#but yeah i think this all started with me thinking 'i wonder how mortum knew what antoine wanted his armour to look like'

[punkranger]

@achilleanwizard here's an example of an Antoine sketch page! Like this one, his sketches usually consist of: silly drawings of the Rangers (mostly Ortega because how can he not make fun of him), cats or other animals he's seen that day, other things like armour concepts, random squiggles that he just colours or turns into some sort of fucked up city (which is sort of a reflection of how I imagine his mindscape looks like) - and if he has the time/got markers or something close by he'll colour it all in every colour

[whalesfallmoved]

soft descent

Wedding vows for the dead. Neither of you ever had a chance. 

chargestep. rated m. twisted memories and revenge and nightmares of all kinds and ricardo ortega, starring as sidestep’s poorly repressed self-doubt, in a manner of speaking. 

or, sidestep sees nothing clearly, and her head has never been a pleasant place to be.

warnings: implications of suicide, slight body horror, violence, injury. hurt, without comfort, because of course. 

ao3 link.

——

“Oof, that’s going to leave a mark.”

You’re standing next to the window in the dark the sun blistering overhead and the glass shattered underfoot. He’s looking down. You’re looking at him. It’s always been like that. When you look down you’ll see— no. You’re not going to look down. You’re going to look at him.

“It didn’t feel great.”

He smiles and it’s broken, one hand on the windowsill, one hand on his gut where Catastrofiend’s goodbye kiss drips slowly, wetly, a splash of violence against the cobalt blue skinsuit, Ranger-proud. You want to say you should get that looked at but it wouldn’t do any good, he’s already gotten blood all over the carpet. 

Soft laugh and when he licks his lips you can see a hint of red, waiting to get coughed up, waiting to get expelled, the body killing itself to save itself—you remember the way it stuck between your fingers, the delirium—beg, the monster-thing demanded, and he laughed then too.

You look down at your hands. The way they curl up, clinging to air.

Are you bleeding? You must be. 

“Yeah, I know all about that.” 

“No,” you shake your head and your spine pops, “you don’t.”

“What, are we comparing jumps now?” 

“Are we?” wouldn’t that be something. He never talked about this before, why start now? Trying to get you to forgive him? You won’t.

“It was a longer drop.”

“And there were people there to help you.”

“Depends on your definition of help.” Head jerk to the side, beckoning you to look, look down, look at them, look at you. “Technically, they helped you too.”

Bite down, taste blood and bile. Have you started choking yet down there? You remember the way it sluiced up your throat, the way you could feel the crack and splinter of your ribcage. His brows furrow a little and maybe he feels bad. You hope so. You hope it’s twisting him up inside. 

“Wish they’d helped me to the morgue.”

Exhale, ragged and wet and torn. 

“Yeah, those contracts are a bitch, huh? Nothing like a blood debt.”

“What, you want me to feel bad for you?” You taunt, vision hazy bones aching— pulse in your ribs, they must have picked you up by now, isn’t that nice. He’s still looking down, waiting for something to happen. “Poor Ricardo. The US government branded on his ass till the day he dies. Join the fucking club.”

“Hey—” he hisses, flashing his eyes to you finally, “you could pretend to sympathize.”

“I’m so sorry you have posters and trading cards and get invited to award ceremonies and—”

“Oh, I knew I have trading cards, but how did you know I have trading cards,” a wink, sly, charming and wrong, like a bone splitting the skin. “Collecting them, aren’t you?”

“You wish.”

You want to throw up. His neck is bruised. 

He sighs, knocks his fist against the window. You both flinch. “They’re gonna keep you going till you’ve got nothing left to give, you know.”

And this time it’s your turn to laugh, bitter and cruel and serrated. You want to twist the knife in his gut you want to rake your nails down his skin, it’s the least- it’s the least you can do, god you are so angry you shake, but you’ve always been good at staying still. Hold your breath, don’t scream, fuck that hurts, and now he’s looking at you full on. “I’m already out. No thanks to you.”

Maybe he sees the way your hands are starting to twitch. The smile softens and you want to kiss-bite-punch it bruise blue to match his stupid fucking suit. 

“Are you?”

Are.

You?

I am.

Am I?

A snake in your throat curling up ready to snap bite. Your lips twist, scene hazy at the edges, and when you get your hands around his neck (oh those are the bruises, they look like your hands) you’ll both be sorry—“fuck off.”

Magic words.

Ortega shrugs, pushes the window open like it doesn’t matter, like it didn’t matter, like he can just do that; he always had to make it about himself, can’t even leave you your death, can’t even leave you your place at the window. 

You want to shove him away from it.

You want to shove him through it. 

“If you insist.”

Close your eyes.

One.

Two.

Three.

—

Dr. Mortum does not smile, not until Angel flashes her a wicked grin and a bag of cash and a promise of more where that came from if— if— if—

She flips through the schematics, eyes brightening—the loose design, the necessities, the ideas—oh, you are going to do such great things together. 

“It can be done, I assure you.”

“Excellent. My employer wants nothing but the best.”

— 

The sound of waves takes the edge off the thump of a corpse hitting the ground, but you aren’t ready for it—you aren’t ready for the scent of rotting meat, rancid and cloying under the Los Diablos sun.

You open your eyes and when you look down, a dead girl is mangled, half gone. You think— she almost looks like your target. 

Huh.

“That’s a bad idea, you know.”

Voice soft prying you know it and you groan, twist, turn, the sand uneven and blood-splattered. 

He’s got that loose hold, hip jutted on a rock arms crossed, too casual for the teething gore surrounding them. Suit torn and eaten at, blood drip-drip-dripping down his arm where the skin is all gone, you keep waiting for them to crawl through the sand and eat you both alive. Maybe you won’t save him this time. 

“Which one?” You ask, and when you look down you’re in the old suit, fitted like an infected wound. You yank at the collar, touch your cheek, your face— you’d covered your face here, hadn’t you? Yes. 

He smiles. Shakes his head. 

He hadn’t let them touch you, even when you collapsed, even when they wanted to help. 

Not that it matters. None of it matters anymore.

“So you do care about my opinion?” 

“No,” you murmur, choking down a gag—dead meat, food for the nanovores, food for the flies, “but that’s never stopped you before.”

“True,” he winks, running through the motions; what you remember, what you want to forget. Oh god you want to forget. You want to peel back this body and dig into the marrow and pull, pull, pull until the memories unravel in streams of violent orange. 

He pushes off the rock, kicks his long legs out and walks too easily for a man that almost got eaten alive five minutes ago. “Walk with me?” He asks the way you don’t ask, you order, and throws his wounded arm over your shoulder, locking you hip to hip, no way out. 

You sink under the weight, slotted to his side like a mismatched puzzle piece. Nothing about you fits, disjointed, dislocated. You’ve been shaped wrong for a long time now. They didn’t put all the parts back right. A doll unstitched and gutted for parts, but they didn’t— did they recycle you? Just medical waste and scars.

“You take me to the nicest places,” you say because it’s the only thing you can say when the sky looks like God wrapped his big meaty fist around it so tightly till it swelled and pinkened. 

Black clouds on the skyline. Here they come. Don’t they know how strong you are now? How many webs you can weave? You crack your knuckles and almost smile.

