#( being wrapped around by mortum's fingers-)

[ambistep]

Mutual Aid, pt 3

Mina goes to the doctor for help nursing her wounds, and has to make yet another confession to Mortum, solving a mystery that wasn’t a mystery. Just a little wrap up.

lil fic, like 1k words, Retribution spoilers, mention of blood, no proofreading, im tired

Part 1

Part 2

Your fingers have started drumming against the laboratory table - nervous, being undressed, all the equipment, the table itself. It pushes all your buttons, no matter how many times you reassure yourself it’s fine, this is fine, that you’re safe here. That Mortum wouldn’t hurt you. Probably wouldn’t. Another tiny spear of pain.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Sit still, mon chéri - you have too many nasty scars already.” She chides you, and you try to make a sheepish smile.  Mortum wouldn’t hurt you on purpose. Not likely, not right now anyway. That is the most reassurance you can give yourself. “Well, how did it go?”

“The marshal’s tired of being lied to, tired of not asking questions. They’re all almost ready. So… you know, smooth as could be expected.” You watch the floor, trying not to make the work any harder on the good doctor.

“Is that why there’s a hole in my suit?” She sighs in disappointment, “That you manage to get hurt even with that much armor, absolutely dreadful.”

You grin, remembering the moment the Phalanx speared you with a tempered iron lance - it’d have taken out most of your torso without the armor, instead of a punctured flesh wound. “Actually worked out pretty well. You should have seen the surprise on the Rangers’ faces, at this selfless act from Clarity.”

“It was just them that were surprised?” Mortum glances up from the wound, eyebrow raised inquisitively. 

You can feel your face start to frown, turning to look away from the doctor, “Hmph.” She had a point - it’s nice now to pretend you planned it that way, that it came from a rational place but… Ortega was in trouble and you panicked.

“You forget, mon chéri, I’m the one who’s known you when you weren’t so caught up in being you.” There is a smug grin on her face, a laughter withheld but only just. A smile that calls back to mind late nights in this lab, laughing, a little bit of drinking, heated discussions of research and plans, science and the world at large. 

The memories come in two flavors, those wrapped and filtered through Yasmin’s senses, and those of your own. Yasmin’s felt vivid, vibrant, maybe free of the burden of… this body, of being you. Your throat has gone dry, and your voice small. “...that was nice.”

You can see the mirth tinged by sadness, at the corner of her eyes, “It can be like that more often, you know.” She makes it sound so enticing, even as she snips the last of the sutures

“...unfortunately, it can’t.” You have to remind yourself that, all the time. Your hand reaches out to rest on her shoulder, squeezing it tenderly, just a moment.

With a pouting huff, Mortum brandishes the cauterizing tool for a few touch ups. “You do so love a masquerade, don’t you?” Her gloved hand comes to rest upon yours as she matches eyes with you, your blood from her work on your skin. 

“I'm masks all the way down, doctor.” You suck wind through your teeth as her free hand applies a cold alcohol wipe to clean your side. “A little warning?”

“Lapine sot, that’s what you get for being maudlin.” She plucks the gloves from her hands and begins to clean her workstation - you instinctively scramble for your shirt, eager to redress, “And you’re wrong - you think you’re clever, but there’s so much of you just oozing to the surface.”

That isn’t reassuring - you work hard for those masks, to keep everything intact. Still, she’s trying to be encouraging, so you risk a goofy grin - a Sidestep grin, “You think so?” But she doesn’t know.

“I know so.” She doesn’t. “And you need to tell me about your dance with that lovely tank - I saw the images before the media blackout went into effect, très magnifique! Phalanx, what a name.” 

“I’ll try - I got a closer look than I’d like, I might still have some of it… tucked away in my brain.” Imprints from Core 02, strange metal thoughts in your mind, hopefully nothing too permanent, not like the other ghosts tucked away. “It was very impressive though - not the tank itself so much, but the telekinetic triune interface...” Mortum’s face cracks in a grin again, ready to pique your mind for the science. 

“The possibilities! In another configuration, you could do so much more with that telekinetic array than hurling metal around. What do you suppose made it go berserk like that?” Did she suspect? Not likely.

You feel butterflies fill your stomach - a mixture of guilt, over the sheer manipulativeness, and pride, at the accomplishment of pulling it off. Would she think you were a manipulative monster? She’d be right. “Okay, I wasn’t sure I should tell you, but… I’m trying to be more open - I did it.” 

She laughs a little. That’s good, right? Shaking her head, “What?”

“I did it. I… I infiltrated El Toro this morning, before the live exercises and I gave them a little encouragement.” It had been pretty easy, really. 

“You set that behemoth loose on the city, just so you could help the Rangers stop it?” Mortum’s face is hard to read. As she searches for her response, your shoulders slump - why are you like this, anyway? 

“I know, I just…” It was supposed to erode the Rangers’ trust in the federal government. The brain cases would set Ortega and Chen toward looking into the Pentagon’s Enhanced human research projects, you hoped. “It makes sense. In the grander scheme of things. I think.” You keep your eyes to the ground, trying not to choke up. Don’t be such a baby, Mina.

Her hands, unexpectedly, touch to either side of your head, sliding down your face, resting on your neck, “And what a grand scheme it is. You weren’t going to tell me? Why?”

You can feel the shame creeping up your throat, “I use people. All the time. I didn’t… I don’t like for you to think of me like that.”

“But you are like that. I make black market tech for villains. You think I care? What you really mean is that you don’t like to think of yourself like that, no?” Her hands slip down your shoulders, thumbs brushing over the tops of your orange brands, just beneath the collar of your shirt. “Oh, mon lapine, such fascinating ways your little brain works.” 

She gently lifts your chin back up - when you look her in the eyes, she’s smug again, “Where are your masks now, hm?” The doctor leans forward, touching her forehead to yours - grinning. You think you must be smiling too. “I told you. Oozing.”

[sky-scribbles]

In which my Sidestep flails in confusion over Feelings, and the Rat-King is better than any of us. nb!Sidestep x m!Ortega, ~2000 words, soft and dumb. Retribution spoilers. 

‘I was just wondering,’ Herald says. He’s fiddling with his shirt, awkwardness turning his mind fuzzy around the edges. ‘I mean, I know you and Ortega are dating, but –’

‘Wait. We’re what?’

Herald stares, and you stare back at him. Can’t he learn to shield his thoughts, even for a second? His baffled amusement is screaming out at you, and you would prefer that he didn’t do anything embarrassing, like smile. Or laugh.

‘Dating?’ he says at last. ‘I sort of assumed you were. He… cares a lot about you.’

Maybe he does. Not that you know why Ortega wastes his time doing something so stupid. And, yeah, sure, you can tell why someone would think you’re dating. You weren’t sleepwalking when you wandered down the promenade at his side, let him pull you into his arms and kiss you beside the water. Or when you let him buy you coffee afterwards, and then again the next week, and then the week after that. Or when you spent most of your visits to the Rangers in his office.

It’s just the implications of it that’s startling.

You grab your discarded hoodie, because if you don’t have something to do with your hands you might end up flailing them. ‘So, uh… you’d call it dating? What I’ve been doing with Ortega?’

Herald’s urge to smile wins out at last. ‘I mean, going places together doesn’t have to be a dating thing. But it can be.’

Shit, you need a coffee. Fast.

How the hell did you miss this? How did you not realise that you’d crossed a line into being official? Into dating? Kissing him is one thing, but dating has rules and codes. Things you’ve never quite understood but which seem to be very important to people who actually understand how romance works.

(Maybe your obliviousness shouldn’t be a surprise. Most of your experience with romance comes from reading Shakespeare, and those relationships tend to have significantly more stabbing than the real world. Or more conveniently identical twins.)

Hiding your face is an attractive concept right now, so you tug your hoodie over your head. ‘I just never thought about it that way. It’s hard to tell when these… definitions… start applying.’

Herald is now waging a furious war on his temptation to laugh. ‘Maybe you should talk to him?’

‘Definitely not. I wouldn’t even begin to know how.’

Then again, you don’t know how to date someone, either. Which you are apparently doing.

And after everything you’ve done to Ortega, everything you’re yet to do… shouldn’t you at least try to get this one thing right, while it lasts? Do some research, figure things out?

You shove your hands into your pockets, scowling at the ground. Research. Right. Into dating. That’s just bound to go smoothly.

Your first research opportunity comes three days later. Except it’s not really yours, because you’re in your puppet, a drink in your hand and Dr Mortum at your side. She’s pretending to complain about you dragging her away from her work, but for once she’s sitting back with a smile, her lab coat discarded. No tension in her shoulders, no distracted glances towards the workbenches. The sight makes contentment settle over your chest, as if a cat’s curling up to sleep there.

‘Complain all you like,’ you say, ‘but you need the break. It’s not good for you to stay here all the time. Disconnected from everything.’ You’re parroting Ortega, but it’s what Adam would tell her.

‘I recognise the voice of experience there, mon ami. Neither of us are…’ She hesitates, running a finger along the side of her glass. ‘Adept at emerging into the world.’

‘You got me there.’ Your own body’s response would have been a frown, an averted gaze, but you give a rueful little smile instead. Being Adam is a careful, if comfortable act: lines to rehearse, mannerisms to remember. 'Being around people is... so much effort. The rest of the world talks and chatters and goes on dates, and I could do that, but it’s exhausting. Finding the right people. Not driving them away. You know what I mean?’

‘Intimately. Though – really, you find it so hard to find people? If you took a seat in Joes for a few hours, and sat there looking appropriately tall and handsome…’

You snort into your glass. ‘Why tall, specifically? Are you suggesting there’s a height restriction on dating?’

You’re only half-joking. Dating is weird, you don’t know the rules, and if there is a height restriction then your real body most certainly fails it.

‘Relationships are not a theme park ride, mon ami.’

‘They’ve got just as many ups and downs.’

You remember belatedly that Adam does not mutter like this, but Dr Mortum only smiles at you. ‘You have some turbulent experiences in your past?’

You take a slow sip from your glass. Perhaps the gesture will hide Adam’s face, make sure the doctor won’t see any of your feelings, Wren’s feelings, displayed there. Won’t see any memories of Ortega’s arms pulling you from the wreckage and his lips closing around yours. His voice screaming after you as you crash through the window.

‘Something like that,’ you say, and Adam’s voice is not meant to shake like this.

Dr Mortum looks at you for a moment, her gaze even. And then she does something you did not expect: she reaches across the couch and lays a hand on your arm. Just below your shoulder. Gentle. Steadying.

‘Neither of our greatest skills are with people. And yet, here we are. Sharing a drink.’ The smallest of squeezes before she lets go. ‘I am hardly one to talk, but… I think half the difficulty is in the overthinking. Perhaps you’re not quite so bad at this as you think, mon ami.’

She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Adam might not be so bad, but Wren is.

You’re grateful, all the same.

‘What about you? What do you think?’

There’s a pause before you get a response: a brush against your mind that’s eager enough to make you smile.  ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ… :{D…???

‘Yes, him.’ You give the Rat-King’s canister a pat. ‘And I know you’ve only seen him when he was fighting me, so I guess he didn’t make the best impression. But he’s a lot nicer when he’s not being punched.’

ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ… you… <3?

You bite your lip. Trust the Rat-King to get right to the heart of the matter. ‘Maybe I do. I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like. I just know I feel a lot.’

But not enough to stop you from putting him in hospital. People who date do not do this. People do not do this.

ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ… :{D… <3????

‘I want to believe that he does.’ There’s a lump in your throat, so you tuck the canister into the crook of your arm. Wrap the Rat-King’s simple, uncomplicated affection around your thoughts. ‘But there’s no happy ending here. I’m not…’

You bite back the sentence, because you’re not sure the Rat-King will understand the significance of you not being human. In their minds, the only difference between you and other people is that you can talk to them. You’re more real than the rest of the world.

The thought makes you hug them tighter, because it doesn’t work like that, but oh god, how you wish it did.

‘Herald thinks I should talk to Ortega. Is that what real people do? Talk to the person they’re sporadically kissing and just… ask about how their relationship should go? There’s no universe where I don’t screw up that conversation. He’s going to think I’m an idiot.’

ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ … (ง'̀-'́)ง!!!

The laugh that breaks from you is startled, and genuine. ‘I’m sure that’s not gonna be necessary, but... thanks for the support.’

You tug them even closer, cradling the little minds against your chest. Deep breaths. Remember what Herald said about Ortega caring. Remember what Mortum said about you overthinking. It’s just a conversation. It’ll be awkward and terrifying, but that goes for most conversations you have.

ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ … <3 <3 <3 …

A smile tugs at your lips. When it comes from the Rat-King, you can be sure it’s true.

The Farm always considered you a good investigator. Unmatched at combing minds, gathering information, acting only once you’d put the pieces together. It’s why you were dangerous in their hands. It’s why you’re even more dangerous now, as Myriad. It’s why you feel like an utter mess knocking on the door to Ortega’s office. Being so woefully under-prepared is nauseating.

You really need a coffee.

He calls you in, and here’s another thing you weren’t prepared for: the way he smiles when he sees you. Your gut’s reaction doesn’t help, either.

‘Hey, Wren-bird.’ He’s grinning, and it’s so easy for him, isn’t it? Crack a smile, drop the old nickname as if seven years never happened, try to make you stop frowning. And it works. Every time, it works.

‘Hey.’ You try not to mumble. ‘Got a moment?’

‘For you? Hours of them.’

You roll your eyes and hop up onto his desk, trying to ignore the yawning mess of nostalgia in your stomach. You spent hours perched on his desk like this when you were Sidestep. You think you were sitting here when you told him your name.

Pushing those thoughts to the side, you look him in the face. ‘Are we dating?’

Here’s something you never expected to see: Ricardo Ortega, speechless. But it’s what you’re seeing, and you’d better make the most of it. ‘Because… I don’t know, Herald said we were, and I hadn’t thought of it like that, but yeah, I can see how we might be. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I wouldn’t know how to date someone even if I was trying to. I mean, apparently I ended up dating you without meaning to, so... if I do try to date you, I’ll probably somehow manage to end up not doing it, and –’

‘Wren.’

You stop, because your throat hurts. And apparently that’s all the opportunity Ortega needed to slip around the side of the desk, wrap a hand around your head, and kiss you. Softly, his lips curved into a smile against yours, and you want to roll your eyes again but they’re already slipping shut.

‘You can’t do this every time I start making things awkward,’ you tell him, as he draws back.

He nudges your forehead with his. ‘At least it stopped you panicking. Has it occurred to you that you might be overthinking this?’

‘Sure. I overthink everything. Including my overthinking.’

Another kiss, just barely brushing your lips. ‘You’re not supposed to do anything. If you don’t feel comfortable calling this dating, then we don’t call it that. If there are any… dating things you don’t want to do, we don’t do them. There’s no rulebook here. And if there was, I’m pretty sure you’d throw it out.’

You’re ready to protest, to tell him it can’t be that easy, but he speaks again before you can. ‘We’re going at your pace here, okay? The only thing you need to do is to not change a thing.’

One more kiss, to the top of your head this time, tender enough to make a drowsy, unfamiliar calm melt through your insides. It’s not safe, relaxing like this, but... you can give yourself a few moments. Because’s he’s definitely right about the rulebook. And because what you feel right now is something very like what you felt as you hugged the Rat-King: warm affection, without any complications. Simple.

This isn’t simple, and it never will be, not while you have amber brands on your skin and a suit of armour in your closet and a mess of secrets in your head. But you can pretend it’s simple. Just for a little while.

You always were a good actor.

[fallenhero-rebirth]

Steel romance snippet

Steel, m!Sidestep, f!Ortega. Thief Sidestep wanting a new life. Villain name Anathema. SPOILERS. The discord dared me.

---

"What's this?" Your frown deepens as you stare into the Ranger's fridge, the contents as familiar as your own mind. Herald's low-fat yogurt, Ortega's stack of leftovers marked 'not for Angie', Steel's fortified meal replacement drinks and Argent's empty shelf right next to... yours? Clearly marked with your name.

"A peace offering." Steel's voice is soft for being inside the HQ, he sounds more like Chen the worried dog-dad than the Marshal right now. You don't know how to feel, you were just getting used to the one. Combining them feels... tricky.

"Did Ortega do this?" You don't bother to hide your suspicion, but the facts don't match. Ortega would have made a scene of it, like everything else. You have no idea how long that shelf have been in here before you finally found it.

"No. She..." Chen, because you have to call him that now, even in your head, now that he's being weird and personal and not scowling you out of the room. "I think she's afraid of spooking you again."

"Julia? Afraid?" Your face twitches a little, but his words match what you've noticed, the way her face contracts and closes up around you, as if she wants to drag you back to being best friends, but is afraid you'd just slip through her fingers again.

"She's not indestructible."

"Unlike you."

"I'm really not." He sighs, but keeps looking at you, so you close the fridge again.

"I need to go." You only came here to tell Argent that the timer is ticking and Dr. Mortum has promised to deliver soon. But she's not here, and you're not ready to stand here being strip-searched word for word by the Marshal.

"I'll join you." The words are awkward, but not a suggestion, and he falls in step with you as you head towards the elevator.

A familiar feeling. How many times have he seen you out of the building, not trusting you on your own?

When did it change? When did it become an act of companionship rather than a suspicious escort?

"Why?" You don't ask until the elevator doors have shut behind you.

"I wish I knew." Chen keeps looking at you, and you browse the surface of his mind, trying to figure out what he think he was answering. It's hard, the way it always is when it comes to business, he loosens up around Spoon, the dog is a safe outlet, no need to stay guarded then. Not like now. Not like with you.

And yet he keeps looking at you.

"You and me both," you answer, not knowing what the question was. It's been awkward between you lately, neither of you knowing how to deal with not being... not exactly enemies, but antagonists.

You still are, but you're wearing armor then, and he's wearing an all too familiar scowl.

"Let's get a drink." Yet again it's not a question, but Chen looks at you as if he's terrified you'd say no anyway.

"Why not?" You're on thin ice here, but if you can't read the Marshal, you can't outplan him, and you need to stay ahead of the game. Once the prototype is completed, you can strip your body clean of any evidence of your inhumanity, and then there's nothing stopping you from...

Your brain freezes in its tracks like a deer in front of a car as you realize you are looking at Chen's back as you follow him out of the elevator. The garage level. Where he keeps his car. You are looking at his back as if... that was one of your goals. Your aspirations. Which is ridiculous because you are doing all of this to build yourself a new life, scrub yourself free of your past, steal enough money that you never have to worry again and then just go somewhere... anywhere. Just live. Be anybody you want to be.

Free of your past.

The same past that's walking right in front of you, moving a little too stiffly. He should have let you adjust that shoulder, but he didn't trust you. Why do you have a shelf in their fridge?

Why do you want to kiss him?

No. You did not think that. Chen did.

You stop dead in your tracks, and Chen turns around and gives you a look, and you can see that he's wondering if you snooped, and you can see that he sees your blush, and you can see him getting angry, but you can feel him feeling betrayed, and your heart is breaking just a little bit so you do the only thing you can.

You kiss him.

He shouldn't have let you do that, he's big, but he's not slow, and he saw you move, and he saw you reach out, and there were three ways he could have turned that into an arm-lock, into a throw or just deflected your hands, but he didn't and now they are around his neck, pulling him down to meet your lips.

Why.

The answer is too simple for either of you. Because you want to.

He lifts you up in one, smooth, motion, pressing your back against the wall, the height difference shifting slightly in your favor. It would be threatening if your lips weren't locked together, and you wrap your legs around his hips for support.

What are you doing?

Both your thoughts, eerily in sync.

"Chen," you mumble his name into his mouth as you break the kiss at last. He keeps hold of you, as easily as he was carrying Spoon. "What are you doing?"

"You need to stop," he whispers back, and you don't get the feeling he's talking about the kiss, because he keeps holding you close, as if he's the one afraid you'd fade away. "Please."

"Maybe I don't want to." You kiss his mouth lightly, then his cheek, tongue tracing one of his scars, and you can feel the shiver running through him. "Maybe I can't."

"It's only a matter of time." His eyes narrow, and you don't need to read his mind to know what he suspects. That you are Anathema. Suspects. There's no proof, and as long as there's no proof there's nothing he can do. The kiss tastes a little differently once you realize that, a bit more of desperation.

"I've died once." This time you are the one whispering, resting your forehead against his. "I'm not letting it happen again." You pull back so he can see your eyes, see that's the only way he will take you in. Kill you.

He kisses you instead, softer this time, as an apology.

You should push away, but instead you just rest your head on his shoulder, arms around him, feeling his weight press you against the wall. Feeling his mind go over alternatives, upset and open, broadcasting in ways you are not used to. He could stop you. Take you in. Arrest you, and you stiffen slightly in his arms until his mind moves on because there's no proof. Because you've been clever. Because you've broken the law, again and again but you haven't actually killed anyone.

And he doesn't think you will. Except maybe yourself.

"I won't," you promise, whispering the words into his neck. "I want to live. That's the point."

"I don't understand." Is he pleading with you to explain yourself? To give him the proof you need? To make matters black and white once more instead of this murky gray.

"You can't," and there's something in the way you says that that makes him accept it. You still don't know what he found when he went looking for you after Heartbreak.

"There's one more reason," Chen says instead, gently putting you back on the ground. "One final reason why I didn't trust you."

"What?" you say, trying to summon up your usual defiance, but it just comes off as a nervous challenge. You're trusting him to bring this back to the usual status quo, because you're not sure you can. Or want to.

"Because I think I might have fallen for you," he admits, and it's a fall alright, into the dark, into the unknown, away from everything he was sure of. "Please don't make me regret it."

And with that he turns away and heads back towards the elevator, leaving you leaning against the wall, lips bruised and life upended.

You will, though. You will make him regret it.

Even if you don't want him to.

[twofacedwritings]

White Noise

You thought it'd be harder to relax.

Not that it was easy before; dampeners have a way of filling your head with cotton. In the puppet, being headblind is natural, as is learning how to read people by minute gestures, tone, and movement. As you, reading people can be as simple as brushing their mind. Very few people see the real you and keep their guard up. You’re invisible outside your armor. Even those who used to know you underestimate you. A retired hero. Mortum’s one of the only ones who know the truth. How powerful you truly are. It’s why when you did have a rare visit, your head felt stuffier than a cold.

But now, with it down, you expected it to be worse. In this enclosed space, the only thoughts you could hear are the Doctor’s. Mortum's thoughts are a constant hive of activity. Lines of thought intersecting and jumping all over. It's difficult to follow, hard to focus. 

There are tangents about customers. Fascinating orders. Telepathic boosters tuned to a specific avian subspecies. DNA profiling is a must, but are there other ways of manipulating? Perhaps pheromones, or bird calls. Quick course on avian biology. But Cawcaphony is late on payments. Also who in their right mind makes a villain on a bird pun? There is endless speculation about the myriad of theories that work through the mad doctor’s mind. Quantum entanglement colliding with miniaturization and gamma ray weaponry. Science fiction or science possibility?   Thoughts on security. Re-scramble the electronic signatures. Pay off another clerk to make it seem like this place is rezoned. Make others see things that aren’t there to hide what’s really here. And thoughts of you. How to keep you safe. The gestures shared between you and your puppet, the things that are solely you, yet so very endeari-- You never thought that Mortum, ever cautious, ever wary, would be comfortable enough to let the dampeners down, to allow you to hear the thoughts that always run through that brilliant mind. Some time ago, you mentioned that it would be difficult, even for an alpha level telepath, to follow a single line of the good doctor's thoughts. like following a single string tangled among a pile of yarn, always shifting, always changing. At the time, all you got was an enigmatic chuckle, one that denoted doubt. Not that you could blame the doctor. You had been lying to him for months. For all Mortum knew, you were lying about this too.  But now, you're allowed to rest on the couch nearby, curled up after a long day of work. Well, yours. Villainy rarely rests, and you pull double duty as both villain and second in command. But you’re allowed to relax for those few hours you need a recharge in the doctor’s vicinity.  Close enough to where Mortum works to hear the soft tune hummed as ever steady fingers work. It melds in with that constant array of thoughts. It’s dizzying when you try to follow it. But when you don’t, when you let it wash over you, it’s soothing murmurs in the voice you've come to adore wrapping around your mind in a comforting blanket. The cascade of information you don't even try to keep up with washes over the doubts of the day, of your own internal conflict, of the fear that underlies your every action: fear of being caught, of being found out too soon, of failure, of-- Soft lips touch your forehead. You hardly even noticed Mortum moving over, one arm resting against the back of the couch as the doctor’s lips tug up. You see the warmth in those beautiful eyes before you hear the soothing thrum of thoughts. "Did I wake you?"  You smile. "Not enough." You whisper before sitting up to catch those lips with your own. 

