a tattered ‘happy progress day!’ banner lands on your corpse. one of jinx’s, that terrorist’s, bombs had detonated far too close. the left hand side of your body had been burned or splattered across the cracked pavement.

the thing is, piltover was gearing up for war, and they desperately needed more enforcers. more canon fodder.

your body was selected. dug out of a morgue, dressed in your finest clothes as your brain rebooted.

a team of scientists had put the pieces back together, and added their new ones. your left arm had been completely replaced with a mechanical one, whilst your brain had been sewn to a literal computer.

how much of you was left?

caitlyn kiramman stood opposite you, appraising your design as she was read your ‘features.’ it would ultimately be up to her if you’d see the battlefield or the scrapyard.