Then you see: Tía Elena crosses herself in the background. She shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe. Why haven’t they evacuated all the civilians?

“Well, you never let me take you anywhere else,” he huffs, ignoring his mother as they walk on by, and that’s not— that’s not right? 

It— no. You don’t want to be here. You can’t do that to him, not even now. 

— 

Fuck that’s good you’re invincible. The reckoning day is coming and when it does you’ll watch out for this one, you’ll remember her, how it felt to sit in her skin and move under it, but she can’t stop you. None of them can stop you now.

You smile and it’s sharp and cruel and silver. You almost almost almost want him to show up but the victory wouldn’t be quite as sweet, and you don’t really want to take a lightning bolt to the chest. Even if it wouldn’t slow you down, it’d still fucking hurt. 

But it doesn’t matter. When you drive your foot into the golden boy’s chest you can feel his ribs crack a little bit and that’s even better. You’ll be riding the high of that for weeks after this. He’s a kicked puppy and you want— you want to kick him again, but there’s no time for that, no time for anything. 

You wonder if Steel recognizes the grin right before you drop her like a body bag.

—

Gasp—jump spin dodge—near miss, fuck—Ortega laughed at the start but he’s not laughing anymore, smoke on the air, electricity crackling over his skin. 

Fire off at its head one two, one miss, one hit. Head jerks, twists.

The thing-beast groans— don’t look at me i’m not here don’t look— “yOu...” guttural ugly it sees you, it sees you.

Run run run don’t touch me— “Noa!” He shouts and you stop drop and roll just in time for a blade to swing down, headsman’s axe, grazing the suit but not quite touching. Space where your body was empty, and it howls rage-snap.

“Mother— fucker!”

This. This you remember.

You remember the way its mind shucked the skin off your bones, all slick-blood drip drip drip. Gory, wrong, wound over wire, dirty fingernails scraping on the myelin, eating eating down down down— you remember: if you let it in it’ll kill you, cut your throat on its twisty edge thoughts as quick as a knife in hand. 

You remember the images in your head— its plans, its ideas, the ways it was going to ply and split him down the middle like a rotten fruit. You couldn’t look at him for weeks. Almost. He was almost.

Almost.

Blink and the scene changes, and backup’s arrived, and you’re holding onto him, your mind pressed up against ITS just enough to make you both disappear. You threw up again and again afterward, but you still couldn’t forget, oil-slick. 

not here we’re not here don’tlookatus

Then: you covered the wound with your own hands. 

Now: you tilt your head to the side, pet his hair. It still doesn’t hurt as bad as the final impact, hitting the ground, or what came next. Suck it up. 

“I told you,” he slurs, eyes half-mast, must be hazy from the blood loss. The human body can only take so much, even with the cutting edge mods. “I know all about that.”

“You don’t know anything. You don’t know anything at all.”

Hand over wound, you push down and he groans. You might as well save him again. You still haven’t had that showdown, and you’re gunning for a win. A dozen to one then, but you’ve gotten better, faster, smarter, your body catching up with your thoughts, and he doesn’t think at all. Doesn’t even matter if he did, you wouldn’t be able to hear it. 

“C’mon, Noa,” that’s not your name, that’s the name he gave you—your name is a mouthful, he’d grinned and you’d rolled your eyes and flushed, but now it sticks like a stove burn—numbers and names and Noa, Noa, no one else has ever gotten close enough to name you— fuck you. “Throw me a bone here.”

“No.”

“Fine.” he gasps, chokes, but the words still spill loose, “but you can’t hate me for what you didn’t tell me.” He says, sounding so fucking reasonable while he’s bleeding out on your lap, and now you definitely have to save him, now you definitely have to make sure he lives, just so you can level him for that alone. Just wait, a feeling builds up in your chest, his day is coming and it’s coming fast.

“Don’t tell me what I can’t hate you for.” You want to snarl, a fighting dog, a dog fit for the ring, but it comes out weak, threadbare, and you hate the way your hands shake, the way your throat hardens up and each word is estranged from your mouth.

“At least give me a chance to prove you wrong.”

“Why?” Is that your voice? Small and weak, a child learning to make a fist, thumb tucked in. But you were never a child. You were never small.

“You know me,” he punches out a laugh and it breaks like a sob, “I love a challenge.”

“This isn’t a challenge, Ricardo. There’s just nothing left.”

—

He.

“November?”

He is.

“I thought you were dead—”

Older. Different. That feels wrong, wrong. He should be the same he can’t have changed that much. Fuck that moustache is ridiculous. He looks so heavy with grief, or is that just you, reflected back? A labyrinth of static. 

It’s all blurry and too much, not enough, but maybe— for a moment— for a moment everything shatters, fingers under a suture, and maybe— it’s just a flash of his eyes, real and in front of you and not blurred by a late night show or security footage fight you only watched to make sure he still leads with his left sucker punch with his right and maybe— 

“Are you still a telepath?”

You say yes and feel like a fool and you tell him a dash of the truth and you feel like a wound and you can’t hate me for what you didn’t tell me.

Your hands are shaking. You make a fist. 

He wants— he wants something.

A raw crack down your spine and you smile and it feels wrong. Maybe it looks wrong. He won’t stop watching you like you’ll disappear if he blinks more than once, if he looks away, and maybe you will. Maybe you’re just ash and graveyard dirt held together with sutures and wire. 

You want to crawl through the floor to someplace small and dark and cold where no one will ever find you again.

You tell him just enough, just enough to keep on hating him. 

It’ll be easier that way.

—

Rewind.

“That’s a bad idea, you know.” He cackles as you thrust out a punch—miss—and dodge his return, feet sliding on the mat. You can’t believe you let him talk you into this, a friendly spar on Ranger soil.

“Which one?” Thrust dodge lock your ankle around his own, slipping up letting you get close like that, rookie mistake— twist of your hip— throw! and the satisfying slap of skin on the mat, his skin, his body hitting the ground, but he holds hard and pulls you down with him (if you go i go) and you land— oof! breathless and grinning and on top, finally, finally.

Fingers lock and you shift, thighs on either side, pin him down, his emitters humming biting pinching but you got him, and you aren’t letting go. A shiver skip-dances down your spine, static-charged.

“I win,” you growl, a winner’s grin biting into your cheeks, free and loose (where’s your mask?)

He squeezes your hand, sends a low-grade jolt up your palms sharp, just to see what you’ll do, jellyfish stings, and you squeeze back harder, lean down till you can feel his breath hot on your lips. You never got this close before, he’s so solid beneath you.

Ricardo, grinning back, a halo of black curls fanned out, sticking to his brow all slick with sweat, “what is that, a dozen to one?”

“Shut up,” he can’t take this from you, not yet, “don’t be a sore loser.”

“Actually, I’m enjoying myself quite a bit right now. I should let you win more often.”

“Fuck you,” but it tears out a laugh far too sweet for your mouth. You feel segmented and gentle, like a scorpion smashed on a rock left out to rot in the sun. Maybe he’ll take you home, run his fingers through your matted hair and not mind the stingers or the venom. You weren’t made for a laughter light like this, and if there was ever a time you could be it’s long gone now, but you still want him to touch you, a want like a scar healed wrong.

