked his tongue and she flinched on instinct; she knew what followed tongue-clicking without fail.

He had been instructed by his authority to punish her as he saw fit. Should her performance be less than spectacular, the method of her punishment was left up to him. She had initially expected that to mean more tests. More syringes stuck into her skin, more tubes shoved down her throat, more incisions and pills and strange meals. This was never the case. With her instructor, it was different.

"Stand," he instructed.

She did.

"Sit on the floor," he told her. His voice was so calm after shouting just moments before.

She sat.

"Hands on the bench."

She placed her sore and aching hands onto the piano bench she had previously been seated on. It was still warm. She wanted so badly to place her heated hands on the cold floor where she sat.

"What did you do wrong?" To an outsider, he may have sounded nurturing. But she knew better. She knew the calm before the storm.

She hesitated a second too long, and that never sat well with him. Never hesitate, he often reminded her. Hesitate and you will slip. Hesitate and you will fall.

He raised his voice to an enraged shout. "What did you do wrong!?"

"I couldn't play fast enough, sir," she admitted.

"Couldn't?" he repeated. "Or wouldn't?"

She swallowed hard. "Couldn't, sir." The burning of her fingertips reminded her of this painful truth.

He clicked his tongue. Her eyes shut tight at the sound.

"Well, we will have to remedy that, now won't we?" His words were sweet, soaked in honey and rolled in sugar. One might have thought he genuinely cared for her improvement.

She didn't have to open her eyes to know that his face was screwed up with contempt, or that his cane was raised high in the air above his own head.

"As we always do."

She didn't need to look to know that the horrifying cracking noise was the sound of her fingers shattering.

"I will see you," he told her, "and your better hands in one week's time." He spat the word better as if it were some sort of curse, as if he doubted her ability to become better. As if she hadn't been struggling to improve for her hands' sake this entire time.

She kept her eyes shut tight, lips pressed together as hard as she could press them, muscles tensed. It never erased the pain, but it kept it at bay until he was gone. She could not cry out while he stood near her, or another punishment would follow.

"Do not disappoint me again."

[deathrocket]

Echoes

Cold, stone walls and tiled floors offered no such physical comfort to the menace. Mud, soot, and blood were tracked onto the floors by filthy boots, dust lined the walls, and gunpowder was sprinkled along every conceivable surface, concentrated in corners where her weapons were generally tossed with hardly a care.

Once, every few steps, an intricate, hand-painted, floral tile was damaged in some way. Chipped, scuffed, stained, or even missing were the patterns along the floor, imperfections strewn here and there from whatever such variety of accidents had met the surface. A hefty blanket of dust gathered in areas that received no traffic, small mounds of dirt and balled-up strands of aqua hair mingling and shuddering when a breeze passed through.

Morever, the imperfections did not, however, rest solely along the floor. The cobblestone walls, aged and weathered, were generously sprinkled with blemishes as well. Connecting the tile to the walls in corners, mostly, were spider webs, the silk considerably thicker than what was usually seen in other webs. Most survived the morbid boredom of the terrorist, though some suffered a curious fate, whether by the tip of a boot stomping into it, a gun poking through it, or a finger swirling around to destroy it.

Every layer upon layer of dirt and grime coated the stone, hugging the walls, clinging to passerby dust. Unsurprisingly, bullet holes marred spots here and there, typically in concentrated areas. One cluster of bullet holes in particular resembled a swirly sort of cloud, a product of boredom and excess ammunition from one unfortunately long day.

Bullet holes were, of course, a sure sign that Jinx had been in any place. They were the very least that could be left behind. Anything more was utter destruction.

A section of the stone had seemingly been replaced with a different variety of cheap brick, cemented in rather pathetically. An amateur had clearly done the job after some sort of incident had taken the section of wall as prey. This deformity, however, was not as recent as the others.

Comfort, however, was not to be found here. None of these grimy surfaces, protected by blankets of dirt and dust, offered any sort of comfort for Jinx. When her pigtails dragged along the floor, gathering small amounts of dust on their tips, and when her weapons, dropped into some corner, stirred up webs and powder, she found no relaxation. There was no warmth to be drawn from the filth, no relief available in the imperfections, nothing in the dirt to soothe her aches after a typical day of chase.

Knowing all of this, of course, there had to be something else for her. What she found comfort in was the room's ability to repeat her words back to her. After seeking solace in her own voice, after a recount of a fun day, after new jokes and insults, the room would repeat her in echoes. Her voice, shrill and unappealing to most, bounced off of tile and stone easily, returning to her with the grand delusion of company beyond her weapons.

