Chapter I: Dust

                                    

                                          
Violet liked to pretend that their lives were normal. Perhaps her family wasn't on the brighter side of the food chain, but they still lived decently, compared to others in Zaun. Her mother always tried to be there for them, even when she and her father were called to discuss war plans, or weapons. Violet was young, but knew how hard it was to bring food and water to a table that was half rotten, and half broken down. Nevertheless, a functioning table, able to support two or three feedings every day.
But the streets of Zaun were unforgiving. The air always carried a stench - a mix of chemicals and decay that never truly left. It was a city where the shadows seemed to grow thicker every day, creeping into every corner, every crevice of their home, of their lives. Violet watched as her father's hands became rougher, his voice harder, and the once soft tone her mother had was now carrying an edge, a subtle undercurrent of fear.
Their neighborhood was alive with the sounds of distant machinery, the hum of factories that never slept. Violet had always known there was something wrong with the world around her, something deeply unfair. But in her youth, she had believed that if they kept their heads down, if they followed the rules - whatever those rules were - they would be safe.
Violet's younger sister, Powder, had a different outlook. She saw the world not through the lens of survival, but with a strange, almost naïve wonder. She would talk about the stars that couldn't be seen through the smog, about dreams of flight and machines that could change the world. Powder believed in the stories their mother would tell, stories of heroes and inventors who once made a difference. But Violet knew better. Heroes didn't exist in Zaun, and especially not for people like them.
The only person who seemed to share Violet's cautious realism was Mila, a girl the same age as Violet who lived a few doors down. Mila was Violet's best friend, the one person who understood the weight she carried. Mila had her own burdens - her father and mother worked long hours in the factories, leaving Mila to fend for herself most of the time. Together, they learned how to navigate the dangerous streets of Zaun, watching each other's backs and sharing what little they had.
Mila had a toughness to her that Violet admired. Where Violet was thoughtful and strategic, Mila was quick and decisive, often acting on instinct. She had a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue, which got her into trouble more than once. But Mila was fiercely loyal, and Violet knew she could count on her, no matter what.
Their lives became a balancing act, teetering on the edge of a blade as tensions between Zaun and Piltover escalated. The divide between the two cities grew, a deep chasm that swallowed hope and spat out anger. Violet's father spoke less and less about work, and more about "the cause." Words like revolution and freedom became common in their household, whispered late at night when Powder was supposed to be asleep.
Violet tried to shield her little sister from the harsh realities of their world, but even she couldn't protect her from everything. Powder's wide eyes would stare at the maps her father left on the table, dotted with marks and symbols that meant little to a child, but everything to those who understood the war that was coming. Powder would ask questions, her voice tinged with innocence, questions that Violet had no answers for.
Mila would often join them in these quiet moments, offering a distraction for Powder when the weight of their reality became too much. She'd bring trinkets she'd scavenged from the streets - broken gears, bits of wire, and discarded machinery that she and Powder would try to piece together into something new. Violet would watch them from the corner of the room, her mind always half on the maps, half on her sister, and always worrying about what tomorrow would bring.
One night, after their parents had left again, Violet found herself staring at the same maps. The lines and symbols were a mystery to her, but she could feel the weight they carried. Each mark was a decision, a life, a future that hung in the balance. She traced a finger over the routes marked in red, wondering if her family's path had already been written on one of them.