“Buy me dinner first— ah!” You let go just to crack your palm against the top of his head, anything to wipe that smug edge off, and— “okay, fine, I’ll buy dinner,” but this time when your hand comes down he catches it, brings it to his lips, soft on your palm— oh god, oh god it hurts. 

“And then what?” You dare, you gasp, you’ve never been that bold—couldn’t afford boldness, always a coward at heart and that’s how he always won, but for a moment you let your fingers curl along his cheekbone. His eyes slide closed, kissing still—dart of tongue, tracing the line of your palm. How long is my life? How many children will I have? What do the cracks in the skin say? Maybe his mouth can divine something human in the shape of your hand, even if the lines there aren’t really yours, just a thing they gave you to play pretend.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, still not giving you his gaze, a pained crush to his brow, “you did ask me to take you somewhere nice.”

“Did I?”

“Don’t you remember?” 

“Liar. I never asked you to do anything.”

He smiles right on your skin, like a knife sliding under your gut—girl/deer, splayed out on the slaughterhouse floor of his kindness. The world hazes at the edges, curling up set aflame. 

Somewhere nice. Too bad it can’t last. 

Finally. Finally he looks at you. Sees you. How long has it been since someone hasn’t stared through?

“No, you didn’t. I wish you would have.”

—

Choking hard gasp and the phone screams or maybe you do. Your teeth throb.

The room is heavy dark save for the corners of curtained sunlight peeking through, the air scented thickly of cheap candles and candy wrappers. The sheets are sweat-slick and you can smell your own skin, the rawness of sleep on it. Musky. Unsterilized. 

The fabric sticks and itches. Fingers under the hem, you toss the sweater aside, hear it thump damply against a wall.

Breathe. Hand to chest and yes, that’s your heart, rocking in your rib cage, slowing down. You breathe with in—ten—tion. 

One. 

Two. 

Three.

Okay, you’re okay. You can do this. You can still do this.

—

“I don’t want to do this here.”

He holds out a plate of food, tilts his head to the side, the corners of his mouth twitching up. Pushes the plate into your hands, and you take it—just hold out something to someone and nine times out of ten they’ll take it without thinking, asking only after they’ve agreed to carry the burden.  

Silly you, you never had a choice. 

His apartment is soft and safe around the edges, and your heart gets sticky in your chest. You think maybe those are your books on his shelf, the ones you lost after—

“What’s wrong with here?” He shrugs, brushing past toward the table, beckoning you to follow with a grin and a nudge.

“I like it here.” You answer honestly, for once, and he beams, a light bright enough to burn.

“I know.”

“So why are you ruining it?”

“Ruining it?” Hurt. Smile gone.

“Take me somewhere else. Anywhere else.” Somewhere cruel and sharp as a scalpel to the throat. Psychopather or Overlord or the dilapidated construction ruin you jumped out of at the second story and broke your wrist because you made a deal— you agreed to a dare— race you to the bottom down the stairs— if you lose you have to answer my questions— and god, you didn’t want to answer anything, anything at all, and he’d screamed your name, cursed you out, told you don’t be an idiot what if you broke your neck and flinched when you snapped I was just following your lead. 

“I can’t,” he shakes his head and you have to sit down, set the plate on the table before you drop it, wouldn’t want to break the fine china. Did his mother give him this? You think so; he’d taken such care, stacking each plate freshly hand washed before putting them away.

“Liar.”

“Not this time,” a loaded smile, a loaded gun, his fork twirls around on his plate. Shadow of a wrist and a vague gesture to the seams of the scenery. “This is all you. Your shape. What you made. I’m just along for the ride.”

“Then I’m not staying.”

Shrug again. Why won’t he do anything else? A looped tape, a slight glitch. Something’s wrong.

You’re wrong, maybe.

“Not even for dinner?”

You stand up. Pace. There are plans— things to be done— finishing touches— you can’t stay here. You can’t. 

“What do you want, Noa?” He asks, so softly, so gently, it would be kinder if he killed you there, but you know he won’t; it’ll take a lot more than bad table manners to push him to that, but maybe you can do it. Maybe you can get him a little ruthless, even more desperate. You’ve seen it before, in flashes, coiling green under his skin. Won’t it be funny if he breaks before you do? No blood on your hands, not yet. What a record. Fitting, almost. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Are you hungry?”

“Why?”

“Hard to work on an empty stomach,” he shrugs again, fuck, stop doing that. Bare feet silent on the carpet and you find yourself back at the table, back in the chair, sitting across from him and there’s nowhere to go—

Blink.

Sterile antiseptic white walls and doctors— in your apartment— your neighbor? Yes, that’s your neighbor he accused you of staring once, the fuck are you lookin’ at? And you weren’t staring, at least not like that, but it took a soft nudge of don’t look at me for him to go all the same. Strange. You didn’t think a doctor would live here. It’s a bad side of town, but it’s good for sidestepping. 

You think: I am going to wake up now.

Wait. No. You say this out loud. It comes through with the wet ache of drowning. 

No. Wait. Your words roll back down your throat—you didn’t say it. You didn’t say anything at all. You never have. 

All the words roll in but they’re not yours you’re fit to burst. 

It must be nice being able to speak. 

Not here.

Maybe that’s what it is to be human. 

Get real, you think because you stick your fingers in a few skulls and cut your teeth on some gray matter while someone thinks about love you know what being human is? 

I could. I could know.

They gave you a tongue and mouth and lips but you can’t kiss and you can’t make words, you can only patch together the syntax, call it real, call it human—but when you speak it’s always going to be with someone else’s voice, strangled out.

The walls are whiter now and the lights slice your skin like a hot knife through butter. It isn’t a cliff but a door you’ve already walked through and the ocean inside the warehouse inside the apartment is now a table with handcuffs. His table. Her table. You jerk your wrists and the metal clanks hard and fuck no not here not here please take me back i’m sorry i want to go back—

(he’s coming to get you)

(he wouldn’t leave you here)

(no time for the dramatics ricardo just get the door let’s blow this popsicle stand)

She smiles at you from across that metal table (wait) and tells you that you are never going to die (stop) because to die you have to be alive (i am i am i?) and you should know better by now we are going to do such great things together (please)

aren’t we, 

aren’t we, 

aren’t we.

aren’t i?

wake up now- i want to— please. 

��

You’re alone in the dark, the armor fits perfectly, and that’s all that matters.

(when you become a casualty revoked from the grave get ready a revenant coming back to eat them alive oh oh oh just you wait) 

You think you’ll keep the name.

(sidestep and charge reunited again you can see the headlines now and fuck you can’t wait to see the look on his face you were always a pair maybe he’ll stop you wouldn’t that be something)

You don’t sleep.

— 

He doesn’t stop you. 

—

“Noa?”

“Yes?”

“You are... fine, right?”

 “What are you talking about?”

“You’d tell me if something was wrong?”

“Of course I would.”

—

Your dreams are filmy, cracked wombs of (not not not) memories and gummy tissue. Press on it too hard and it moves back just the same but with a muscle deep ache. At least you know it’s a dream this time, and when you go up the stairs and find him there, you don’t hiss or spit or curse. You’ve done enough of that. He’ll carry the scars to prove it.

