#about Ortega being the one who helped Sidestep get their original suit during the vigilante days

[antisocialxconstruct]

slaps my hands against my keyboard for a couple hours trying to extract a conversation that’s been floating half-formed in my head for like a month

1.3k, super duper early Sidestep days, no warnings just canon-typical Chargestep banter lmao

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The commotion behind him fades into a dull murmur as he turns a corner, finally exhaling a long, slow breath. The media presence for something like this is bound to be minimal–a new villain, not even secure enough in their own gimmick to pull it off, might make page three just on the merit of a Ranger being first on the scene–but the police who arrived to mop everything up are the far greater concern. Maksim’s already been on the receiving end of their inclination not to draw hard lines between a criminal and an unmarked vigilante.

Best to just remove himself before anyone gets confused.

He leaves his hood up as he walks but tugs the makeshift mask down to breathe in the unfiltered air. Dry, hot even in the long early evening shadows, but the acrid taste of dust and car exhaust is slightly less pungent this far from the main streets. City air. He would add nothing to it by lighting a cigarette, but he’s just digging into his coat for the pack when he hears a voice raised behind him.

“Hey! Stop!”

He immediately breaks into a faster clip without looking back, scanning the path ahead for a route he can duck down. The streets are all but abandoned but maybe the call wasn’t even aimed at him, if someone’s attention had become focused on him he would have-

Hurried footfalls coming up fast behind him scatter that bit of hope and in a burst of panic he pulls the mask back up over his nose and takes off down the quietest street he can spot. This is a commercial area, there are no dark, grimy alleys to disappear into, just quaint little walking paths and sandwich boards and glass-topped tables. Before a hiding spot can present itself a hand closes around Maksim’s wrist and flight shifts instantly and effortlessly into fight as he turns, breaks the assailant’s grip with a twist of his arm that flows into a fighting stance.

And he’s face to face with Charge, standing there a little wide-eyed with his hands placatingly raised. There’s a jacket over his skinsuit now, breaking up and softening the toned muscle of his silhouette a little, making him look just a little less combat ready. But it’s still emblazoned with the Rangers’ trademark palette and logo to eliminate any possible ambiguity about its wearer.

It takes a beat for Maksim’s rational brain to catch up from where he left it a block or so down the street. When it does he lowers his guard, but he still doesn’t fully relax. He can’t, not really. It makes sense now, the fact that he didn’t realize someone was following him. It could only be Charge, in that case. It doesn’t put him any more at ease to be reminded there’s someone he can’t read and can’t seem to avoid.

Charge is the one to finally break the standoff, stepping back and letting his own posture relax as he remarks, “is this how all our non-battlefied meetings are going to go?”

Maksim wills himself to mirror the other man’s stance as best he can, but he can’t keep the edge out of his voice when he answers. “If you’re sneaking up on me every time it is.”

“Sorry.” The apology seems genuine enough, as does the meek smile Charge offers along with it. “For the record I appreciate you not trying to break my arm this time.”

“There’s still time,” Maksim mutters. He might not have meant it as a genuine threat, but he still resents the light chuckle it earns from Charge, and he resents all the more that it tugs a smile out of him in return. Behind the mask, at least. He reaches up to touch the edge of it where it rests on the bridge of his nose, just for a second, just to reassure himself. Plausible deniability. “Do you have a reason for tailing me through darkened streets? The fight is over.” His gaze wanders briefly to the left and right. He wants to keep walking, work out the sudden tension now coiled up through his limbs. But he doesn’t want to turn his back on Charge.

“Did you want to keep moving?” Charge asks, and Maksim’s attention snaps back to him in an instant. Unpleasantly perceptive. That’s not fair.

“No,” he lies.

“Well I did actually want to talk to you,” Charge continues, making no attempt to press the issue. “I’d been hoping I’d catch you at another scene.” As he speaks he’s rifling through the pockets of his coat, until he pulls out a bulging white envelope.

“It’s a shame LD’s finest can’t handle something like this on their own,” Maksim remarks, the needling almost a secondary impulse at this point. His attention is locked onto the envelope now, trying to assess it, guess its contents from the shape alone.

“Lots of things are just more fun with a partner.” The tone of Charge’s voice makes it feel like the comment came with a wink. Maksim wasn’t looking, and now he doesn’t know for sure. “And if you and I are going to be working as partners then I want to help you out.”

He thrusts the envelope out and Maksim recoils from it on instinct, his eyes darting from it up to Charge’s face and back. He didn’t even have time to protest the assignment of ‘partner.�� “What is that?” he asks.

“It’s… money,” Charge replies hesitantly, with an expression Maksim is struggling to place. A smile, but one he seems reluctant to wear too openly. Maybe he thinks Maksim’s paranoia is funny. Maybe he feels bad about that. When Maksim still doesn’t make a move to accept the offer he presses on doggedly, “I’ve seen you fight, you clearly have a knack for this. I’ve also seen you take some hits that make my bones ache just thinking about them. I figured if you could get your hands on some real gear it might keep you in the game longer.” Another beat. “I… also threw in contact info for a tailor who can source some of the same stuff we wear and won’t ask too many questions. Called in a favor.”

Maksim is still staring hard at the envelope. It feels… dangerous. It feels like a trap. Sure maybe four layers of mismatched sportswear and a pocket knife isn’t the most refined kit for a vigilante, but he’s gotten by. He’s still in one piece. “I don’t need your charity,” he says. I don’t need to be indebted to you.

“It’s not- it’s a gift.” That doesn’t seem to strike the note Charge was hoping for, so he tries again. “It’s a… an investment? For both our sakes. We can always use more good people on the streets.”

Maksim doesn’t believe that for a second. There’s nothing impersonal about this, this isn’t a calculated move for his own benefit or the kind of gesture he’d make to just anyone. A discreet tailor, because Maksim has been so secretive about his identity. Cash, probably small bills, in case Maksim doesn’t have a bank account. And he keeps changing his story, trying to figure out what will make Maksim say yes. He sighs, dares to glance over his shoulder for just a second before facing Charge again. “If I take the money will you let me go home?”

“Sure, that seems like a fair trade.” Still joking, even when he’s got Maksim backed into a metaphorical corner.

With a muttered curse Maksim snatches the envelope out of Charge’s hand and turns on his heel as fast as he can manage. Still not fast enough to avoid feeling like a bear trap has just snapped closed around him.