[vegetalass]

Everything Electric

Inspired by the mess that was the spoilers nsfw discord chat and the conversation abt argent ripping out one of ur eyes… It unlocked the fact that i used to like gore…. SMH

TFW lady argent rips out one of ur eyes and then u go to dr. mortum and say thenks mather for my life

FORGIVE ME if this is shit it wasnt beta read

Villain name: Ophelia

Warning: contains Fallen Hero: Retribution spoilers, and heavy blood and gore!!! RATED R BRO!

FH:R belongs to @fallenhero-rebirth

Lady Argent/gn!Reader/f!Dr. Mortum - 2371 words

i.

Blood.

So much blood is leaking out of your mouth as the pressure on your windpipe keeps increasing.

“Argent…” you gurgle, trying to spit but ending up drooling a messy concoction of blood and spittle all over your villain suit instead.

Her claws are extended, this time longer than you’ve ever seen them, and while one hand presses into your windpipe hard enough to make you dizzy, the other is dangled in front of your nose like a toy in front of a child.

And you are not a child.

“Stop,” you plead, stuttering, even though your throat burns and eyes water in pain. But Lady Argent does not, and looking into her face lets you know that she doesn’t plan to, either. From the empty look in her eyes, you can tell that she’s lost herself in another world — one where the both of you never formed an alliance, and one where you deserve Hell and she’s the chosen one who’s going to give it to you.

Suddenly, though, as you should’ve been expecting this, she screeches something unintelligible and plunges her fingernails deep into your eye socket. Though at first you feel nothing more than an annoying pinching sensation, as the pain begins to register and become too much, you hardly notice as the pressure in your head releases in a pop so intense that the rest of your vision goes dark.

You try to scream, but end up making some kind of choked whine instead, as Argent hasn’t moved a muscle since and continues her heavy assault on your throat.

“What is it, Ophelia?” she grins, her teeth gleaming in the light of the moon, before laughing at her own stupid inside joke. “Is something wrong?”

As her fingers continue to root around inside your head, claws doing irreversible damage to your nerves, you try to use her distracted and giddy state to pull her other hand loose from around your neck. While trying to find enough space between her hands and your throat to breathe, Argent’s body shakes again in her mad state, and you are able to tear yourself away from her grasp in the hopes of collapsing on the floor and somehow getting away.

But it’s too late, as she is not so kind as to spare you, and continues holding onto the warm flesh hidden inside your eye socket. What a pitiful state you must be in, howling and moaning, as she succeeds in coming away victorious, and you are left seeing and tasting red from sudden lack of an eyeball.

Breathe, dry heave, rinse, and repeat. You don’t even register the pain when you press your dirty palms against what’s now a hole in your head and try not to hyperventilate.

You look up at her, missing eye covered, good eye blurry, and see her victory pose, smiling above you and holding the bloodied piece of you-meat like a trophy. Though instantly at your recognition, she throws the slimy meatball over her shoulder and uses her fist to slug you in the jaw.

“You didn’t even need that,” she says while laughing, before gazing into what’s left of your eyes and deciding to walk away.

Blood is still leaking from your mouth… and Argent doesn’t look back as she leaves you to sob on the concrete.

ii.

You look nothing like the weeping animal she left in the alley. And you look nothing like the weeping human she was expecting to see at your next meeting, either. Your face is not sunken in, bruised, or malformed. You’re not in an eyepatch or mask, and your face seems to look almost brand new.

A new face, almost… a new eye.

The realization hits her like a train, and she snarls, upset at the smug smile you pointedly send her way when you realize that she has it all figured out.

A replacement. The beautiful, black aperture Dr. Mortum installed in place of an eye.

And Lady Argent can see every wire, every miniscrew, and every bit of fiberglass that was used to create a weapon more fluid and powerful than any of the tech she’s seen installed in any of the Rangers.

And it makes her mad, fingers flexing and claws cutting into her palms as she makes plans to take a swipe at your face at the next chance she gets just to peel back your skin.

You smile at her, the angry thoughts like water off a duck’s back.

“So, you noticed,” you say, full of pride and a sense of smug satisfaction, “how do I look?”

Argent snarls, though she does pause to admire the lovely handiwork that was done to your face as you wait for a reply.

While your skin might look the same on the surface to any normal passerby, there’s no hiding the internal metal plating that’s been fused to your skull permanently, or the black sclera that whirs softly unlike normal white flesh. One has to wonder what kind of twisted procedure you put yourself through just to get better, because it was only an eye that she managed to take and now you’re practically a cyborg.

But saying you were completely healed would be unfair, as you haven’t fully gotten used to the implant yet. The way that things blur in high definition and in a spectrum brighter than anything you could ever image.

Chrome. Thermal. Electromagnetic. Something you can’t even name.

Like Lady Argent’s eyesight, from what you remember of possessing her, though you can’t see any wires or pipes through walls or anything. But this isn’t so bad, you think, not that you’d ever want lose an eye again. You’re just thankful her claws didn’t manage to clip into your brain.

Before the operation, the Good Doctor did require you to keep your remaining organic eye, and all the leftover tissue that was still in the damaged socket, but as expected, her technology was flawless. You find it’s often quite easy to forget you even have anything fake implanted in your head at all as the gradient technology she installed first was the easiest thing to get used to.

High tech and lightweight Medi-Polymer in place of a real cornea and iris, fitted with a sleepless microcomputer and accurate analytics, all grafted to your optic nerve in a painful surgery that had you out of commision for weeks.

Despite the lasting, striped scars that Dr. Mortum couldn’t be bothered to fix, she did let you choose the flashing colors it displays to the world, even if so far you have left the bandages on in public. It does help hide your face, though, and that’s always a bonus.

So, you’d say it was worth it, despite being forced to tell Ortega when he wouldn’t stop fretting at the sight of your head wrapped in tape and gauze that it was some unexplainable and permanent head trauma. You left the part where Lady Argent mauled you out, as it’s a secret that’s to be left between the two of you (and Dr. Mortum, of course).

It was the one thing you could be sure of, Lady Argent wanting to spare herself from the news by not getting reported by another Ranger.

Though still lost in thought, it’s easy to detect the waves on rage that now pour from Lady Argent’s mind into yours at your silence, as suddenly, she breaks your reminiscing by lunging at you. Her fingers quickly extended into sharp-pointed knives as she reaches for your face, but instead of simply waiting to be scratched, you catch her wrist in your hand easily, and twist her body away from yours to slam it against the waiting brick wall behind the two of you.

It’s like you didn’t even need to see her move.

“What?” you ask, feigning confusion at her shocked face, as she is now on her knees below you with some kind of crooked neck.

You don’t start to choke her. You don’t even mention her eyes. And even if she hates you, you can still read the recognition in her mind of the fact that you didn’t kick her down just to get revenge.

Because for once, she feels helpless and knows that you know it.

“Call me sometime, okay?” you taunt, laughing in her face the way she did at the eyeless and crying you, before leaning down to wipe her bleeding nose with your cape. She knows the gesture is not meant to be kind, and as her mind replays the swift way you were able to knock her off her feet, she is suddenly aware of how much powerful you really have gotten.

All because of an eye. The one that she took.

You straighten up, still looking down at her with your teeth bared in a smile. One eye cruel, and the other a mean, unblinking blue and orange. Both intense and focused.

iii.

You moan in pain as she peels back the bandages, blood vessels in your closed eye socket pounding against the heat of what you can only assume to be your brain overheated with the nasty fever you’ve been sporting since the incident itself. You grit your teeth as the dirty cloth is removed, now damp and warm from sweat, and the fact that you haven’t changed it in a few days. “Now, what did you do this time, Ophelia?” Dr. Mortum’s voice is neutral, though you know from your game of charades that she only starts to wonder aloud when she’s getting really curious and the probability of you actually responding is close to zero.

“Lady Argent,” you mutter, trying to be amused by Mortum’s long ‘ah’ at the confession. You’re not doing a great job at resisting the urge you have to reach up and press your knuckles into your head and relieve some of the pressure.

“I’m flattered that you chose to trust me, though it’s not recommended for any clients of mine,” Mortum continues, having wandered off after taking one good look at your ruined eye socket and deciding to search for one of her many stored medical kits, “but your assistant, I presume, is so sweet.”

You know who she’s referring to, but you’re just glad that everything worked out.

It took all of your remaining energy just to enter your puppet’s head one last time to give her a call. Begging her to come pick up your aching body and drive you away in the back of her car to replace the half of your face that Lady Argent destroyed, as this was something you couldn’t do yourself.

It took a couple days for her to find you, but she did, and it was a relief to see her, even if you were neither in your puppet or pretending. It’s funny how things work out.

All those self-stitched scars. For nothing.

“I assume we’re going with a full replacement?” she voices, having returned and seated herself at your side to begin the cleaning, soaking and opening process.

You cannot help the eager nod that escapes you, even though the saline solution Dr. Mortum starts applying to your face has you leaking red tears instantly.

“It will take a few weeks, and then more to recover…” she hesitates, exhaling, and you can tell she’s scanning you for any signs of danger, “but you can stay here.”

You know what she’s thinking, that even in your weak state you could be a danger to her practice. But from the way you look in the image of you in her head, you can tell there’s not much danger to even be had. You look so frail, sick, and destroyed. Not the mention, from the way she glances up and down your form, it’s almost as if you weren’t someone she was expecting to be the Ophelia.

But you are never what people expect.

And with that, she decides that due to your sickly state, you are not a liability. You are not about to jump up and destroy her or her lab. If you tried, you know it would be quite easy to stun you into submission and take out your remaining eye as punishment, too. She doesn’t have to think it to know it.

Because she pulled a gun on you once before.

But her thoughts have changed directions, almost easily, naturally, and you can tell now that what she’s thinking is kind. Suddenly, her thoughts of you are as an ally. No, a friend, and for all intents and purposes, you are dying of a high fever she know that in the hands of anyone else, could leave you as a pitiful, sightless corpse.

But Dr. Mortum isn’t cruel. She never has been, and you are glad when she responds to you in kind at the thought of the mutual understanding and benefits you could share if she does decide to help you. You do your best to push the thought her way instead of speaking.

She smiles finally, then, at least you hope that’s what she’s doing, and runs her cool knuckles across your bloody and sweat-stained forehead in a form of soothing reassurance that makes you feel like a child.

And you are not a child.

Though, you are glad that you’ve always been quite generous to her, and that it’s easy to look human in your sticky, skin tight pajamas.

Not there’s much you could really say if (or rather, when) she were to find out the truth, because existing can’t get much worse than this.

And if you were that someone else, anyone else, you’d love to respond to her contact. Her sweetness. Her power.

But you’re not, and it’s always been your puppet who she’s preferred, anyways.

But right now, you let yourself be sick. You let her touch you and welcome you into her waiting arms. Because she might not welcome you again.

“You’re lucky I’m a doctor, Mon Cherie,” she whispers finally, voice kind, body warm. And as you sink yourself into her and try to smile with closed eyes, you hope that it doesn’t look like an ugly, toothy grimace.

Because you know you are really, very lucky.