He’s looking out the window. He’s looking at you.

No, he’s looking at you. You flinch and you don’t know why.

“Really? Even here?”

“What?”

“Take the mask off at least. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen your pretty face.”

You reach up and your fingers find hard armor, not supple skinsuit. When you look back his face is different, older, not the poster-ready Marshal but aged, aching, and you ache with it, bone-deep. 

You’re so tired. You wonder if he is too.

The helmet comes off. Drops with a thump. 

You go to the window. After all, there’s nowhere else left, and he asked so nicely.

“What do we do now?” You ask, so softly. Still can’t look outside. Still don’t want to see what he sees. Better to watch him watch you. Now that you’re on the other side of things, you prefer it when you’re the one doing the bleeding—what a thing.

“I don’t know,” a laugh a sob or something in between, he crosses his arms and turns away, turns toward you. “Did you ever figure out what you want?”

“Yeah.”

You blink and he’s himself again, younger, more angular, a grin fit for the big screen on his handsome, handsome face. It’s easier to talk to him like this, the way you remember, the way it should be. Time didn’t move while you were gone, and you’re the only one still snapped in half.

A pause. Are you smiling now? It must be a sad little thing though, because his eyes soften up and a frown mars his forehead.

“I want to watch you grow old.” 

“What, so you can keep on teasing me? That never stopped you before.”

“Shut up, I’m not done yet.” you whisper, stepping forward, stepping up to the cliff’s edge.

“I want to watch you grow old,” reaching for his hand, and he lets you have them both, cradled so carefully—and your gloves are black and armored and insulated, but not the most protected part of your body. Could he kill you with a surge? Maybe. “And I want to watch you die in a bed. Your bed.”

“A little morbid,” he murmurs but you’ve got to keep going, you’ve got to get it out, because once it’s out you’ll never have to look at it again. “But I guess that tracks.”

Turn over his hands, you thumb at his emitters. Hint of a spark, and you laugh and now it’s sob, now it’s a wound. You won’t look at him. “I want to watch the arthritis take your hands and I want to take you away from this fucking city and we’ll both be so bored out of our minds, we’ll start inventing problems just to fix them.”

“Careful, Noa,” hands turn over, running up your armored wrists, grasping at your forearms. “That almost sounds like a happy ending.”

Wedding vows for the dead. Neither of you ever had a chance. You don’t have one now.

“And we can’t have that.”

You look up. The sun’s on his face now, turning his eyes a shade of deep whiskey, and that’s how you want to remember him; alive under the sun, smile lines just forming, his nose a bit crooked from getting punched one too many times. You’ll be on the ground in a moment.

“No,” he agrees, grasping at your elbows now, pulling you close, and you cling to his in turn. “We can’t.” Flash and grin, and there he is, just like you remember. Challenging, challenger. No chance, and neither of you know when to quit. “Want to up the stakes a bit?” 

“Always.”

You let go first. Of course. You turn to the window. You open it. 

“Whoever falls fastest wins.”

“And what do I get when I win?” When, not if.

“A quick and painless death.”

“Fuck,” you breathe. “That’s a hell of a thing. How do I know you won’t cheat?”

“You don’t,” he winks, steps back, head tilt toward the window. Mirrored. You’ve got one hand on the windowsill and one hand curled around your gut, where he sunk that barb between the plates before you cracked his skull on the ground before all of Los Diablos. “You never do. Isn’t that part of the fun?”

You take your place at the window, you set your shoulders, look down. What’s he been looking at all this time? 

Long way down, and you wait to see her; you, in soft skinsuit, teal and black and bloody and broken, but she isn’t there.

Just an ambulance, an end repeating itself.

“Person who falls the fastest, huh?”

“And hits the ground hardest.”

You climb up, clench your jaw. 

It always ends like this. 

“You’re on.”

[erintoknow]

Family

i had things i wanted to do today that weren’t writing, but okay brain, go off? fallen hero fanfic, chargestep, content warning for some sucidal thinking, but not much i hope? also; kissing!? oh no | ~3.1k words

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        You ought to be using Jane: to scope out your next hit, to maintain her network of contacts, to catch up with Dr. Mortum. That would be a productive use of your time.

        So of course you aren’t doing that.

        You’re in front of your work desk, sleeves rolled up as far as you dare. Your suit doesn’t need repairs, but getting in that marginal improvement to the Rat King’s coolant system is better than sleep. Better than making corpses walk. Better than stupid meaningless dreams of coughing blood and their fuzzy half-memories tasting smoke and death. Don’t think about gunshots and lightning, the smiling reflection dripping shark teeth.

        Focus on the soldering torch in your hand and the music in your headphones.

        It doesn’t matter what you play. Whatever you can get your hands on, the best genre is free after all. Right now it’s some woman you’ve never heard of before with a low sometimes raspy, sometimes screaming voice. She’s energetic, easy to sing along with while you re-solder wiring for the third time.

        You don’t recognize that it’s your phone ringing until the fourth chime. You almost drop the torch into your lap scrambling to pick it up before the call goes to voicemail. “Who’s this?”

        “Ari!” Oh, it’s Ortega. Of course it is. Why the haste to pick up the phone anyway? Who else was it going to be? The President? God??

        “Ortega.” Don’t sound excited, don’t sound relieved to hear her voice.

        “I know it’s short notice, but are you busy right now?”

        Say yes you’re busy, way, way, too busy, hang up on her. “No, I’m pretty bored for once, what’s up?”

        “Great! Can we meet up?”

        Don’t say yes. Don’t say yes. Don’t say yes. “Yeah, sure, where?”

*******************************************

        The smell of salt under oil. The water hasn’t been safe to swim in since before you were ‘born.’ Yet, a part of you yearns to run out to the sand and into the crash. Hazy memories of another beach, another shore. Nothing you can remember, more like 0 kb files tucked away in somewhere.

        “Careful, with all that fabric on you’ll sink.” Ortega nudges you.

        “I’ll just have to push you in first for a raft.” You shoot back.

        “You’d think I’d float with all this metal in me?”

        “All that hot air makes you a very buoyant old woman.”

        You don’t need to look at her to know she’s frowning at that, and just knowing that is enough to bring a small smile. You want to grab her hand, feel the disks of metal that give her namesake. You don’t. You can’t. She’s your enemy even if she doesn’t realize it. Even if you don’t realize it.

        The wind pulls at the rat’s nest you call hair. Maybe you’ll start trying to comb it again. Just to keep Ortega from worrying even more about you. You can worry enough for the both of you. “Why’d you want to meet up so suddenly, anyway?”

        You can’t read her mind, but you know her enough to pick up on the change in vibe, the way she shifts in how she carries herself. It sets you on full alert. “There’s something I’ve been sitting on for a while actually.”

        “Oh?” You try to sound casual, like there aren’t sirens ringing in your head. Like you aren’t glancing around for the best route back up the beach where Ortega can’t follow.

        “There’s just never been a good time for it…” She glances at you, and the two of you meet eyes. There’s no hiding your fear that way and she grimaces at it. “Do you have any family? Still around, I mean.”

        You can’t take her gaze on you, you step away towards the water, feel the sand crunch under your boots, hide your arms under your shawl. “Family?” You ask, your confusion at least genuine enough. It’s been a long, long, time since Ortega fished that well. “What’s bringing this on?”

