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Instinct. The metal of his bat connects with the grenade in a loud clang, pushing it further from him -them- as he scrambles away. The explosion follows not a second after, hitting his left side hard as he is flung back. Something breaks when he hits the ground, pain shooting through his left leg.
Then, noise. There’s an annoying ringing in his ears and for a horrifying moment he thinks he might be deaf, but then a cough forces itself out of his mouth, then another and another, something warm trickles down his lips. With a shaking hand, he wipes it away -it comes back smeared crimson. His eyes water, his lungs burn and his whole body aches.
He lies there for a tick, spread out on the hard stone floor of the Bridge of Progress as he tries to make out anything through the ash and smoke. The floodlights flicker light and dark and his elbow crunches into something metallic. The pathetic twitching of a mechanical butterfly greets him, still clinging onto the hope of life, but then it too blinks out of existence. In an instant, he breaks out of his stupor.
A sane man would have gotten as far away as possible from the scene surrounding him: Dead enforcers, explosions loud enough to wake the whole city and a council in need of someone to blame. But anyone who thinks Ekko is a sane man hasn’t been paying attention.
Instinct. He tries to get up and cries out in pain when his leg gives out under him, the impact sending another wave of hurt barrelling through him. He grinds his teeth in frustration and crawls. Dragging himself forward on his hands and knees, pushing through corpses and bullet casings.
Blue. All he can see is a sea of blue on an ocean of black, his lighthouse in the storm. And like a drowning man, he can't help but gulp down the toxic waters that they might bring him salvation. This siren of death now lies still and quiet, the right side of her body charred and dirty, blood seeping out of cuts over cuts over cuts.
Shock. Panic. Desperation. Realisation. Despair. Time slows and for a moment it’s just them in a capsule of time, afraid to move lest it breaks the spell but move he must.
With trembling fingers, he reaches for her, gathers her body up in his arms and gently wipes the soot from her face. Emotion grips his heart and something wants to bubble forth, forth. He blinks furiously and tries pushing it back down, down. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be doing this, should have left already, it’s not safe. Yet, he can’t move, rooted in place, desperately searching for signs of life. His nemesis… his old friend.
“P-Powder…”
For the first time in seven years, he sees her, a girl he thought lost to time. But she wasn't lost, at all, was right here all along, afraid and in pain. Jinx didn’t kill Powder, he did. He had to. How else was he supposed to fight her? How else was he supposed to move on? How was he supposed to live knowing that she was still out there? Not wanting to be saved, not by him, no, not by him -fuck, he tried, he tried. If only she had let him, why didn’t she just let him?!
And just like that the dam breaks and the tears start spilling forth, falling silently onto her motionless face. He never wanted this, just wanted her back, but she left for places he could not follow. Love does not conquer all.
His breath catches and he chokes on his tears, the admission devastating. He did, didn’t he? He loved her. Loved her when they were just little children with emotions they did not yet understand and dreams still big in their hearts. He loved her in those long, long years when all they could do, had to do was fight each other, hurt each other, break each other, feelings buried so deep inside him that he had long forgotten them. He loves her now, too late. Time was never on their side.
A pained groan fills the silence and his focus snaps back to her. And just then, just then does he notice the slight movement of her chest, a defiant up and down, in and out.
Hope.
“Powder!” He repositions her and tries to get her closer, closer, his palm cradling her cheek. “Can you hear me?! Shit, we need to get you out of here!” He frantically looks around and tries formulating some kind of plan to get both their beaten bodies to safety. Think, dammit, think! His hoverboard! Where-
Footsteps. His head snaps up, where?! North?! South?!
The foreboding clatter of enforcer uniforms alerts him first, the pain in his leg reminding him of his predicament. He tries to secure her body, tries to lift her, tries to get her away.
More footsteps, south this time. The telltale black of a coat in the shadows.
Fuck! Not him, not now. They have to move, he has to move. He tries to lift her again but his leg can’t support them both. His teeth gnash together and his eyebrows pinch in frustration. He can’t, he can’t take her...
“Shit!”