[wesker20]

Fallen Hero 1.5 Episode 8: Broken Hearts

https://wesker20.tumblr.com/post/184819468347/fallen-hero-15-episode-6-parasites

           Years ago – Unknown Building

           Another day, another mission. Alpha and you infiltrated a local rising drug ring that was suspected of having several dangerous boosted. Although they did have boosts, they were not a danger that needed to be taken down so your mission ended quickly and the two of you were called to report back to Trevor. Kappa and Zeta were send on another mission that turned out to be rather easy apparently and were on their way as well.

           That day the location to report back to Trevor was not a government building, but rather a private one. At the time you did not know of course, but you realized soon after. While reporting to Trevor, she was talking to a man you did not recognized and did not cared to ask at the time. Soon after reporting in, Trevor, the man, Alpha, and you stood in front of a one sided mirror where you witnessed a young girl, being pitted against a re-gene. This was no surprise to you. You were all sometimes pitted against one another or new experimental projects. You surmised the girl was not a re-gene as she lacked the tattoos and blue skin, but a new experiment. She defeated the re-gene handily, showcasing incredible strength and speed, comparable to Alpha’s and Kappa’s respectively.

           Soon after the experiment you and Alpha were dismissed and the two of you spent time roaming the building, or at least the parts you were allowed too.

           “What’s wrong?” Alpha asked. You turned to her wondering what to tell. You were thinking about something that you witnessed back at the drug ring. There were two people, a male and female, and they were doing something you were not sure you had a name for. Their bodies were pressed together, as well as their lips. You may know now what they were doing, but back then, it was more or less a mystery. You were taught to feel and act like a person true. And that sort of training led to you actually feeling, but there were still things you did not know, or have names for. Hugs you knew but not by name, rather you knew them as an action between people who cared about each other. As such, you shared many with your team, Alpha in particular.

           “Nothing much. Just…” you doubt for a moment, trying to sort out what to say. Alpha stared at you, curious and understanding. She had a knack for knowing what you were feeling and sometimes knew what you did not. As the leader of your team, she was required to feel and think more than you. It was not by much, but she was smarter than you and more knowledgeable about social interactions. You finally just blurted out your doubts in no particular order or cohesion but she understood.

           “Let me think…”she said as she tapped her chin and walked back and forth. Suddenly, as if a light bulb turned on her head she turned to you. “That is called a kiss.” You stared at her dumbfounded, waiting for an explanation. “It’s an affection done by couples. You see, when two people care really really deeply about each other, they sometimes get together and become a couple.”

           Still dumbfounded, you said “Ok. But what’s the difference?” She begins to try and say something but nothing comes out. She tapped her chin to think but in the end she gives up with an “I don’t know.” Well, first time she fails you.

           “Hey come on, Even I don’t know everything.”

           “I didn’t say I thing,” you say.

           “No, but you were thinking it.”

           “I thought I was the telepath here.” Suddenly you feel your body being forced down and your head being wrapped by a slim but inhumanly strong arm. You manage to hear Alpha’s laugh and you groan.

           “Yeah but you are terrible at hiding what you think. Your face always betrays you,” she says.

           “I’ll keep that in mind,” you say as you managed to wrestle out of the hold, though you suspected she let you off. You have watched bigger foes being incapable of escaping her grip. You locked her in your own hold but she easily escaped it and ran away.

           “Last one to the sparring mat has to clean the beds,” she yelled. You followed soon behind and after a couple of minutes running around, and catching the confused attention of several employees, you found the gym, empty. It made you wonder if it was because it was night but you did not dwell too long on it. Alpha immediately gave you a challenging look. You remembered how this went; she goats you and you spar, only for her to completely own your ass with little effort. Not only was she super strong and durable, she was the best fighter out of the four of you. Yet you never stopped accepting the challenge, you always told yourself in your mind that one day you would finally beat her. And every time you sparred you told yourself that “this was the time,” but you did not. And you never did beat her. That night she defeated you just as handily as she always did. So what was so different about this particular time? It came in the form of a return to the subject of earlier.

           She took you down with a tackle, not even using a third of her strength, just destroying your balance with skill, and pinned you. You both laughed as you always did. But after the laugh ended, instead of her standing up and helping you up as she always did, she stared at your eyes and you stared at hers. Both of your breaths slowing down as she looked at you with curiosity, you’ve seen this curiosity before but never at this close of a distance. Then the words came: “You want to try it out with me?” she asked with an innocent look in her face. You knew what she was talking about, and that day you simply nodded. Your lips touched hers lightly, a fearful kiss that neither of you knew how to do, but you tried, and you liked it. And then the radio sound and you heard Trevo’s voice, ordering you to regroup as Kappa and Zeta had returned. And you both got up and knew things were different from there and on.

           Present – Hideout

           Oh so different. You close your fist as you bury the memory again. There was a reason you avoided them, it makes you dwell on what ifs, what if you had said no? What if you had stopped it there, what if you had not told her you wanted to be free, what if you had not accepted the name she gave you? What if you never became Jeremy? You would still be Beta 010, member of the cuckoo squad number 42, under the command of unit Alpha 203, and belonging to General Vanessa Trevor. None of what happened would have happened, your escape, Heartbreak… and Mastermind.

           You dig your gloved fist on the wall of your hideout, leaving a deep hole.

           “Boss?” you hear Rosie’s voice. You turn around to see her standing there. You sense a bit of fear but also a bit of sympathy.

           “What is it?” you ask, your voice coming out as distorted as always and hiding the current weakness of your normal one.

           “Zaza reported in. He spotted the silver lady heading to Bloodmoon Ave.”

           “Good. Tell the team to get ready. Tell Zaza to wait for us at the designated location.”

           “Yes boss,” she says and turns around. You can sense she wants to say something but does not do it. You let her go. At the moment, you have to focus on what’s about to happen. Bloodmoon Avenue. Originally just another street with no name, it gained its current one when a massacre happened. A scientist experimenting with the hero drug accidentally created an unstable variant that instead of either killing people or giving them powers, it turned them into monsters. But that’s not why you remember this place, oh no. You remember this place as the location of your first mission. Your first official mission after hundreds of test missions, the first time you worked with Alpha and Zeta. At this point, Kappa had not yet joined. Officially your mission was a success, you captured the scientist but the battle in his lab caused several creatures to escape and create chaos all around the street. Creatures tearing apart everything in their path, people, animals, and each other. It was a bloodbath, all in a night with a full moon, hence Bloodmoon Avenue.

           General Slyther held that against you forever, he never really trusted cuckoos, and saw them as a threat to the military and everytime you screwed up, he would that failure over your head forever. It’s a good thing then thst your team rarely failed. Although in hindsight you wonder if his paranoia was justified, after all look at everything you have done.

You grab your new Taser weapon and glue it to your right hand. This one is much stronger than the first. Much, much stronger according to Mortum.

           Two days ago – Dr. Mortum’s lab

           “Here you have it Ma chérie. New, more powerful, and more durable as you asked,” Mortum said with proud smile.

           “How so?” you asked more out of curiosity, and because you enjoy seeing her go on these speeches.

           “This one is at least, one hundred times stronger than the first one I gave you. Though I’m lowballing it here just so you know. It has a battery of the same size but much bigger lifespan. This little baby can power up a hundred houses and still have more than half energy to spare. The material is a stronger configuration of your boss’s suit, meaning it can take more than it can deliver.”

           You stared at her waiting for an oversimplification, just for the giggles. “You can electrocute a whale with this ma chérie.”

           “Nice. And the other order?” With a smile she goes to a stand and picks up a box. She opens it up to show you. You see several small black patches on tips of what appears to be plastic fingers. “This is it? I was hoping for a cool ice gun,” you say with a chuckle.

           “Please Ma chérie, a gun would look so unfitting on that suit.” You agree, you did not order the suit to fight from a distance. “No, instead I decided to keep with the theme of death touches. In this case, these little things stick to your fingers,” she puts one on her index finger. She signals you to step back as she touches the table in front of you. “and when you make pressure,” she says and part of the table turns white, freezing over.

           “Wow,” is all you managed to say as you pass your hand over the frozen part, never quite touching it, and feel the cold air coming from it. “How cold can it get?”

           “As cold as it’s needed. Truth is these do not freeze anything; they absorb all the heat of the body they are in contact with. Their range is small, approximately 30 inches each. That’s why I made one for each finger for ten in total. Five together can freeze a limb, or a head knowing how your boss likes to kill their victims.” You twitch at the mention of that. Because of that kill it’s why you asked her to make these in the first place.

           “How do you stop them from freezing your own arm? I mean, my boss uses a lot of punches.”

           “I know. That’s why I made them compatible with the suit’s systems. Just stick them to the gloves and they will reconfigure to follow the user’s will. The same goes for the taser.”

           You nod, satisfied. You wonder if you would ever find a scientist better than Mortum. Or if you would even want to.

           Present – hideout

            You put on the taser on the palm of your hand, and carefully place the patches on each of your fingertips. In your H.U.D the suit lets you know that it has connected the patches to its main frame. Mortum informed you that the patches transfer the heat you absorb into the suit, transforming it into energy, which means your suit will be able to go longer if you ever use the patches. The taser has its own battery so that’s another non worry. Overall, you have made your suit deadlier, much deadlier, without repercussions. If only things always went this smoothly.

           12:00am, outside the Army’s hideout.

           It’s funny to find this street in the same state as when you left it all those years ago. It brings you back to it, Alpha and you immediately clicking, and Zeta being the sad third wheel. He was nervous, more than you were and you were forced to act as the big brother and comfort him. Alpha smiled all the way through, friendly in a way the majority of the others were not. She was not empty or cold, but vibrant and full of life, you felt safe in her presence; and drawn to her. Alpha? Alpha! It’s me, Jeremy. Please, recognize me, I know you are there. Alpha! The memory floods your mind and in an instant you burry it with brutal mental power, enough that if you did the same to someone else, you would shut them down. This was no time to remember, this was the time to confront what has been hunting you, who has been hunting you, The Voice.

           You already hear her come but let her believe she has not alerted you. “I was doubting you would be here,” Argent says standing beside you, claws already out.

           “If there’s one thing you should know about me, is that I keep my word.”

           “I’ll believe it when I see that more often. Well…” she begins as she takes a stance, “if there is even a next time.”

           You chuckle a bit. “Apologies, I did not called you out here to fight,” you say without even turning to her. You can practically hear the confusion shooting out of her mind.

           “What?” she manages to say.

           “As you heard. I did not called you to fight. I wanted you to do me a small favor.”

           “What kind of favor?”

           “The Army.”

           “What about them? Aren’t they yours?”

           “They are not. Just a gang of goons who decided to take my name and use it.” You turn your head towards her and say “Without my permission. I want them out.”

           The look she gives you pretty much screams “Are you serious?” She puts her now clawless hands on her waist and says “Let me get this straight: you want me to take out your trash? Do I look like your servant? Better yet, why would I even do it?”

           Your turn your head back to the building in the distance, their hideout. “You won’t have a choice.” Her expression darkens and her claws come out again.

           “You’re going to make me?” she asks with a threatening tone.

           You chuckle a bit again. “Not me. They,” you say and point to the building. She turns just in time to notice the crowd of goons coming your way.

           “You son of a bitch. This was a trap, wasn’t it!”

           “Relax,” you begin as you take your own stance. “I’ll help you out for a bit.”

           “Who says I need it.”

           “Not doing it for you pretty silver. This one’s because I’m pissed,” you don’t lie. You are angry, angrier than you have been in a long time. This whole situation has brought back memories you buried long ago. Now these sad useless blobs of flesh will be on the receiving end, before you get the message of your crew that they are in.

           Quickly they all fall on both of you with bats, machetes, knives, chains, and every other useless weapon. You assume the ones with the guns are still inside the building. Big mistake, these goons are useless against you and Argent. Both of you move like liquid through their predictable attacks. Some land, but barely do any damage as you beat them up with well-placed fists and kicks, that dislocate bones and stops the movement of blood to certain areas. Argent does not even bother with her claws, hitting them by the dozens with one attack. Unstoppable, unbeatable, precise, and quick. No attack is wasted, one punch sends several of them meters away, every attack that lands on her bounces off with no visible damage. Alpha- no, Argent, has no trouble with these guys, they are nothing next to her; and you.