        “After you…”

        “Died?”

        “After that. At the funeral–“

*******************************************

        I’m in deep shit now. The red and blue of ambulance lights reflect off the wall through the window, as I hunch over in the chair. Honestly, it’s just a broken nose, he’ll live. He deserves worse for what he was saying about you. And yet, I’m the one here hiding in the minister’s office while everyone else loads into their cars. Steel puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezes, lets go. I’d rather he give a lecture, that would be at least a gasp of normalcy. I nod at him, he nods back, leaves without saying a word. He’d make a better Marshal than I ever did. He wouldn’t punch out a reporter live on national television. He wouldn’t have gotten you killed.

        Everyone else has left by now, probably all gossiping about the fiasco. There’s something unnerving about being alone in an empty church. I wonder what you or Themmy would think of all this. You both would probably both be mortified. A church service? With a priest? Well… you don’t get a vote any more, should have stuck around if you had objections.

        “H-hello? Excuse me?”

        I look up from my hands, wipe at my eyes to clear my vision. Peering around the doorway is a woman in funeral garb and long straight hair dyed a deep shade of blue, an anxious expression on her face. If it wasn’t for the hair job, I’m guessing she was late thirties, early forties, has that soccer-mom build to her. Older the me, at any rate. I try to look normal. Not like the kind of person who loses it and decks the press. “Can I help you?”

        “You’re, uh, you were Alex’s friend then, weren’t you?” Alex? Who’s Alex? The woman looks ready to bolt at any moment. “You are, right? Sorry, I don’t normally make a habit of pestering heroes.”

        God, I don’t have it in me right now to be normal, never mind deal with fans. Try to smile, it feels fake, offer a handshake to draw her into the room. It’s a limp pantomime and ends mercifully quickly. “Just Ortega is fine. I don’t believe we’ve met…?”

        “Chelsea Becker.” She says as we let our hands drop. That gets my attention. No way that’s a coincidence. You never talked about your family, no matter how many times I tried to get you to open up. Hardly the only fortress you kept locked down tight, but here was someone who might open a gate.

        I straighten up in my chair, examining Chelsea with renewed interest. There is a slight resemblance, I guess, with the more angular, almost boyish features, but nothing definitive, nothing I could point to say, ‘a-ha.' So instead I start with a “So you knew…?”

        “Alex, or um, ‘Sidestep,’ I guess?” Chelsea says, then hesitates before adding, “but maybe sh- they used a different name with you?” A tiredness seeps into her voice. “That would be just like them.” She steps around a box of church candles, rests her hands on the minister’s desk. “They hoarded names like some women hoard jewelry.”

        There’s a pain in my chest, I have to force myself to unclench my hands, keep my arms from tensing up. Practice a calming exercise. Stay smooth. I’ll never live it down if a stray spark of static burns down a church. “Yeah, I–” I have to swallow the words first, “–I was Alex’s friend. I’m sorry, she never mentioned…?”

        “Oh, I’d be shocked if she had,” Chelsea doesn’t laugh, just forces a small smile as she pushes some papers aside to sit on top of the desk, letting her feet dangle. “If you knew Alex, you know trying to get her to talk about herself was worse than pulling teeth. Never when you wanted, and when she did, always in tears.”

        “She was a private woman.” I say in agreement. It feels like a safe enough statement.

        “We hadn’t talked in years anyway.” Chelsea says, not hiding the bitterness in her voice. “We had a big fight about the whole vigilante thing.”

      I don’t say anything, I don’t think I need to, thank God. Just listen as this stranger pours her heart out about you. She’s another hurting woman looking for a confessional, and Marshal Charge is never off-duty.

      “I have no idea where she came from. Just one day, I’m suddenly watching out for this stick of a thing too proud- no, I think, too afraid to accept help.” Chelsea lets out a long shaky breath, and tilts her head to look me with red, puffy eyes. “Had to keep tricking her into thinking she was helping me rather the other way around. Wasn’t easy.” She gives a brittle smile.

      I find myself returning her smile with an exhausted one of mine own. “Misdirection was definitely the name of the game.” I say. “In more ways than one.”

       “She had this whole fantasy about making a difference and I–” Her voice hitches. “I told her. I warned her; she couldn’t afford mods and she wasn’t a boost. She was going to throw her life away for nothing.” She balls her hands into fists as she talks. “It was insane idea and she was an idiot who was going to get herself killed.”

      “A lot of people owe her their lives,” I gently counter, saying it as much for myself as for her. I should follow the script, put a hand on hers, or her knee, or her shoulder or something. Say some gentle meaningless comforter. Instead I’m trying to process what she’s saying, how it all fits together in the ‘Ariadne Becker’ puzzle box.

        Chelsea bangs her fist against the side of the desk. “I know that, God damnit. Everyone knows about the damn Nanosurge. I followed every damn report I could. I just wish–“

        “That it wasn’t the last thing you said to her.” I finish. The cold comfort of the script finally coming to me. It’s nothing I haven’t had to say a dozen too many times before, and it feels robotic, inadequate, every time.

        “The last time I saw her was right after her first big fight in costume. I told her I was leaving Los Diablos to take a job in Atlanta.” Chelsea bangs the desk again, face twisted in anguish, or guilt, or both. “I couldn’t afford to turn it down. It was just a bad coincidence. But… I don’t think she took it that way. She was always so scared, so paranoid, despite everything.  I’d have taken her with me if I could have.”

*******************************************

        Ortega pauses in mid-sentence, then shakes her head. “Do you know a… Chelsea Becker?” She asks, holding her breath.

        A dozen different scenarios run through your head, all of them terrify and paralyze you. “I mean, those are both pretty common names,” you say cautiously, “why?”

        “Someone I met at the funeral.” Ortega’s words make you want to sink into the earth, run into the sea. Do anything to get out of this conversation. “Ariadne…” Ortega continues, trepidation in her voice. She’s either oblivious to what’s going on in your head or pushing ahead without mercy. "Is she your mom?”

        You blink.

        You can’t help it. You start laughing.

        Doubled over and clutching your sides. You can’t see straight. Julia calls out, alarmed, and she grabs you by the shoulders before you can fall onto the rocks. “Ariadne!” She taps you lightly on the face. You have to blink the water out of your eyes.

        “My mom? You thought she was my mother!?” You repeat, incredulous. No point playing coy after that outburst. You struggle to get a grip on yourself, dig your fingers into Julia’s arms instead. “What did you tell her?”

        “I just admitted I knew you, that’s all.” Julia raises her voice, defensive, confused.

        “Why was she even there?” You ask, your fascination burning through the absurdity now. There’s nothing Chelsea could possibly know about you that would endanger you now, but it’s never good to get blindsided like this. Past lives, alternate lives, all crashing into each other behind your back. Fuck, what a mess.

        Julia gives you a pained look, “It was your funeral, Ariadne. She flew in from Atlanta for it.”

        That gets a pang in your chest. You don’t understand it. Stare up at the cloudless sky, the circling seagulls. They don’t have any answers either, brainless feathery assholes. “Ortega, I swear I’m telling the truth, she’s not and i quote, my “mom.” wow, you almost killed me with that.” Of course she’s not, what on earth happened between the two of them to give Julia that impression? Why would she have shown up at all? “Why would she do that?” You whisper, humor giving away to bewilderment.