The footsteps are getting closer, his time is running out, only a few more seconds.
He clenches his eyes shut and bites back the tears. He looks down at the girl in his arms and softly, ever so gently, brushes her blue strands from her beaten face, lingering for just a second, just a second- “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. ” -and leaves her. Again.
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Ekko is no stranger to pain. Growing up in the Undercity provides few comforts, the life hard and the people harder. As a Firelight he has fought his fair share of battles, won some, lost some more. Bruised skin, beaten bodies and broken bones, blood, blood, blood.
But purgatory isn’t so bad when you’re not burning alone. He has his people, his friends, a found family. He’d be a fool to think he could have made it this far without them.
But he doesn’t have them now, just a lonely bug caught in the headlights, bashing its tiny body against the heat again and again. And the heat is excruciating, burning him from the inside out, burning and burning until the deepest depths of his soul are laid bare. A lost boy in a cruel world.
Lost. Benzo, Vander, Mylo, Claggor, then Vi and Powder. The children he saved off the streets, the children whose dead bodies he had to leave behind. The people memorialized on a wall of paint.
But nothing ever stays dead.
His head collides with the stone wall behind him with a thump, pain reverberating through his skull. One might think he’s had enough pain by now. His leg is most definitely broken and he might have cracked a rib, cuts all over his skin and his heart is bleeding.
Perhaps he's a masochist or perhaps he's just a fool. He thought he'd long buried that blue-haired girl with the grey eyes, buried her along with that silly crush. Puppy love, he told himself, the naive infatuation of a boy who had only just discovered that girls might not be icky, after all.
He definitely thought he buried those feelings when he found her with Silco, when she pointed her gun at him, when she shot that first bullet.
He was certain whatever was left of those emotions was dead and gone like his fallen comrades, murdered by her hands.
And yet, when he had looked into her eyes -Powder-Grey not Jinx-Blue- when he saw her fear, afraid of him, it was as if nothing had ever changed yet everything did. The illusion was broken. The lie exposed. Powder. Jinx. They’ve always been the same person. A girl shaped by grief and trauma into a monster beyond recognition. If only she had listened to him all those years ago, if only she had come with him! Instead, she chose that scheming rat, Silco. He is to blame for all of this, he is the one who took her from him! Made her into a weapon to be pointed at his enemies. A reaper hunting for souls, a promise of death, his death.
Thump. His eyes prick, he’s no tears left to cry. He doesn’t even know if she’s still alive. Fuck.
Thump. He thought he was ready, thought he could finally end it all. And yet, as soon as she clapped those sad, beautiful eyes at him he caved.
Thump. When she pulled that pin, when she held his gaze till the very end, the realisation had crushed him. It wasn’t his death she was after, it was hers. And worse still, he didn’t want her to.
Thump. Maybe he should have died on that bridge then he wouldn’t have to deal with all this shit now.
He has been sitting here for who knows how long, hiding in a corner under the bridge, like a coward in the dark. He doesn’t know who got to her first, doesn’t know who’d be worse. Perhaps she was already dead before anyone could reach her. A part of him hopes so, wishes for it to be true, to be over, but another part of him simply weeps. It would be a burden lifted off his shoulders, a chance to finally move on, it would be best for all… Why then, does it hurt so much?
Thump. Wallowing in self-pity won’t get him anywhere, he needs to get out of here, needs to get home before the enforcers find him.
A green spark flashes in his periphery, his hoverboard lies broken and spent a few metres from him. He takes a deep breath and collects himself, there are still people out there who need him, he can't fail them, not again.
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The walk back to the hideout is a slow and painful one, resting his weight on the makeshift crutch the Yordle had made him.
Ha! There's something perversely ironic about all of this. Pilties have been the enemy all his life and now his depends on the one that started it all. He should have been furious at the sight of the councillor -former councillor- and had it been a different day maybe he would have. But in that moment he was just so tired, so tired of fighting, of always looking over his shoulder. No matter how hard to admit it was, in that moment he needed help and it came to him in its most unlikely form. Who was he to slap away a lifebuoy when he was being crushed beneath the waves?
