Returning to Zaun felt like sinking into a warm, familiar bath after swimming in a sterile, over-chlorinated pool. The air—thick with the beloved aroma of metal, chemicals, and fried food—filled Kaen Vexis's lungs. He felt at home.
He had escaped the Enforcers using a series of maneuvers he personally referred to as "artistic parkour," which any other person would've called "running like a lunatic and having ridiculous luck."
He was still wearing the drunken Piltovian's clothes. The once-elegant blue jacket now had a tear in the sleeve and a suspicious stain on the shoulder. The white trousers were splattered with alley filth. The image was ridiculous: a young man with the appearance of an aristocrat who had just lost a bar fight, strolling across the rusted walkways of Zaun.
"A trophy from my incursion into enemy territory," he murmured to himself, his monotone voice echoing in the dimness. "This outfit symbolizes my cultural victory. I shall wear it as a medal."
With Distortion the plush Poro tucked under one arm and 'Eardrum-Wrecker' slung across his back, he resumed his path toward the depths of Zaun, humming a melody that vaguely resembled the Enforcer alarm. He felt invincible—a titan of the underground music scene.
He was halfway across a rusted metal bridge spanning a canyon of green mist when a shadow fell over him. Before he could strike a dramatic pose, a weight slammed into his back, and two legs wrapped around his waist.
"AMBUSH FROM THE NOISY POSH GUY!"
Jinx had launched herself from an overhead beam, clinging to his back like a sugar-high koala. She latched on with surprising strength, her chin resting on his shoulder as she laughed—a genuine, carefree laugh, far healthier than the one from the night before.
Kaen staggered from the impact, but his enhanced body maintained perfect balance. He didn't turn around. Didn't even change his expression. He simply kept walking, Jinx now dangling off him like a chaotic, chatty backpack.
"An interesting change of title, number one fan," Kaen said, his voice as flat as ever. "But 'King of Noise' has better marketing appeal. We'll discuss it at the next fan club meeting."
"Ha! I wanted to see if your dead-fish face would break from surprise!" said Jinx, tightening her grip. "But no! You're like a rock! A boring rock with stupid clothes who plays horrible, hilarious music!" She laughed again, her warm breath on his neck. "Your concert was a disaster! It was glorious! People were running, screaming, and you just stood there, playing like you were trying to murder that thing you call a bass!"
"It was an experimental piece on collective panic," Kaen corrected, as if it were obvious. "I'm glad you picked up on the nuance."
They reached the end of the bridge, and Kaen sat at the edge, Jinx still clinging to him. Below, Zaun stretched out in a foggy abyss. For a while, they stayed silent. Jinx's playful energy slowly faded, replaced by the same stillness Kaen had seen on the rooftop.
In Kaen's mind, this could only be the inevitable emotional crash following a transcendent artistic experience.
"Ah, my number one fan," he began, his monotone voice taking on the tone of a wise, condescending guru. "I sense a certain... post-concert melancholy in your aura. Was my music too powerful for your mortal soul? A common reaction."
Jinx slid off his back and sat beside him, legs dangling into the void. She hugged her knees. "It wasn't your music, idiot," she muttered, voice losing its edge. "Well… maybe a little. It made the voices shut up for a bit."
She stared into the void. "I messed up. At the docks."
Kaen tilted his head. "Messed up? Or performed an uncommissioned avant-garde art installation?"
"That wasn't art!" she snapped, frustrated. Her voice was a bitter whisper. "They got away. The Firelights. And I… I lost control. Like always. I failed." There was nothing to show for it, no excuse. Just the raw weight of her words and failure.
Kaen looked at her. Saw the crack in her mask—the vulnerability of someone who desperately feared not being enough. His gremlin brain processed this and reached the only conclusion it could: this devoted fan was having an identity crisis about her role in the grand scheme of things—i.e., his fan club.
He cleared his throat, adopting the posture of a mentor about to deliver life-changing wisdom.
"Listen, Miss Explosions," he said, tone still flat and unreadable. "The path of a true fan is hard. It's full of doubt… and accidental detonations. The question you must ask yourself is: Is there a place for you in this world? Not the girl who botches errands… but the woman who will become president of my fan club. Who will you be?"
Jinx stared at him, wide-eyed. The question was so absurd, so ridiculously self-centered—and yet, oddly, it echoed the structure of conversations she'd had with Silco. But Kaen's version was so stupid it felt… freeing. There was no weight. No empire to build. Just the madness of a deranged musician.
A slow smile spread across her face, sharp and genuine.
"Who will I be?" she echoed, then burst out laughing. "I'll be the best! The loudest! The one who makes the biggest booms! I'll make sure everyone hears it—whether they like it or not!" Her voice rang with a new, defiant determination.
Kaen nodded solemnly, like a king receiving an oath of fealty. "Of course you will," he said. "You're my most devoted fan. I'll never abandon you… as long as you keep buying the merch."
The tension broke. Jinx punched his arm playfully. "You're such an idiot!"
"I'm an artist," he corrected. "And an artist cares for his fans." He glanced down at the plush Poro, Distortion, lying by his side. With great solemnity, he picked it up. "Your faith has been tested tonight. As a gesture of artistic magnanimity—and to assist in your emotional recovery—I hereby lend you the first official member of my fan club."
He held out the Poro. "Take good care of it. It represents innocence in a world of discordant noise. Also, it's worth at least twenty gears."
Jinx looked at the Poro, then at Kaen. Her eyes lit up with childish, genuine joy. Before Kaen could add any clauses about return policies, she snatched the plush from his hands, hugging it tightly.
"Awesome! A gift!" she squealed, cradling it like treasure. "I'm gonna sew a grenade pocket on it! I'll call him Boom-Boom!"
Kaen blinked. He opened his mouth to correct her. To explain the concept of a temporary loan and the sentimental (and monetary) value of his first merch item.
"I said… I'm lending it to you," he repeated slowly, his monotone voice tinged for the first time with a faint, almost imperceptible trace of comedic frustration.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Dead-Fish!" said Jinx, already standing, hugging her new bomb-Poro. "Thanks for the gift!"
And just like that, she turned and ran off, leaping onto a nearby pipe and vanishing into Zaun's labyrinth, her laughter echoing through the air.
Kaen sat there, alone, one hand extended in the space where his Poro had been moments ago. His face didn't change, but internally, a vein pulsed in his temple.
"That was my Poro," he said into the air, his flat voice barely concealing the impotent rage of an artist who'd just been robbed of his creation. "That was my… my Distortion."
He sighed. A long, resigned exhale. Rising to his feet, he dusted off his elegant-yet-filthy jacket. He had lost his first and only merch item to an overly enthusiastic fan.
"Sacrifice is the heart of art," he told himself, trying to believe it. "And also," he added under his breath, "the reason I need a written contract next time."
And with that, the posh-dressed musical gremlin resumed his journey—now a little lighter, Poro-less, but with a chaotic follower firmly secured, and an urgent need to make more merchandise.