        “She cared about you, of course she came.” Julia insists.

        “No she didn’t, you senile old woman. Why would she?” you snap back. You let go of Ortega, try to disentangle yourself from her arms and stand back up again. “Look, you want the truth? Chelsea and I were on the same bus to Los Diablos, like, fourteen years ago.” You shrug, trying to make it seem like no big deal, to play it off. “We ran into each other maybe a few times afterwards, I guess? She was just another busybody who never left well-enough alone. And then one day she did up and leave and that was that. Sound familiar to you?” That’s not a fair barb and you know it. You pull away from her, eager to put some distance between the two of you. You don’t want to see her reaction to that. Power-walk down that beach, restless, aimless. Pull yourself together, remember you’re among enemies: always.

        Ortega follows behind, dogging your steps. Never taking the hint, or maybe taking it too well? The problem with lying so regularly is that when it comes time to tell the truth, how can you prove it?

        “And your last name?” She asks.

        You turn around to face her. “Cosmic coincidence.” You lie, staring her in the eye. Is this the closest either of you have come to openly acknowledging ‘Ariadne Becker’ is a name you made up? You don’t know how to feel about that; how to feel about a lot of things right now.

        Ortega doesn’t back down. “I think you should know… she was proud of you.”

        You resume walking, put distance between the two of you. “She was proud of an imaginary dead woman then.” You spit out. You hunch your shoulders, pull your shawl up over your chin

        Ortega grabs your shoulder from behind as she catches up to you. She slides her hand down following the form of your arm under the shawl. “Stop it.”

        You stand there, not looking at her. “Stop what?”

        “Stop with the brooding hero routine.”

        “Well, I’m no hero, so wish granted.” You should push her away, shrug her off. You want to scream at her. She’s being an idiot. Why does she care about this? Why dig up even more corpses? It’s going to kill her. Why did you come here? Why did you answer her phone call? Why do you keep letting her in?

        Ortega pulls at you, hard, forcing you to turn around or be knocked over. She glares at you, and you shrink away from it, from her. “Who stopped the Nanosurge? She demands.

        “That’s not–“

        “Who’s pulled my ass out of the fire over and over?”

        “I was just–“

        “Who did an emergency repair so I didn’t electrocute myself in Mexico?”

        “I couldn’t just–“

        “Who stayed up with me all night after every bad break up?”

        You stay quiet.

        “Who stayed at my Mamá’s house with us every holiday?”

        You can’t look at her.

        “Who came to visit me in the hospital after the Gala?”

        “…that was a mistake.” You say, voice weak.

        “Oh? It was a mistake, was it?” Ortega asks, an edge to her voice. “Were you lying then? Or are you lying now?”

        You don’t have a response to that. You need to get out of her grip. You need to get out of here.

        “Was that kiss in the elevator a mistake? Or the ones on this beach? What about all the rest of them?”

        You want to die. To escape. To not be here right now having this conversation.

        “Well, Ariadne Becker, which is it?”

        You flinch under the weight she puts on your last name. “…I don’t know.”

        There’s a hand on your face, and then Ortega is kissing you. You freeze, every instinct screaming at you to run, and then her other hand wraps around you and tell your instincts to take a hike, and kiss Julia back. It’s too hot for this, so you compromise. You unfasten your broach with one hand and shrug off your shawl onto the rocks before reaching up to run a hand through her hair.

        Her teeth catch your lip in the quick pause for breath and then the two of you are fighting to push tongues past each other and it’s gross and you are terrible at it and you keep hitting your noses like drunk jousters and you have no idea what you’re doing while her hands run up your body and you cling to hers as if she’s a life preserver.

        It’s the shame of the twinge between your legs that finally pulls you out of it enough to disengage. You pull away from her, smoothing down your shirt, making sure nothing rode up. Cast a quick mental check for any possible witnesses. None, save the seagulls, and honestly? Fuck those guys.

        Julia looks at you, face flush, mouth slightly agape. Your heart aches at the sight of it. You don’t want to think about what you look like. You both stand there, in an awkward, flushed silence.

        Finally, Julia says, “accept that your mom is proud of you, you pendeja.”

        You stare at her. “W-what?”

        “You heard me.”

        Is this what having a stroke is like? Did you die this morning and no one told you? Are you in hell right now? “Did– did you just… make out with me, to– to– to– to– win an argument about my, my…” you choke on the word, pound your fist against Julia’s shoulder. “Damnit, she’s not my mom! Fucking hell! Shit!”

        “She cried for you like one.” Julia’s hand is back on your arm, just firm enough to making running difficult. “Don’t throw those feelings away.”

        Your brain is short circuiting. Steel’s going to show up in clown make-up and then you’ll wake up screaming again. “I can’t believe you made out with me to win an argument about my mom.” You whisper, your voice strained, throat tight.

        Julia’s expression softens a little, finally. Mercifully. “What can I say?” That old familiar grin slips back onto her face, so smug, so punchable. You want to kiss her again. “I have a unique skillset.”

[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.

[erintoknow]

my body is here and i am inside

fallen hero: rebirth fanfiction Ariadne deals with the aftermath of ‘helping’ Lady Argent find who was responsible for possessing her. ~3.3k words [ao3] 

Prev: [maybe it will break and maybe it won’t]

Title from [Panic Attack by Liza Anne]

content warning for uh, suicidal thinking 

–––

The wind whips the ends of your jacket about you. Stubbornly hold the halves together rather than zip up. Let the bay air curl around you, toxic smog and all. The Millennial Span Bridge isn’t really meant for foot traffic. There had been plans once, setting up a mini-mall in the bridge supports but the money had dried up not long after the bridge proper was built and the shops never opened.

But the walkway remained. Just had to hop two locked gates. No razor-wire, no electricity. Hardly a real deterrent. By the halfway point you’re high up enough above the water that you can see the occasional boat passing under. The sun is starting to set at this point – it’s been a long day – but you keep your sunglasses on.

Old L.A. would have have never called for a bridge like this, as far as you understand it. But things change when half your geography drops into the sea. There’s a safety railing to run your hand along, because of course there is. No one wants the bad press of your vanity project becoming a hub for jumpers. But it’s half-assed job. Find a joint that hangs down from the river of cars rumbling over your head and you could climb over it pretty easy.

On the other side and there’s even a convenient lip of metal wide enough for you sit on, let your legs dangle over the void. Kicking freely.

Well.

Here you are, Ariadne.

Now what?

It’s been, what? A few weeks? A month? Meeting Ortega in that diner. You haven’t gone back there since. It felt too portentous. And now the rest of the Rangers know you’re here. And you’re ostensibly alive. Hopefully they believe you about being retired. Hopefully Ortega kept quiet about what you babbled on to her about. She’s always been one to understand your need for privacy, but it’s not like she hasn’t screwed up before in the name of trying to ‘help’ you.