Heimerdinger is a rather chatty fellow as it turns out, once he saw the hoverboard he hasn't stopped talking about the invention, asking him question after question. He doesn't mind, really. It isn't often that he can share his passion for engineering with someone and it does help distract his mind and focus on something tangible, something he can fix, right now.
If the little guy notices his more than sombre mood he doesn't mention it. Though it is hard to miss, he must look like shit. He feels it.
What a day it’s been.
First, he found an old friend -big sister, really- he thought long dead, running through the Lanes with a Piltie at her side. He was angry, confused and defensive but then glad, so glad.
Then he decided to be stupid and trust an Enforcer. Got shot point-blank for it. If the Sheriff had been any better at using that toy of his he’d be dead now.
Then he had to face off with a girl he thought he only had hatred left for, just to get blown up as the paradox of his emotions had hit him.
And now he’s limping his way back home with one of the founders of Piltover at his side.
Honestly, he’s just done, can’t remember the last time he's slept. Fuck, what he wouldn’t give for sweet oblivion right now.
When they finally reach the gate to the hideout, when the stone door is slowly pushed open and the first rays of sunlight and life hit him the weight just... tumbles off him, for but a moment, relief.
When Scar greets him and immediately rushes to support his weight, he is thankful. When the rest of the Firelights come scurrying towards him, enquiring about his injuries, the children japing about this and that, he smiles. For now, he can pretend to be a different man than the one he left on that bridge, for them, he will.
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At night, when everyone’s tucked themselves to sleep and the world has grown quiet, only the faint green glow of a few stray firelights illuminate his dark corner of the world. He’s sitting underneath the mural in the square, his leg patched up and held together by a brace. He’s cleaned himself and donned a fresh pair of clothes, the process of which had been quite the ordeal.
Scar had offered to help but he had just scoffed at the Vastaya, told him he’s no cripple unable to wash his own ass. Seriously, there’s a limit to brotherhood and he draws the line at having his dick shampooed by his best friend. Said best friend needn’t know he almost face-planted into the tiled floor. If bullets and grenades don’t kill him a shower just might.
The thought makes him chuckle for a moment, a humourless exhale of air, but levity leaves him just as quickly. He draws his uninjured leg towards himself and hugs it close, his cheek resting on the knee.
There had been questions, of course: "What happened?" and "How did it go?". He told them the gist of it, leaving out the details of his moment of weakness. There had been scoffs and murmurs: "Told ya, can't trust them Enforcers!", "Fucking Pilties got what's coming to them!", "Dead?! The bitch is dead!"
He had ignored the sudden flare of anger then, a twisted desire to protect. Protect who exactly? It’s not like she needed it, it’s not like she deserved it.
He sighs and hides his face in the fabric of his pants. Is she…? Maybe Silco had gotten to her first and actually did something good for once in his life. Maybe she… No! No. He shouldn’t want that, after everything she’s done she’s earned a miserable death.
Something claws at his heart at that thought and suddenly he feels ashamed.
He wonders where she is now, wonders if she’s in pain, if it was at least quick. He wonders what he’s supposed to do with himself now, chasing her through the Undercity had been his life’s purpose for the last seven years. He wonders if he’ll ever hear her manic laughter again, if he’ll ever feel the heat of her bullets just barely miss his vulnerable flesh. He wonders if he’ll ever see that blue, blue hair again, whipping past him as he tries to catch her. He wonders if he’ll ever see those big, beautiful eyes again.
Pain, Pleasure. Hate, Love. Two sides of the same coin, unsure on which to bet. He’s never been the betting type. Luck, never needed it.
He sits there for a while, lost in his misery.
He sits there for a while until a loud explosion assaults his ears, rattling the ground beneath him.
He stand, faster than he should, and clambers up the tree. Up, up, up until he can see beyond the wall towards the city. He grips the wood tightly when he sees that familiar plume of death, pinks and blues.
He grips his chest in pain then and starts laughing hysterically.
Hope. Exploding from the inside like an old friend.