           At your feet lay dozens of them, injured and beaten. Others back off as the two of you take a step forward. They try to attack again, but once again you fight them off with little effort. Soon their numbers deplete even more and one of them calls for back up. At that point Pelayo’s voice sounds on your communicator. “Boss, you got guys with big guns coming for you.”

           “The building is empty?”

           “Some guys still remain but not many.”

           “Good. I’m on my way,” you say as you knock out one last goon. “Well, this is my cue to go. Have a good night,” you finish but before you leave you turn back to her and bow while saying “my lady.”

           “I will murder you!” you hear her screaming as you turn on your rockets and fly off. She can handle herself just fine. You manage to sneak through the houses and into the building without any hiccups. As Pelayo said, the building is almost empty, with only a couple of goons left. You take them out one by one, sneaking into the darkness, calling on not just your current training, but your older training, during extraction ops. You half expect to find Kappa standing right next to you but you quickly burry the memory.

           Finally you meet up with your crew.

           “Boss! Look I took out several of these guys myself,” Nehal is the first one to speak up and points at a group of goons.

           “It wasn’t just yourself, I shot several of those idiots before you knocked them out,” Zaza interjects earning an elbow from Nehal.

           “Good job. Both of you,” you say. Nehal’s eyes shine up and she nods while Zaza gives you a weak “thanks.”

           “Rosie turned off all of the cameras. Whoever was watching on the cameras never saw us,” Pelayo informs you.

           “Good. Stay here and create a perimeter. I won’t be long.”

           “Boss?” you turn to Pelayo who is looking at you with a neutral expression. If not for your telepathy you could not tell he was worried. “What’s going on? I know I shouldn’t question you, but between the bomb in the hideout and this mystery guy you’re going to face now, it feels that there is more going on,” he whispers to you, making sure the others do not listen. Though you imagine the others have their own suspicions as well.

           “I’ll explain later. After we are done here,” you tell him, making sure he understands your meaning. You agree with him, you should have told them something, but you didn’t. And if they doubt you, they might abandon you. But right now is not the time for explanations. Every lost second is a second more before The Voice realizes that you are here and if they don’t there is a possibility more goons might appear, and if you are too busy explaining they might catch you and your crew off guard. So you decide to leave explanations for later, right now the mission is more important. Just like Alpha told you the first time you were here. Once again you shake the memory away and leave as Pelayo begins calling positions.

           You turn to them once again. “Listen up, I don’t want any heroics. From any of you. You focus on surviving, understood. If that involves leaving, do so.”

           “Boss!” Nehal yells and you can feel the others also tense up but with a gesture you stop her.

           “I’ll be fine. No matter what, I will not let this place be my grave.” For the first time since you recruited them you tell them the truth. There is still too much to be done for you to fall so soon.

           With that they all nod and take positions while you head towards the main office through a long barely lid hallway. The hallway ends in a flight of stairs and you breath as you take your first step. Each step you take with caution, your heart beating faster, the darkness slowly surrounding you. To be honest with yourself, you don’t know if you will find the Voice here. You suspect you will but there is a possibility it will all be for nothing. So far they have been smart enough to hide their tracks. But then again they have made mistakes, and if the crowd of goons on the outside is any indication they are prone to quickly panic when things do not go their way. They are smart, but sometimes they let emotions get the better of them, like they always did.

           The final step and the door stand in front of you. Rusted, covered in claw marks from the creatures escape. You remember when you first stepped through this door, Alpha in front flanked by you and Zeta. This was the lab that you assaulted. Fitting you think, your first meeting with them as the Voice is in the same place when you first met as the slaves for the directive. Sentimental even until the end.

           No point in stalling any longer. You open the door with little care, no amount of cautiousness will stop that door from echoing through the now empty lab. You walk through the room, broken vials all over the ground, dried up liquids decorating the walls. Deformed skeletons lie around, some with burned parts, probably from the security system of the lab. Others have claw marks all over the bones, killed by other creatures. You even noticed two skeletons stuck together in mutual demise. But most importantly you see a figure at the end, clad in white. A suit similar to yours, but no hood, and instead of a cape it has a long coat. Their mask, although a mirror like yours, has a different shape. Whereas yours has a blade like edge on the front where the two halves of it join join, the Voice’s mask is flat, perfectly mirroring a face back with no distortions.

           “Must be a nightmare keeping that clean,” you begin. You want to probe them before you fight them.

           “It’s not, thankfully. I told the scientist to make it self cleaning,” they say. Their voice is ear piercing, a simple screech that burns it into your ear. Thankfully your filters reduce the screech.

           “Really? Mind telling me their name? I would definitely love something like that.”

           “I’m sorry, he’s dead. Had to kill him after you found one of my account owners. Couldn’t let you get another huge clue. Though I guess now that I think about it, that was all for nothing. You were always smarter than me.”

           “We are equals, actually. The difference is that you always let your emotions get the better of you. If you had more self-control, you could have destroyed me without me ever realizing I was being sabotaged. But instead you decided that your ego was more important than your success.” You take a step, the Voice does not.

           “Why do you speak as if I’ve already lost?”

           “You haven’t?”

           “I got some backups just in case this happened. All I have to do is get out of here.”

           “Too bad you wouldn’t.” As you finish saying that the lights on the room turn on. You are going to have to give Rosie a raise after this. Not only has she performed perfectly, her timing has been impeccable. “Force field is up.”

           “And?”

           “Teleportation,” you begin, pacing back and forth as if you were a teacher talking to students. “The ability to separate the molecules of your body and move them from one location to another before reuniting them back together. This also allows you phase through walls with ease and almost anything else. Though you cannot harm anything in that state either, but that’s okay. Force fields, however, do not let any molecule get pass them. Meaning you are not getting out of here. Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten power explanations back at the farm. It was practically a basic class.”

           “And you think that that can stop me from beating you?”

           “You never could beat me in our spars, even with your powers.”

           “I’ve changed Beta. While you were away, living your dream life, I learned, I became stronger, better. I no longer needed a team. And unlike you I escaped alone.”

           You sigh, “Are you seriously turning this into a dick measuring contest? I don’t care how much better you are. All I care about is that you are interfering with my plans.”

           He chuckles. “Figures. It’s always all about you, you are the only one that matters, everyone else be damned. I can’t believe I ever looked up to you. How could I have been so blind? But like you said before, we grow. Or rather, learn.”

           “I never asked to be your idol,” you pause. “Zeta,” you finally say. You finally said his name. It’s done, now it has completely fallen into place, now it’s real. No more denial, no more avoiding his name, no more referring to him as them or the Voice. The proverbial cat is out of the bag.

           “You sounded almost hesitant there. Afraid of the past?” You do not give him the pleasure of answering. You simply take a stance. “Fine. Let’s see how much better I have become.”

           “Bring it on,” you say ready to begin.

           Years ago – The Farm Training grounds

           Zeta tried to teleport behind you but you easily take him down with a sweep. You were trained to use wide sweeps and attacks to deal with teleporters since their favorite strategy is to always teleport around you. This way your attacks were always going to hit them if they teleported anywhere near you. Although even without that training, his mind was an easy read and he always thought about his attacks before he did them.

           “Come on, I know you can do better than that,” Alpha yelled.

           “Yeah, I- I know,” he said as he stood up.

           “Do try to remember the training. You know what I’m going to do already,” you told him. Indeed, he should know how is it that non teleporters fight teleporters. Wide sweeping attacks that cover all 360 degrees of the subject’s area, leaving no blind spots for teleporters to use. So he should come up with an idea to bypass that. He does, he feints a teleport to lure you into another sweep and when your back is turned he attacks. Sadly for him you knew what he was planning and you quickly turn his attack into a judo toss and pin him to the mat.

           “How do you always beat me,” he groaned as you helped him up.

           You pointed at your head and said, “Telepathy, remember? You think your attacks before you make them. Try not to think too much. Otherwise I’ll see it coming a mile away.”

           “But if I don’t think, then I can’t form a strategy to win.”

           You nod sympathetically to him. “That’s the thing about telepaths. Unless you have something that blocks their power, it’s better to just be random.”

           Present – former laboratory of Bloodmoon avenue.

           As you take your stance you task the Rat King to track Zeta’s movements. But suddenly a mental squeal echoes in your head. Something is wrong. Your answer comes soon after as you hear Zeta chuckle.

           “Trying to get in here?’ he points to his head. “Yeah, good try, but this baby will not let any telepathic influence in. You are locked out of my head.”

           Huh, he did learn. So that means this will go the old fashioned way; easier said than done. You try to do a sweep attack as he disappears in front of you but you notice the teleport was a feint as he reappears in the same place, making you look like an amateur attacking the wind. Off balanced, Zeta teleports again and this time appears behind you and delivers a kick that sends you flying meters away. Huh, his suit grants him superhuman strength, more than yours. Guess you don’t need much speed when you have the power of teleportation. That means he is already prepping the attack before he reforms.

           He does a feint again, but this time you recognize it and leap forward. As he reforms again you tackle him to the ground and prepare to hit him with a punch, but he disappears and your fist only hits the ground. He reappears in front of you and kicks you in the face, once again sending you flying several meters back with little effort. You roll back to your feet and just as he disappears you drop a smoke bomb. He reappears inside the smoke cloud, blinded, and you take this chance hit him in his pressure points, trying to pin down a weakness in his armor. But at the last second he disappears and reappears outside of the cloud.

           Right before you turn, you feel something heavy hitting you on the head. Then another, and another, and another, and another. Objects of all sizes and shapes rain down upon you, some of them inoffensive, others more annoying. You realize soon that he is teleporting and either kicking or throwing objects your way. You activate your rockets and leap into the air, dodging all incoming objects. Zeta tries to aim for you but you are a far more mobile target in the air and all of his attacks fail miserably. You continue this dance for some minutes, letting him try to get you but failing miserably. Seems that he has not overcome this weakness yet: fighting an opponent in the air. Teleporters are great on the ground. By themselves they are worth dozens of normal soldiers. But fighting opponents in the air is much more difficult. Sure, they could teleport into the air and catch them, but that leaves them in precarious situations, at the mercy of the flyer and in their territory. And fighting a flyer in their element is the worst mistake you can make if you yourself cannot fly. Zeta knows that, and it’s why he does not try to get you now, and instead continues throwing or kicking objects your way, using his eagle eye to try and nail you. But it is not working. You can see it in the way he moves, less thought, more instinct, instead of grabbing or kicking specific objects he is taking anything he can and aiming it at you. Desperation or frustration. Either way he is losing it once again. Too easy.

           In one final movement he throws a table at you. You easily evade but when you look, he is no longer there. You search and find him standing on a desk at the tail end of the room. He is aiming his open right hand at you, a small light emitting from the center. One that by the time you recognize it, it’s already too late and the blast shoots and hits you, moving at a speed that even with your suit you could not evade. You know only one person who dodged it at point blank range, Kappa, and this is that same blast: the blast that Jeremy Rodriguez’s gun shot, the blast that left you powerless and with a headache for a few hours.

           You scream as a screech fills your head and you fall to the ground. Through the distorter your voice comes out as a roar, you hold your head, the screech filling every part of your head. You don’t hear the rat king, or anything really. You feel disconnected, out of the world, empty; for a time.

           “Didn’t see that one coming did you?” you barely hear Zeta say, his voice an echo of in your head. “Was hoping I might not have to use it just yet. But you did always forced me to go all out.”

           You want to respond, but you can’t. Whatever response you come up with gets drowned by the screech in your head. And your dreams. Your memories. They swarm you like a wave of water, taking you with them, drowning you, taking you ever so deeper into the depths from which they come, the pressure of the water weighing on you, threatening to crush your very being. All the pain, all the misery, all the hunger, all the anger you thought you had buried come back. All of the helplessness you felt, all of the desperation, all of the fear, all the lost loves, all the people you miss, all the people you fear to lose, everything is here, in this sea of your own creation. It never occurred to you that all of this was inside of you, that you had buried so much in all these years. You thought you had forgotten who you were, that you had long left all of those things in the past, but you were wrong, oh so very wrong. They never left, they never disappeared, they were always there, with you, buried by your telepathy. You never thought that just as your powers can affect the minds of others, so can it affect yours. But even then some still resurfaced pushed up their way through your barriers. But now, there is now barrier, nothing stopping them from coming up. Powerless.