It had been a mistaken to listen to her at all. To let her drag you into somebody’s else’s problem. Why? Because you missed her? You miss plenty of things you can’t have. That doesn’t mean you should go for it. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. And then–

You shudder, hug yourself tight as a wave of nausea washes over you again. God. You’re getting sick of that. Sick of feeling helpless. Sick of feeling powerless. Out of control of your own life. Sick of–

             cables, like snakes in the grass,

             coiled around your feet. the red threads wrapped

                                                         around your wrists pull

      tight and move you forward. so much lighter now 

                   that it’s not you that’s moving it

        but then who’s driving?

and then there’s herald’s goofy smiling face and

doesn’t he understand that something is wrong?

                                   somebody, anybody, help

Is that what it’s been like for every person you’ve possessed over the past two years? You want to believe Argent just got some unlucky combination; an unusually strong mind and the need to keep her not entirely under. She was just… unlucky. Sorry honey, you rolled snake eyes. Nothing personal, honest.

But Argent is the only mind you’ve actually seen the after effects for. How it has stuck on her like plaque on teeth, eating away at what’s underneath. You’ve never cared before. As long as no one immediately raised the alarm, what did it matter? Possession? Who would believe them? Nobody would. No one’s ever heard of such an ability in all the years the Hero Drug has been around, fucking up humanity.

But the Rangers would believe it.

Because it happened to them.

Because it happened to you.

Because coiled snakes and red strings wormed their way into your head and pointed your own gun at your head. Because the puppeteer tossed you through a window and over the edge.

How many people have you done this to already?

How many will never feel right again for the rest of their lives?

You lean your head back against the metal mesh of the protective webbing that’s supposed to keep you on the other side. Feel the hexagons of steel press against the back of your skull. Cover your face in your hands. You want to cry, can feel it in your lungs. But your throat’s too tight, your eyes are burning, the tears not coming.

Was it that you didn’t know or have you just been running away from the truth the whole time?

This is what you are now. A monster. Or no, a ghost. That’s cute. Maybe that should be your villain moniker. Or fuck it, maybe you won’t bother with one at all. Just roll with whatever the press calls you.

Or maybe they won’t call you anything because your body will have turned up on the beach, another waterlogged victim eaten by the city of devils.

Julia might be sad for a little bit, but it’s hard to imagine. It feels selfish pretending she’d care about you at all. Seven years is a long time. Maybe– maybe the Farm had been lying to you about her, about what she’d done, but that didn’t change the fact that having you in her life would only make Julia’s worse. Any passing pain she might possibly have over your loss again would be worth sparing her what’s coming down the line.

Chen would be relieved, you’re certain. All that talk about being happy you’re alive. You know a sack of bullshit when it’s thrown in your face. He wants you staying far away from his precious Rangers.

Lady Argent would rather just kill you herself. Or would if knew the truth. Maybe you should tell her. Let her have that closure, something you never got. Would that help her or make it worse? You don’t know. And then maybe she wouldn’t actually kill you. Maybe she’d just hand you back over.

Dr. Mortum would be confused about the sudden disappearance of her new favorite business liaison, you’re sure. But she’s been working in the underground for years. People disappear without warning all the time. She’ll have forgotten Jane before the end of the year.

Jane herself… without you to take care of her, she’ll wither and die, comatose as she is. There’s nothing you can do about that. She was a dead woman on life support before you found her. You just staved off the final verdict by a few years is all.

Are you missing anyone? You think that’s everybody. It’s not exactly a compelling list of reasons to stick around.

What reasons do you have to not to step off anyway?

So you can burn the Farm down? Expose the Directive? If you don’t try no one else will. No one else is in a position to even guess at what’s going on like you are. This project has literally been the only thing holding you together since you escaped their clutches two years ago. Sometimes you screw up and fall asleep instead of jumping into Jane and–

You drag your nails against your scalp, force yourself to swallow. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, rapid shallow breaths leaving you lightheaded.

At least out here there’s no one that can see you like this.

A lot more people are going to get hurt before this is over. Unless you stop now.

But if you stop you die.

The water’s far below you. Far enough? You’ll break bones against the water tension on impact. Enough to put you out? You’re not sure on the math. If you live, you probably won’t be in any condition to swim. You’ve always wanted to swim, but you’ve never actually put this body in water, would you float? You don’t know. Would you be able to stay composed until you run out of oxygen or would the animal brain take over and send you in a blind panic?

You don’t want to hurt but… maybe you’d deserve it. 

“Enjoying the view?”

You freeze, head in your hands. Slowly you raise your head to find Herald hovering a few feet in front of you. His complete nonchalance at casually defying the pull of gravity feels a little surreal. You stare at him through your tinted lenses, uncomprehending.

Herald tilts his head with an uneasy grin. “Sorry, I was just passing by and thought I saw someone on the bridge. So…”

You close your eyes, breath out. In a way, this is a relief. You can focus all your anger on him instead. He’s obviously lying. ‘Just passing by’. Please. Bullshit. These assholes. As if you needed more proof the Rangers being aware of you now was only going to fill your life with even more problems.

“Are you okay?” Herald frowns and it’s all you can do not to groan. This is absolutely not a conversation you want to go down, and not with goddamn fucking boy-wonder Herald of all people. 

“Were you following me, wonderbread?” 

“Of course not!”

“D–don’t lie to a telepath, genius. Who put you up to this, Ortega?” There’s a tinge of guilt alright. It’s tempting to delve further, just pry the whole thing out of his head. Is Ortega having you tailed then? You didn’t work with her for five years to not have some idea how she likes to operate.

“Ortega has no idea I’m here, honest.” Huh, he’s telling the truth there. You’re not sure what to make of that. But then, that only leaves on other option.

“Oh. S-so it’s Chen then.” Yep, bingo. “What? Did the Marshal want to make sure I got home safe? How kind.” Why can’t these people just leave you alone to die in peace already?

“That’s– that’s not it,” Herald sighs, you can feel his exasperation. There’s a certain satisfaction in getting to knock that unsettling cheeriness out of his head. “Marshal Steel did ask me to look out for you, okay? But I mean it when I say I was just passing by.”

You open your eyes so you can glare at him.

“To be honest… I… kind of lost track of you three blocks from the building.”

“I don’t a–appreciate being followed.”

Herald dips down before returning back to eye level. “How did you know?”

“Of– of course I knew,” you lie, “I’ve been at this for years.”

“Were you always this cautious, back… uh, before?”

You flinch, scratch your neck as you avoid looking at him. “Y–yeah. Absolutely.” He buys the lie, thank god.

“Doesn’t that get tiring?”

Someone laughs, sharp and bitter and you realize it’s yours. Rub your eyes with the back of one hand. “Look. I value my privacy. O–okay?” You try to emphasize the word privacy, hope he’ll get the hint.

“I can respect that,” says Herald, the man who continues to not leave your presence. “Actually, um…” He hunches down, “I’ve been wanted to asking something, if you don’t mind, Sidestep?”

“Okay first; It’s Ariadne. Second; I do mind, actually. B–buzz off.” You flick your finger at him. God, just, go away already. You’ve got short and shorter futures to compare and contrast. 

Herald frowns, shakes his head as he drifts a little closer to you. “Sorry, I can’t do that. Actually, uh–” He looks away from you again, scratching his neck. “You’re kind of technically trespassing now.”