Vacantly as it was, when Jinx spoke, she had a friend. She had a friend who would always agree with her down to every detail, parroting what she said back to confirm that they were on the same page. The echo's words never differed from what Jinx had to say, never changed. It was predictable in the most comforting of ways, leaving no room for petty arguments or disagreements. After an especially long day, she could set her objects aside and speak amongst herself.

In any case, an extra friend was always appreciated.

[deathrocket]

About the 'is Jinx in love with Vi'-discussion... Considering your personal headcanons, Jinx's mind is extremely damaged thanks to the scientists and now she's bonkers, right? Is she even capable of being in love at this point?

[ right! and the short answer is: nope.

the long answer is: she grew up in such a skewed and fucked up environment (completely devoid of love and proper care) that she’s too far gone to be capable of that. the thing is that she’s not cut out to live in the outside world. she wasn’t raised to be capable of that. she was raised to be a weapon, first and foremost.

and i wouldn’t say “bonkers.” it’s really awfully tragic that she was raised in this way, with little to no social skills, no familial ties, watching kids around her die left and right after being tortured or subjected to insane amounts of experimentation as they pumped new ones in daily. the only social interaction she got was brief until the kids fucking died. she avoided making friends at all after that point. (she wants friends that last forever. and hey, now she has friends that won’t die!)

if she were to be placed in heavy (and i mean HEAVY) reform, the most serious rehab that piltover has to offer, and worked on and worked on nonstop for years, they could probably make a dent in the psychological damage. in time, perhaps it could be...mostly “fixed.” but she can never truly be 100% “normal.” not after what she’s been through for her entire life for twenty-some years. ]

[deathrocket]

So it's more alike a batman/joker relationship? She needs of Vi as her reason of being in the first place?

[ absolutely. without vi, she would just be another weapon without that drive. her drive right now is getting vi back, and the accidental damage (it’s accidental her, but the damage is intended by the people who sent her) to piltover doesn’t mean anything to her. all that matters is getting vi back in her possession by any means necessary.

here, eatmyfists and i are talking about it right now. ]

[deathrocket]

tsk, tsk, tsk, i don't think you were realy being honest with yourself there, Bluehead ಠ_ಠ

[ actually anon, she was being honest. jinx isn’t in love with vi. what she feels towards vi is nothing more than a burning possessiveness. she’s obsessed with vi. she’s obsessed with vi to the point where she would have no problem locking her in a room for the rest of her life so she could be the only one to see her.

she doesn’t believe that she’s in love with vi. she really doesn’t think she is. she just wants her all for herself. ]

[deathrocket]

✚ ✿ ➷ ♆ ϡ ღ ✄ ☂ ✎

[ oh dear god ]

Send ✚ for one of my muse’s prized possessions.A small toy is tossed around between gloved hands, its pieces clattering together with each throw. In adolescence, the toy was once too large to be held in one hand, but in adulthood she could easily wrap her thin fingers around the entirety of it. Giving the cymbal monkey a quick wind, she sets it on a table with a thud, delighted to see that it still functions.

Send ✿ for a happy memory.C'mon, she urged, shoving the sleeping figure ahead of her. C'mon, before they go away! The sleepy girl awoke after another shove, and quickly they ran to the small window in their room where a few other girls already stood in awe. Aren't they neat? she remarked at the dazzling show of green lights in the water just off the coast. I heard it's magic. A small hand tightened around hers.

Send ➷ for a sports headcanon.Jinx despises sports because they're not fun enough for her. She'd excel at agility-based sports, but they just don't intrigue her.

Send ♆ for something my muse hates.The news. She can't stand watching or reading the news because it's so lame, it's too boring to watch--but if she can think of ways to make fun of it, she'll make a good time out of watching the news.

Send ϡ for a sleep headcanon.Jinx typically garners her wildest ideas for larger escapades from her dreams, plagued with the most vivid visual imagery and ridiculous antics.

Send ღ for a crush my muse has had.She had a crush on Jayce, but he's pretty old news. Given a chance to get with him though (in ways not romantic and temporary), she would probably take it.

Send ✄ for a favourite movie of my muse’s.I imagine she would like something action-y but still random enough to keep her attention refreshing. Kids movies with terrible puns would be her best bet. Spongebob Movies, for example. She likes to yell at the TV.

Send ☂ for a weather headcanon.Rainy weather usually keeps her confined to her quarters. Piltover probably relishes in those rainy days when they are 100% guaranteed to not see Jinx wreaking havoc.

Send ✎ for a school headcanon.These are your friends, she was told a hundred times over. You don't have any other friends--you don't need any other friends. She nodded in understanding. These are the only friends out there you will ever need. The kind smile offered from the teacher was reassuring. The world might not be as terrifying as they taught her with her new friends. You don't need to trust anyone else, and if someone hurts you, your friends will help you. Her friends were a little heavy, but she would manage.