           And then you hear it, the desperate cries of the rat king, the minds of your crew, fighting and escaping from the building as they are chased away by more goons, Pelayo ordering everyone to run, Nehal refusing to leave only to have Ward pull her away, Rosie following soon behind. Argent’s mind as she fight’s off the goons outside, now aided by vigilantes who have joined the fray, and the minds of the people surrounding, some scared and others curious. You even feel one mind, consumed with fear and anger, Zeta’s. You look up to find him screaming and holding his head, sparks coming out of his helmet. But it doesn’t matter, none of that matter. All the hunger and the anger consume you, the pain of powering through the blast, a burning sensation on your head. You roar, you roar, not just outside, but in your head and you can feel what everyone else feels. The rat king cowers away from you, your crew stops right in front of the building, the fighting far beyond stops as well, Argent, the vigilantes, and the Army stop as they all hear the same deafening roar.

           You dig your boots on the ground and force yourself to stand up, your head screaming pain. You are sure you feel blood coming down your nose, but you pay it no mind. Zeta kneels in front of you, without a helmet. He’s is older, just like you, but cleaner, not a mess. If his mind was not open now, you could not tell he is broken inside.

           “Impossible,” he whispers, telling it more to himself than to you.

           “This ends now,” you say and with a mere frown you send a telepathic wave. A wave aimed only at the Army’s goons who are in the surroundings. A wave that delivers one, simple command, a command you have seen in action, a command that terrified a lot of people, a command that you yourself have felt and have been terrified off. The command to ‘end it’ right here, right now. Heartbreak.

           In the next several minutes you can feel the surprise and shock from those not part of the army. Your crew, the vigilantes, the crowd, even Argent stare in disbelief as they witness the Zeta’s goons take their own lives, one by one. And you feel nothing, nothing but pure rage. The Rat King still keeps their mind hidden, small, trying not to look threatening. You pant like hungry beast and look at Zeta, horrified. “Monster,” he says and before you can stop it, the building begins shaking. You notice a detonator in his hand right before the lights go out and he disappears, the force field out along with the rest of the lights. You don’t bother trying to escape, nothing will get out of here, even with your speed.

           But as the building buries you, you refuse to let it take you; you refuse to let the cold embrace of death take you. You push yourself out of the debris, powering through it the same way your mind powered through the weapon’s effects.

           “Boss!” your crew yells all at the same time. You walk pass them, panting and see helicopters in the distance; from the media and LDPD.

           “Back to the hideout,” you order, leaving no room for questioning.

           Hideout

           No words are exchanged, but you feel their eyes on you the whole way. You arrive at your hideout and your crew spreads out, only Pelayo following you. In all of this your head still screeches and hurts and the rat king remains just as quiet as your crew. You stumble a bit and use a wall for support. Pelayo tries to help you but you dismiss him with a gesture. He cannot help, your head is heavy, you need to get it out of this prison. You open the mechanism of your helmet and throw it away, not caring where it lands. You can hear their thoughts spark in surprise, Pelayo even turns away. In this angle they cannot see your face and you could probably hide it with your cloak, but you don’t want to, you are tired, too tired to care anymore. Before you turn to them you look at the one way mirror of your office; staring back it’s a man with pale skin and blood dried blood dripping from your eyes, nose, and mouth; a monster.

           You finally turn to them, letting them see your monstrous face and you can feel their fear spark up as they stare at you. You sit on the ground, resting your back against the wall and staring up at them.

           “I look better than this, trust me,” you begin, the humor more to calm you down than them. And it doesn’t seem like it eased any of them either. Your voice is raspy and your throat hurts when you talk. “I’m- I was something different a long time ago. There have been people I have hurt. Teams I have destroyed. The man responsible for what has been happening is one of those people. We… we worked together. And I abandoned him. Now he wants revenge. And he will target all the people I know,” you pause letting it sink it. “Including you.” You stare at them reading their expressions. Fear, confusion, indecision. You stand up, looking at all of them as the leader that you are. “From here on out, things will get worse. Much worse. Not just because of him, but because what I will do in the future. I will challenge individuals who will be just as, if not more dangerous as he is. Heroes, villains, and others, I will fight all of them. This is just a taste of what I will become. If you decide that this is too much, I wouldn’t blame you if you leave.” You turn around to head to your office, letting them dwell and think their options through.

           You lock the door behind you and strip off of your armor, letting all the pieces fall to the ground. Naked you enter the cold shower and stare at your tattoos. The marks of your past and your shame. For years you feared them, puked at even trying to look at them. Now? Now only anger comes up, anger and a twisted sense of pride. These mark you as nothing. Something that does not deserve or need anything, a tool to be used. You can’t hold back the chuckle, Nothing? If that’s the case, then what does that make everyone else you have beaten? Less than nothing? A familiar feminine voice echoes in your mind. You step out of the shower and stare at the mirror. Your face looks much better without the blood. Still a bit pale but nothing that will not disappear. Behind your reflection, on the left stands your puppet, Jane, a sinister smile on her face. On the right stands Mastermind as mysterious as you always imagined it.

           “We still have much to do,” she whispers in your ear. “Still very much to do,” Mastermind whispers. “Don’t let him stop us,” they both whisper. You hear the Rat King squealing, wrapping itself around your mind. But you stop it, you caress it with your mind, letting it know it’s all fine.

           “He won’t stop me,” you say out loud. “No one can.”

Episode 9

[sorceressassassin]

OK NOW I HAVE THE RIGHT BLOG :“You’re so cute when you’re all tied up and needy…..”That’s a nice way to start a day” (Maybe with Mortum)“We’re already late… do you want to be more late?”

 Here they are! Lemons under the cut!

“You’re so cute when you’re all tied up and needy”

  The last of the ropes anchored V to the head of Mortum’s bed. She’d wanted to try

this. To be tied and at his mercy. And she had been for the last 45 minutes

he’d teased her and kept her on the edge of coming.

  It was torture but he’d made sure she knew that even if it seemed like he was in

charge? She had total power. One word from her in his head and everything

stopped and he’d untie her. 

  “You’re so cute like this mon amour. All tied up and needy.” Mortum said turning the

speed of the vibrator in her up a notch making her gasp and moan behind the

gag. He loved how much she trusted him with this.

  Her body on display the soft peach colored silk ropes contrasted by the orange tattoos. He trailed a

hand over her stomach watching her tense at the contact. He kissed the slash on

the left side.

  Trust was a delicate thing. She trusted her body to him. Others of his profession had

hurt her in ways that made him want to come out of retirement to use them like

lab rats. But he kept himself in check. V was in the surface levels of his mind

so she could signal him. He didn’t want to upset her.

   “Can you imagine? If Julia saw you like this? Wrapped like a present? Why she’d

probably think it was her birthday. Don’t you agree?” Another speed higher as

his fingers lightly circle her clit. 

  V moans behind her gag. Mortum can see the flashes of her thoughts. Of Julia

teasing and toying with her as much as he is. It’s a shame she’s out of town

for the weekend.

   “Shall I send her a pic…no. That’s too cruel and too degrading of you. But…are you ok

with an actual photograph?”

   In his head he hears V say she hates herself too much for that and how if anyone

found it…

   “They wouldn’t ma cherie but I will respect your wishes. However? I disagree about

your body. It is beautiful. You look like a painting done by one of the old

masters. Like a goddess of classical rome!”

   V whined and he lowered the speed on the vibrator. It was barely buzzing now. He

kissed her cheek softly. He wished she didn’t hate herself so much but he knew

why. So many people shamed her as Sidestep for the fat on her body. 

  As Underworld hidden in her skinsuit and armor you couldn’t tell as much. But he

knew she worried. Hated herself. It was a leap of faith when she finally let

him tend to her. 

  Now he tends to her in a different way. Hands just as gentle, as knowing as he

removed the vibrator and slipped two of his fingers inside of her stroking her

clit with his thumb.  

  “You can come when you want mon amour. You’ve done so well ma belle Vittoria.” He

smiles as she tenses around his fingers before sighing behind the gag. He goes

to her and removes it and she sucks his fingers clean of herself.

   Mortum cups her cheek as she does. Stroking her cheekbone with his thumb, kisses her

forehead and wipes his hand on a towel nearby before undoing her bonds. 

  V melts into the bed as he cleans her up, the warm washcloth wiping away sweat on

her body and the come on her thighs. Next she feels him gently, always so gentle

with her like a precious treasure, turn her over.

  She smells chamomile and lavender. Moans as she feels his hands on her back

massaging any pain away. His hands are perfect for this. For molding to the

muscles on her back, for working the tension from her neck. For loving her.

“That’s a nice way to wake up” and “We’re already

late…do you want to be more late?”

He woke up with a moan, felt a pair of hands on his thighs, another holding him close. Then there was the feeling of his cock being sucked, the lightest scrape

of teeth against the piercing at the head.

V moaned a little as she worked, she had Julia holding Mortum so he wouldn’t roll over. They’d ALSO turned the alarm off before it went off so he wouldn’t wake until V had him in her mouth.

 Julia kissed Mortum’s temple, teased his nipples through his shirt as he woke up. “Buenos dias mi querido. Like your surprise?” She says as he looks blearly down where V’s head is.

 “Ahh….nice..mmm…way

to wake up. Wh…what time is it?”

 “Technically

we’re already late…wanna be more late?”

He moans as V stroked his cock. She was licking the head like it was a lollipop.

Julia was whispering in his ear what they’d planned on. While she wasn’t up for fucking she ALL for directing V in what needed to be done.

Mortum was helpless between the two. Julia’s words, her hands on his chest. V sucking his cock and projecting images in his head of her fucking him while Julia watched. Of her riding him if the blowjob hadn’t woke him up. How she might still do that.

V moaned at what he imagined in return. Mortum having her laid out as he ate her out, keeping her on the edge, praising her for how good she was. Of the two of them fucking Julia until the taller woman was a crying mess.

She clenched her thighs together, ignoring her own needs to get him off. Soon enough he’d do the same for her. All while Julia watched and moved a hand to Mortum’s hair stroking it lightly as she kissed him.

[teamcorvid]

So I’ve Never Stolen a Shirt Before

Ah yeah, should have added this beforehand. 

Fandom: FH 

Pairing: Stell Sutherland and @cacticouture’s Alex Hart

Self-acceptance fluff. Slight spoilers.

She fixates on buttons. Specifically, the ones on this shirt.

Round. Smooth. Milky white and thin enough to handle easily. A descending string of pearly discs from a tribute she took. Robbing should have become second nature by now, but why she took that particular tribute Stell would rather not reflect on.

And now she is standing in that very tribute by the island in her dimly-lit kitchen. A chocolate chip cookie lies untouched and forlorn on a plate. She is hungry for something else. Things she’d only had through Seychelle until he appeared. Uninvited. Unexplainable. Unnerving. Another telepath who surfaced in Los Diablos as quietly as she had, perhaps around the time she had, who bundled up as much as she did in this heat and hung out around her usual diner. She couldn’t dismiss the suspicion.

Not to mention the Hawaiian shirt near blinded her.

Yet there was a whisper at the back of her mind - loud enough to wonder if he was thinking it too - that he just might understand. When the talking started that thought only evolved. That I could trust him. Because this person is so very like me. And?

Only that, apparently. Too many lies. Her life is built on them. Mortum. Daniel. Good old Ricardo. No luxury of not having to consider lying, every single step she takes with them. She’s sick of it, and of the fear of slipping up. None of them here, Stell, not with me. I know. His eyes widened involuntarily at what did slip out. Meanwhile, a flash of freckles erupted in her mind’s eye, above a sleeveless blue skinsuit she knows so well. The image melted away when she met his gaze once more, dark as her own. Familiar as Anathema, perhaps even more so.