“Are–are you kidding me.” You grip the edge of the lip with your hands, the metal cold to the touch. Would he actually try to catch you if you pushed off? “The Rangers really need to stoop to enforcing fucking trespassing signs?”

“If you need a lift somewhere I could carry–”

You cut him off with a hand gesture. “Absolutely not.” You grind your teeth. What do you need to say to make him go away? “You’re a hero, aren’t you wonderbread? Surely you’ve seen people brooding before.”

The spike of worry as Herald drifts even closer suggests that was maybe the wrong tact to try. “I heard you had a rough time today…?” He ventures, “I mean, from helping Lady Argent.”

“It’s n–n–none of your business.” Pinch the bridge of your nose, pushing the sunglasses back up against your eyes. “In fact, speaking of Argent,” you glare at him, “Shouldn’t you be off taking care of her? Isn’t she your girlfriend?”

That gets Herald to back off a little bit, a sudden backwash of unpleasant memories rushing back against you. “We’re on… a break right now, actually.”

“Probably because your– your priorities are so out of whack,” you snap. And yep, that one stings. He flinches and there’s a flush on his face now.

“She’s… been through a lot, and she just needs her space right now.” The way he talks sounds rehearsed, like he’s parroting what someone else told him. Not so confident now.

“I know perfectly well what’s she’s been through, thanks.”

“Was it… that bad?”

“God, Herald, that’s not my place to talk about. Try asking your partner.”

“I just want to… to understand what she’s going though?” Herald gives you a pleading look and you want to melt through the bridge and die. Is this really going to be your last conversation on earth? Playing therapist to some rich jerkward busybody with girl troubles? Really? This is how you go out? This is pathetic.

You run a hand through your hair, feel all the little knots and curls pull and snap. “You want to ‘understand?’ Then just try fucking listening for once.”

“I can’t listen if she doesn’t talk to me!” The genuine anger gets you by surprise. Herald blinks, and then his face turns beat-red. Ashamed of himself? Huh.

Maybe this is your chance. “Look, just leave me alone, okay? Go handle your own shit.”

Herald sighs, sits down next to you on the lip of the bridge. Goddamnit. “Did you and Charge go through phases like this, back in the day?”

You stare at him for a solid thirty seconds trying to process what he meant.

“Sorry, I just, I know you two had a thing and–”

“We absolutely did not!” You voice breaks and can feel your heart pounding in the back of your throat, “We worked together, that’s it.”

“Oh? I guess I got the wrong impression, I’m sorry.” Herald doesn’t met your death glare, the bastard.

You glare at him in silence and then… a morbid curiosity overtakes you. “What in the hell could–could–could have ever given you that impression?”

“Uh…” Herald balks, and suddenly there’s a dozen different thoughts running through his head and you can’t get a read on any of them. Finally he says, “Well, I mean, there had been a lot of rumors on the usenet forum back in the day?” Rumors!? “But to be honest, I never believed any of it until that first time when we were all together at Argent’s request and you and Charge walked in.” Herald shrugs, “And then I was like, ‘oh, well, that makes sense.’”

You don’t have a response to that. Don’t even know how to start parsing it.

It was so much easier not to care when you only knew these people from news reports or memories.

“So, I know you said you’re… fine – and I believe you, honest.” Herald’s lying again. “But in that case, do you mind if I just… hang out with you, watch the sunset? This isn’t a bad spot.”

You take a deep breath. In. Out. Push up your sunglasses while you rub the tears and salt out of your eyes. God. Did you smear your make-up? Are your scars visible? Shadow exposed? You can feel your heart-rate speed up again. It takes an active effort to let the thought go. Who cares? Ortega’s not here.

“Yeah, sure.” You say. “Kn–knock yourself out.”

You don’t give a damn what Herald thinks.

“Thanks.” You can feel Herald relax a little as he sits a few inches away from you. Not crowding, but close enough.

You close your eyes, sag your shoulders as you hit your head back against the metal railing lattice. “I know what you’re– what you’re doing.”

That gets a spike of alarm from him. God, his thoughts are like an open book. You hate it. 

“I’m just happy to take a breather.”

“D–don’t bullshit me Herald. We’re both adults here.” You turn your head glare straight at him. “If you breath a word of this to anyone, I will find out where you live and fill your bed with thumbtacks.”

“Okay…” Herald looks away from you, uneasy. “Noted.” He fidgets, hands in his lap. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

You groan. “I can’t stop you,” you lie.

“Why ‘Sidestep’?”

“Huh?” You blink, stare down at the water far below. little waves beckoning you on down. “Oh, well… Why ‘Herald’?”

He cringes, embarrassed? Hah. “It was my management team that came up with it. Focus testing or something? I was just hap–”

“Stop.” You hold up a hand, dismiss the words with a wave. “I d–d–don’t really care that much.”

“Oh. Uh–okay.”

You sit in silence, kicking your legs up and back under the lip. Take a breath. In. Out. “I wanted people to focus on the fighting skills. That it–it was all trained or something. Reading people’s thoughts is… harder if they know you can do it. Th–throw up obstacles, walls.”

“So it was a strategic thing?”

“Well…” You allow yourself a small smile. Still not looking at Herald. “S–something like that. There… there was, uh… person I–I knew around then. Thought it w–was… too dangerous. She asked if I was g–going to to sidestep my way through every fight. So…”

“So it was… a spite thing?”

“Hah! Y–yeah. I guess.”

“How did they take it?”

You frown, trying to think back. “I… I don’t know. I can’t remember.” Did it ever come up? There was like, a year between when you started the name and Chelsea left, wasn’t here? It must have. “Wh–whatever. Spite can get you pre–pretty far in life if you use it right.”

“I don’t know about that…” Something’s buzzing just under Herald’s thoughts and you can’t quite get a read on it. Suddenly the boy’s a mystery, go figure.

You stay there for another hour or so, quietly suffering Herald’s little questions about your career, and it quickly becomes apparent he knows way more than someone who wasn’t there for any of it should. You’re not sure how to feel about that. Other then old. 

When the sun starts to drown in the ocean, you reluctantly agree to let Herald give you a hand back over to the sane side of the railing. He follows with you back to the foot of the bridge, despite your repeated insistence that you were just going straight home and to buzz off already.

You go through four taxi cabs before you feel confident enough that you’ve lost Herald to actually go home.

Home.

It isn’t much, a singular combined bedroom-kitchenette and a tinier bathroom. Pretty sure the complex had been a tourist trap motel once upon a time. It’s yours though, and there’s something surreal about that. You’ve never ‘owned’ an apartment before. You keep telling yourself you’ll properly decorate one day, but it never happens.

Flip on the lights, greet the cockroach as it scurries under the cabinet “Hi Larry,” stagger over to your bed and fall over face down.

Roll over and grab a pillow, clutch it to your chest, draw your legs up into a fetal position. No more possessions ever again. If you can’t work a mental suggestion or rely on a bribe, you’ll just have to find another way. You’re not inflicting that on another person again.

You bury your head in the pillow.

If Herald hadn’t shown up then, would you be here right now?

You don’t want to think about it.

At least these days, when you don’t feel like being you, there’s a solution.

And you don’t have to worry about Jane being scarred for life; you’re the only consciousness she’s got. 

–

next: [the space between the finish and the start]