He fought with Jinx on the bridge, and he carried Powder home.
He couldn't shake the thought, even though he'd be the first to condemn anyone else mistaking the girl's identity. She swung like a ragdoll over his shoulder, impossibly light, braids trailing, as he kicked his busted board into action and they hurtled away. He should leave her, he knew. If he was incapable of finishing the job himself - which seemed more and more likely with every passing encounter - then he should have left her for the Enforcers. For all the problems they caused, they might just solve this one for him.
But he hadn't left her. And he had a lot of time to think on why.
He hadn't taken her to a cell. No one else knew what he had brought into their refugium. The two were in his room, now, and his old friend was laid out on his bed, chained by one wrist with an Enforcer's stolen handcuff and breathing shallowly. He hadn't cleaned the blood off her. Often her brows would furrow, and she would pull her full bottom lip between her teeth as she tossed fitfully. He knew what haunted her while awake had her at its mercy while she slept.
When those guileless eyes fluttered open - deceptive and everblue - he was steeled against them once more.
"Welcome back to the land of the living."
His voice was husky from long hours of disuse. He shifted a little in the shadows; his whole body ached from their fight, and sitting still for so long hadn't helped. He had meditated on what to say to Jinx when she woke up (would've been better for everyone if she never did). He had meditated on saying anything at all. He had almost put the mask back on, but it would have been a pointless exercise. And Jinx wasn't intimidated, or scared. She had made that perfectly clear in her years-long campaign of bloodshed above Zaun.
"We're still kicking even though you try to make us otherwise."