She should have been afraid. Of someone that felt so much like herself, only without that small tag of shame that always threatened to resurface inside her. She should have raised defenses. But his fingers never pried. They merely skimmed, soothingly, across her harried mind. Like a telepath soothing a Rat King. And tentatively, tentatively, she touched him in return, stroked the surface as if afraid her thoughts would scratch until she felt comfortable enough to lay her hand atop his mind. To lean weight upon each other, listening all the while. Not thinking of shields for once.

She doesn’t quite remember how this quasi-conversation moved to the Memorial Park, neither can she recall how she repeatedly ended up in a certain room. Details escape, feelings do not.

She remembers - being vulnerable. Scars outlining themselves in the mind’s eye, intimate and sharp. Seeing something beneath that calm exterior shift. She remembers wanting to reach out. Compassion is no stranger to Stell, but this time, it was different. Personal and desperate. Wherever did she find the courage, no, the mad impulse to catch another’s cheek? Pull them this close? Is this okay? Can I really do this?

All uncertain hands and nervously pinched lips. She broke the kiss first, too afraid to delve deep. Her hand had fallen away from his cheek to hover at his shoulder. Not enough.

She rolls one cool button back and forth, back and forth between her fingers. She can’t recall when they exactly happened. She can’t in all honesty be sure if the encounters were real, even with this souvenir. All of this feels like a dream that won’t leave.

A dream of a featureless room, because space didn’t matter. Of tossed-aside sheets, because this is Los Diablos, and there is a different force to add to the heat. Of slow conversation, cautious exploration, and discovering -

Hunger. Pain. Want. Once again that urge struck, to reach out, to connect, to wrap around and press close, because no one else will, because no one else can know and I am here, it’s me, listen to me - hold me - tell me everything will be okay

Bright orange tattoos laid bare with every layer torn off. It’s odd, how much they need each other like this and then hurting as much from just seeing. Wanting to run. Hide from this, from me, want to hide but there’s nowhere else to go. Hide each other. In here. I am here. Look at me.

She thought she couldn’t do it. But she did. Moved closer. No longer exploring just the mind. And they spoke, asked questions, asked permission every step of the way. Knew each other and listen. Everything was fragile, but the only way was to fall.

This is okay. We can. Let go.

Squeeze hands without worrying how it will be taken. Trace the skin below the tattoos. Cradle and cherish the most tender parts of each other because we need to. Thoughts filled the mind, first shy and uncertain, sent back and forth, back and forth. They escalated the deeper their touches grew, the more their eyes saw. Some were whispers, delivered with a kiss, some stayed in the mind for each other to read.

Comfort. Praise. Totally sincere. When was the last she gave them? Received them?

There is a different kind of wanting, one hidden behind the one Stell chases and agonizes over, one she prefers not to think about because it brings doubts, brings shame crashing down on her. Yet she couldn’t help thinking about it. Still can’t.

Can I? Be alright with myself?

His warm mind still hummed with thoughts, but it wasn’t until he lifted his lips from her neck that he responded. She knew what he would say before he did. Every time.

That doesn’t mean she wants to hear it any less. There is a long way to go until this hole will be filled, and she can't be sure she'll be filling it with right things. But she can try.

She honestly doesn’t know if getting her hands on a shirt will help things there. At least it’ll help her recall the things said, the emotions felt. Still, she cautions herself, if you get overly attached I will kill you, Stell Sutherland. The stinging pain in her chest draws her attention, and for once Stell regrets cutting herself like this.

She finally lowers herself into a chair and picks up her treat. The button stays between her fingers, and the gawdy beach shirt stays on. Here at home it stays on.

[fallenhero-rebirth]

300 subscribers here we go...

Been writing a LOT lately, but it’s all game stuff. Still, I wanted to give you a little bonus something. SO I decided what the hell, have a peek at some of the alpha coding for one of the early fights in the game with Lady Argent. It will be spoilerific, but since it’s in chapter one I don’t feel too bad about sharing it. This is what I am working on right now. ALSO IMPORTANT! Alpha version, not proofed, not filled out, not grammar checked, this is what it looks like when I write, and I have not edited anything. So it will fill out and change.

SPOILERS FOR BOOK TWO AND CODE BELOW

*label argenthunter

Looks like she's been doing some hunting on her own. Not that you mind. Not really.

If there is one thing you know, it's that a fight between you and Lady Argent will give you better headlines than destroying the Handyman ever would. *if not(prepare_them)  You didn't wake up today planning to tangle with the Rangers, but since she seems to be here on her own, who are you to deny yourself a good fight? *if prepare_them  You didn't wake up today planning to tangle with the Rangers, but Lady Argent is a special case. Of all the heroes you have fought, she's the one you have judged closest to understand what is going on. To be ready to cross the line. There's no naivety in her mind, no illusion that the world is just, or that the people in power have anything but their best interest at heart.

 You could turn her. Maybe. If you play your cards right.

*if win  You beat her once, you can do it again.

*fake_choice  #"Are you going to come to the rescue of every two-bit hero in this town? Then you'll be busy."    "Are you going to come to the rescue of every two-bit hero in this town? Then you'll be busy." You straighten your back, making sure to strike a good pose for the hovering cameras.

   "Don't be absurd," she scoffs, looking as much at ease with herself as you do. "I'm not the one that set this up." She glances back at the Handyman,    *if not(handyassist)      who has pulled himself to his feet, arm wrapped around his ribs.    *if handyassist      who has stepped back, keeping the gun trained on you.    "He had a plan. I liked it."

   "It's not the first crook we've brought in together." His mouth is spotted with blood, but the grin on his face is from triumph. "I set them up, she knocks them down..."

   "...don't say it..." she mutters quietly, pressing two fingers to the bridge of her nose as he continues.

   "...gotta use the right tool for the right job." He gives her a weak little wave, before backing away behind her shielding form.

   "Why do they always feel the need to talk..." You can feel the waves of annoyance coming off her.

   "I get it," you scoff, causing her eyes to focus back on you. "He's the bait and the brains. You're just the muscle."    *if not(prepare_them)      That makes you feel a lot better about things, the last thing you need is to contend with someone else with half a brain in the Rangers. One you don't know and can't predict. Yet.    *if prepare_them      You're not sure if the statement is true, but a little bit of prodding never hurt anyone. Is Lady Argent more than a domesticated killer? Can she be more? Perhaps.    *if argent_sample      You still don't know what to make of Dr. Mortum's assessment of the sample you brought ${mhim}. Who is Lady Argent really? What is she?

   "If that's what you like to call it." She flexes her hands, the tips of her fingers elongating into her trademark razor-sharp claws. "I'm just here to bring you in."

   "Good luck with that."    *if argent_sample      Is it nails or skin that forms those claws? You've never seen her do any major shape-changing, and you didn't feel anything odd when you possessed her. Maybe if you could get a better sample you'd know more.

   "I won't need luck," she says with the sharpest of smiles, "I'm the hunter here. Not you."

 #"You know, if you wanted a fight you could just have asked," I say, cracking my knuckles.    "You know, if you wanted a fight you could just have asked," you say, cracking your knuckles. It's not even a lie, being called out for a duel might have been both flattering and a good opportunity to    *if not(prepare_them)      take her down.    *if prepare_them      test her mettle.

   "Really?" She raises her eyebrow in disbelief. "I got the impression you were afraid of a fair fight, considering your choice of opponents lately."

   "I'm willing to move you up on my list, even if I was saving the best for last." The Handyman is irrelevant. You can see him limping back behind her shielding form. He is irrelevant. She is not.    *if argent_cape      "Not to mention that I'd want my cape back."

     "It's right here." She touches the fabric almost tenderly. "All you have to do is come and get it."

     "That was the plan all along."

   "Oh that's cute, you think you're hunting me now?" Her fingertips have stretched into her trademark claws, tapping her thigh impatiently.    *if argent_sample      Is it nails or skin that forms those claws? You've never seen her do any major shape-changing, and you didn't feel anything odd when you possessed her. Maybe if you could get a better sample you'd know more.    "Come on then."

 #"All this for me? I'm flattered," I tease, glad that the helmet is hiding my smile.    "All this for me? I'm flattered," you tease, glad that the helmet is hiding your smile.

   "I am not the one that arranged this dance," she says, flexing her fingers as her razor-sharp claws starts growing.    *if argent_sample      Is it nails or skin that forms those claws? You've never seen her do any major shape-changing, and you didn't feel anything odd when you possessed her. Maybe if you could get a better sample you'd know more.

   "That would be me," the Handyman says, raising his voice. His mouth is spotted with blood, but the grin on his face is from triumph. "I knew you were looking into my business, and when I got that tip it wasn't hard to figure out that something was wrong and take relevant precautions."

   "Shut up. You're not the one I'm interested in dancing with." Your voice is a low growl. You don't like being played. Not even a little.

   "Get back," she orders, and he obeys, one limping step at a time. You can see from the way she's watching you that she's expecting you to go for him.

   "I told you I wasn't interested in him." It's a small step forward, but you can see the change it makes in her posture. "This is between us now."

   "Bold words." Her grin widens. "Come on then, let's dance."

[fallenhero-rebirth]

200 subscribers! (actually 208)

I’ve pondered long and hard what to do, and came to the realization that I did not have time to write anything since I am right now working on book two. But, I wanted to give you a bit of fun, so I went back through my archives and found some outtakes. You remember when I said that Fallen Hero was originally meant to be a novel? Well, I thought I’d share some scenes from there that hasn’t made it into the game (yet). Be warned, this is from 2011, first person, Cyrus and Yasmin, a male Ortega and Dr. Mortus (not Mortum) and in no way canon anymore. Also a lot more swearing.

Snippets under the cut:

1: Yasmin runs into problems (cut from book one)

I am insane. It’s not the first time I have thought that in the last year, and it will probably not be the last. How did I ever imagine that I could pull this off? My mind is fire and ice as I face the gun aimed at my face, but Yasmin’s lips simply curls in a smile. “This is a mistake” I assure the gun, and the masked man behind it, my voice a honeyed mumble.

“No mistake bitch” the man with the gun replies, a faceless goon with high-tech weapons that rings bells I can’t quite make sense of. In Yasmin’s body I can’t read thoughts, only the body language of a man that really doesn’t care whether I live or die. “Word has it that you were the one that made off with the Aipherion, and I’ve been hired to retrieve it.”

The gun beckons, and I take a step towards it, flirts with death and pain as I let my eyes widen a little, confusion vying with worry on my face. “I had nothing to do with that” I lie, because stealing from heroes was one thing, but the mystical gem called the Aipherion had belonged to Lord Modius, and one did not play games with him. Who had talked? Dr Mortus? It seems unlikely, if he had I would be dead already and the gem returned to its owner.

“I am sad to hear that” the goon replies, the gun never wavering from my face. It’s large, imposing, and like all guns overtly phallic. “Because my sources all point to you being involved.”

I am growing annoyed at the presence of the gun by now, so I do the only thing I can. I take a step forward and lick the tip of it, whispering into the barrel “Listen, I don’t know what magic eightball you’ve shook to have my name come up, but you are barking up the wrong tree. I’m a tech-girl; the mystical is wasted on me.” As if to prove the point I wrap my lips around the barrel and is rewarded with a shiver I can feel through my lips. I pull my head away, glistening strands of saliva still connecting me to his weapon. My smile has turned sensual, as I slide my tongue down the gun, softly stepping even closer as I nudge the weapon to the side. Sucker.

“My sources…” he starts, voice distracted, and this is the chance I need. The gun was aimed past my head now, not at it, and I move fast as a rattler as I grab his hand and punch his elbow hard enough to almost dislocate it. His words turn to a scream and the gun drops from dead fingers.

“Fuck your sources” I swear, driving my fist into his stomach as hard as I can, but he’s a big man and well armoured, and doesn’t fold like I want him to. Damn. This could be bad.

“Bitch” he growls, left hand snatching out and grabbing my hair. I should have seen that coming, but I’m not Sidestep now, I’m Yasmin. I can’t see what people will do; I am no longer three steps ahead. I am caught, and he has longer reach and is stronger than me. I am fucked. He knows it. I know it. His knee catches me in the stomach and I fold, gasping for air. “You will pay for that” he snaps, and I don’t doubt his word.

“Wait” I manage to get out before his next kick drives what air remains from my lungs. I curl up on the ground, trying to protect my face. But he leans in and traps me against the ground with a knee, slaps my face a few times hard enough to make my ears ring. He doesn’t even take fighting me seriously, and the shame of that makes my cheeks burn from embarrassment as much as pain. I feel more helpless than I’ve felt since the farm, and I want to run and hide, withdraw and leave an empty doll for him to play with. But if I do, I can’t be sure if I would find my way back to her. I would have to give up two years of plans so very close to fruition. I need her, I need my Yasmin.

“Did you have anything to say to me?” He has me pinned down now, captured beneath his weight. I don’t need my telepathy to see that he is enjoying this. That he is enjoying my swollen lip and tearful eyes. He has me now, and he knows it, his gloved left hand caressing my bruised cheek.

“I’m telling the truth” I sob, deciding to play up the fear if I can’t escape it. “I don’t have it. But I can find out. People tell me things…” it is my final gamble, to play the girl to the end. To not be important, to be pretty and smart, but never dangerous. I was not the threat; I was a norm, a tool, like his gun. A sexy girl employed by somebody, just like he was. I did not know now, but I could find out.

“I’m sorry hon, that just ain’t good enough.” He backhands me again, and I taste blood and metal as bright spots distort my vision. “Can’t take the chance of you running off to Dr Mortus for help. I don’t care what the pair of you is cooking up together, but my instructions were clear.” He reaches down and grabs my dress, my breasts spilling out as the fabric rips in his hand. The sight distracts him momentarily, and I know I won’t get another shot at this.

I yelp and move up an arm to shield my nakedness, but the moment he reaches out to grab my wrist I lash out with my other arm and jab a piece of broken bottle into the side of his thigh. It doesn’t penetrate deeply through the coveralls, but it makes him shift his weight enough for me to crawl away as he struggles to pull it out. I crawl fast, on knees and elbows with the tattered remains of my Ungaro around my waist. I don’t get far before I feel his hand around my ankle, pulling me back. I didn’t get far, but I got far enough and oh God how I enjoy the look of terrified surprise on his face when I roll over on my back and shove the gun he dropped back in his mouth. I know I should say something witty in the line of ‘suck on this’ if I want to have a future in this profession, but my hands are shaking with rage so I simply pull the trigger and nearly deafen myself at the roar the gun makes in the narrow alley. Idiot. He didn’t even have a silencer.

I lay there on the ground, his bleeding corpse draped over me, ruptured head leaking brains over the remains of my dress. I should reach for my phone and call the police; I am clearly the victim here. But that would mean more exposure than I would like. Instead I swallow my pride and calls Dr Mortus. Let the man earn his keep and damn my dignity.

2: Yasmin and Ortega at the bar (Might happen in book two)

The bar is filled with the muted hum of drunken conversation, unrecognizable through the rockabilly blare of the speakers. The green velvet seats in the booth are greasy from decades of the unwashed and uncaring, and the light that filters down, does so through a haze of cigarette smoke. In a corner two men in purple suits are having a pantomime argument, while the hunched bear of a man at the bar hides his gang colors under an oversized trench coat. I don’t even want to know what else he has under there.

I shouldn’t throw stones.

We must be quite a sight where we sit in our booth. A bedraggled young woman in ill-fitting lab clothes and messy hair, and a middle-aged hispanic man in blue coveralls and stolen wellingtons. Honestly, it’s a miracle that we’re sitting here at all; I didn’t expect to escape from Dr. Mortus lab this easily. Granted, Liz had told me that he was gone for a few days, but in the back of my mind I expected him to pop up behind us with a plasma cannon just as we were getting out of there. He probably didn’t think I would try to escape. Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he trusted me. Maybe he really wanted to help. Or maybe we were lucky. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Ortega keeps staring at me in silence, and I keep the gun aimed at him under the table.

In front of us, both our beers remain untouched.

Not that anybody cares to take a closer look at us. That is the reason I dragged Ortega here at gunpoint. It is one of the many villain bars I combed through before settling on Joe’s as my favored haunt. This one, aptly named Garage Sale, always felt too low-brow. The people I wanted to meet didn’t go here; this is a place for the down and out, for the upwardly mobile henchmen and supervillains on the skids. In here, nobody cares and nobody smiles. Neither do we.

“All I have to do is make one phone call and you’ll be safe.” Ortega does his best to sound calm and convincing, but he just doesn’t look he part right now. His age has caught up to him and weights heavy on his brow, black rings shadow his eyes and he’s mottled with bruises where he had been hooked up to Dr. Mortus generator. That is the only reason I’m able to threaten him at all, his powers still hadn’t recharged, and for the moment he’s just as ordinary as I am.

But I have the gun.

“I won’t go back to jail,” I reply, my voice as cold as my face. I have no idea what I am supposed to do now, my brain has locked itself into a death spiral, and I don’t know how to get out of it. The crash seems inevitable, and the ground is painted with prison bars. That’s why we ended up in this bar; I needed someplace safe and neutral, somewhere where nobody would care or ask questions. And Cyrus would never come here. At least I hope that whoever stole his body still has an interest in keeping up the charade that he is a good guy. It’s too valuable to waste. I hope.

“It was a hospital, not a jail,” Ortega tries, raising the beer to his lips for the first time since we got here. As he moves he makes me tense up and I clench the gun harder, which makes him tense up, and the beer shivers a moment before he puts it down again. Very gently.

“It would have been. Once I’d recovered and given up whatever information I had. I’m not stupid, I know how this works.”

“Why do you still protect him? You said it yourself, the Annihilist threatened you, and you had no choice.” I almost feel sorry for Ortega, it is obvious that he wants to believe that so badly.

“It’s… complicated,” I sigh, the gun heavy in my hand. Part of me wants to let it go, wants to just confess and ask for help. I think I need it. But I know it’s never that easy. If I told Ortega about Cyrus, about who I am and what I did, would he believe me? Even if he did, he would be disgusted. I am not a victim, I’m a villain, and my acts are conscious choices. Nobody holds a gun to my head.

“Life is complicated,” Ortega finally admits, looking into my eyes. “I don’t believe you are an evil woman. You didn’t have to rescue me; you could just as easily have left me there.”

I could just as easily have killed him too. That would have simplified things. The thought nauseates me, so I distract myself with words. “It’s just that…” I have lowered the gun now, but he doesn’t know that. “It’s not loyalty, but you’re asking me to give up my life and my freedom. You can’t stop him, I’ll either end up in jail for what I’ve done, or I’ll end up dead. I don’t think he’d let me live through a plea bargain.”

“And what if you go back to him? Do you think he would ever trust you again?” His words hit too close to home, even if it is for the wrong reasons. I hope it doesn’t show. Because he is right, I can never return to what I was. Not without a means to get my body back. And to pull that off I need contacts and friends. I just crossed Dr. Mortus of the rapidly shrinking list. Ortega is about the only one left. The one bridge I’m finding it hard to burn.

“I can’t go back, but I can’t go to jail either,” I repeat, as if words would somehow fix the world. The situation is rapidly turning into one of those nightmares where it’s just too hard to continue to struggle. It’s much easier to just go limp, roll over, pretend to be unconscious and accept what is coming to you. But in this nightmare, I am the one holding the gun. I am still in control.

Things change so quickly.

“Hey, isn’t that Charge?” Words strike like a lightning bolt from a clear sky, and suddenly all eyes are on us.

“I always said you were an idiot for not wearing a mask,” I snap without thinking. Cyrus’ words from Yasmin’s lips, but there is no time for more than a confused look on Ortega’s face. I’m on my feet with the gun pointed at the men that spotted us, but a well aimed bottle from the bar knocks it out of my hand.

All hell breaks loose.

Ortega is on his feet and we’re back to back against the surging bar. It’s late enough for most of the patrons to be desperately drunk, trying to escape from the drudgery of their existence. But they are many, and I’m just happy that Ortega holds his own, because giving up is not an option. I knee a CerberUS henchman in the groin, slipping sideways as he crumbles. Ortega matches my step; moving into the spot that I left. I had forgotten how good it felt to have someone watch your back.

Someone you trust.

I am no longer a telepath, but apparently my reflexes are not gone. A movement in the corner of my eye makes me turn; reaching up to grab the descending arm before I even register what happened. His lack of balance makes it easy to turn his punch into a throw that sends him flying over a table. Bottles crash like firework.

I had forgotten how much I missed this.

I break into a smile as I break someone’s nose, the bottle splintering in my hand. People back away from my broken bottle, and I laugh in their faces, bolstered by the feeling of Ortega behind me, his back against mine. Then a sense of fearsome urgency hits me.

I’m not sure what it is that makes me push back hard enough to topple us both, but we hit the floor a moment before the blast hits the spot we just left. Suddenly the booth is on fire, the air aglow in freakish colors and I’m crawling for my life beneath the tables. The gloves have come off and the powers brought out, and if you shouldn’t drive drunk you probably shouldn’t wield biogenic flame or solid light constructs while wasted either. People are screaming, someone is on fire, the fight is escalating and it’s everyone against everyone.

At least until someone remembers that this wasn’t just about venting their frustrations, it’s about kicking a hero when he’s down and they can reach him. I watch Ortega disappear under a pile of has-beens wishing for a starring role in the story of Charge’s defeat. I don’t think I screamed his name out loud, and even if I did, nobody heard me amidst the chaos. I scramble free from the broken table I’d been hiding under just in time to dodge and shield my eyes as every single light in the bar explodes in a shower of sparks and glass. The mob around Ortega falls away, twitching and screaming as if they’d just pissed on the third rail. I am probably imagining the ozone, there’s no way that could ever overpower the stench of cheap alcohol, unwashed bodies and voided bowels.

Ortega untangles himself, pale blue lightning arcing between his body and the now empty sockets. The room is dark, but his eyes are throwing sparks. He’s shed the guise that he belonged here, another has-been slumming with the losers. Suddenly nobody seems eager to continue the fight.

“I think we will be leaving now,” he says, gesturing in my direction. Nobody protests. I straighten my back and walks out with Ortega, my hair alive with static electricity. My skin tingles from his aura, but I don’t bat an eyelash until we’re well outside the door.

And gone.

Two blocks of frantic running later we’re both out of breath, and Ortega looks less than imposing as he leans against a dumpster.

“Would you please accept my invitation and stay in my apartment at least? I’ve had enough excitement for one night,” he gasps.

“Not one night. Weeks. Technically you’ve been a captive for a couple of weeks,” I say, because I realized he had probably no idea how much time that had passed. My hair is tangled and sticking to my face so I wipe it back with a look of disgust.

“Weeks. Right. That’s good to know.” Ortega takes a step back from the dumpster; the smell coming from it is not pleasant now that he had regained his breath.

“Your powers. How long has it been since they recharged?” I’m through resisting the inevitable, but I need to know.

“On the way to the bar. I borrowed a jolt from a badly insulated lamppost.” Ortega looks sheepish, as if he was a bit ashamed of his subterfuge.

“So you could have taken the gun from me at any point?”

“You… looked like you needed it. I didn’t want to push you into doing something rash.”

I nod, defeated. “That was probably very smart. I meant what I said; I won’t go back to jail.”

“It won’t be jail. It’s just my apartment. You can leave at any time, but I really wish you wouldn’t. You’re too interesting to end up just another statistic.”

“Thanks. I think. Just don’t tell anybody I’m there.” It sounds more like begging than an order, even though the ‘please’ remains unsaid, sticking in my throat. “I need time to think. Time to make my own choices.”

“I won’t tell anybody. I promise. I respect that you need time. Do we have a deal then?” He holds out his hand, battered and bleeding from the fight.

The sad thing is, I believe him. I know how this works, the sympathetic ear, the understanding friend. You catch more flies with honey and all that. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve let him save me enough time in the past that one more time won’t make a difference. It’s the least painful of my choices, so I sigh “deal,” then grabs his hand and shakes it.

Probably a little too manly again, because he gives me another look.

This won’t end well.